It was hard to breathe. The sheer number of corpses—once-living men and women—mixed with the rotting remains of the undead, poisoned the air to an unbearable degree.
The devastation was staggering. It would take weeks to tally the dead from both the Draconian Empire and the Crimson Sun Empire. The dead were in the millions.
Worse still, the bodies had to be burned. The stench alone threatened to unleash a plague of terrible illness, and no one dared to take that risk.
"Zaroth... did it," Roran muttered in awe, his eyes wide as they gazed across the fallen legion of undead. The army's might had been terrifying. Yet somehow, Zaroth had found a way to stop them—most likely by killing the emperor of the Graveborn Empire, the most powerful necromancer known to exist.
Many shared Roran's gratitude toward Zaroth. But this was no time for celebration. Not with so much death on their own side.
Of the original seven council members, only three remained.
