"Go, Ishlar!" Vanthelis shouted, his voice echoing through the smoke and ruin of the broken tower lines.
Ishlar didn't respond. He simply nodded, eyes glowing with cold conviction. His sword pulsed with black and pale blue runes, the fusion of dark and holy power surging through his armor like lightning down a steel rod.
And then he leapt.
The battlefield cracked as Ishlar descended upon the enemy front—a blur of death, flanked by the snarling ghouls and armed gnolls, whose bloodlust had reached its boiling point.
As they struck, Ishlar crushed the Scroll of Invulnerability in his gauntlet.
A faint shimmer exploded outward like a burst of moonlight, blanketing him and his assault squad in an unbreakable veil. For seven seconds—they were gods.
The Naga never saw it coming.
From the flanks, the gnolls stab their sharpened bone-tipped spears with howling cries, felling Naga casters before they could raise their defenses. The ghouls, emboldened by Ishlar's Unholy Aura, moved with feral speed, lunging over bodies and tearing through scaled flesh like paper. Every swing of Ishlar's blade cleaved through shields, bone, and muscle.
He cut down five Naga elites in a single sweep, their glowing coral armor offering no defense against his hybrid power.
Blood and brine painted the sand red.
One Tidehunter—towering over the battlefield—roared and charged him.
Ishlar met the behemoth head-on.
Their weapons clashed with a boom of force that knocked down nearby soldiers. But Ishlar didn't flinch. He ducked under the second swing and drove his blade upward, piercing through the beast's chin and into its skull. The Tidehunter twitched—then collapsed.
It was a massacre.
A perfectly timed ambush, wrapped in the brilliance of a kiting trap. As the enemy surged forward, overconfident and hungry for blood, Ishlar and his group tore into their soft ranks—then retreated before they could be surrounded. Not a single ghoul or gnoll died
And yet… the battle wasn't over.
The moment Ishlar's invulnerability faded, he raised his hand—signaling the fallback.
The forces slipped away like shadows.
But the Naga army—though now thinned—did not stop.
Tower after tower fell.
Mages in the rear screamed enchantments, water surged in great waves, and worm-creatures exploded beneath the surface, shattering foundation after foundation. The third, fourth, and even fifth defensive lines crumbled under sheer pressure. Acolytes fled to the rear, unable to rebuild fast enough.
The coastline was lost.
Black smoke billowed across the battlefield as the undead were forced back—step by bloody step—into the valley below the Necropolis itself.
Vanthelis watched from the tower wall, jaw clenched, arms shaking—not from fear, but from sheer rage and exhaustion.
Behind him, children and the baby gnolls cowered, they feel in their heart like they know that if the final line broke, there was nowhere left to run.
"They just keep coming…" muttered Haben, blood on his cheek, arms sore from carrying Kristine that is injured who tried to repair a tower just to be attacked by a worm
Vanthelis didn't speak.
The battlefield now resembled a charred swamp. Fires crackled beside tidepools of thick blood. Of the original wave, only a third of the Naga remained—but that third was organized, elite, and relentless.
And worse—they were now at the gates of the Necropolis.
From across the smoking field, atop her living chariot of eel-flesh and coral bones, the Naga Queen rose above her army like a living goddess. Her eyes glowed a sickly teal. Her voice echoed unnaturally, carried by wind and magic.
"Now let's see how you handle us," she hissed, baring her fanged teeth at Vanthelis. "No more toys. No more towers. Just you... and me."
The undead forces remained behind Vanthelis, waiting for his signal. But he didn't look at them. His gaze was locked on the Queen.
Then, her voice turned soft, almost pitying.
"Give me back the Orb, little prince," she said with a cruel smile. "Return what you stole. Return what rightfully belongs to the Deep. Do this—and I will spare your people."
She paused, her fingers curling as if gripping his throat from across the field.
"I will only kill you."
The offer hung in the air like poisoned honey.
Behind Vanthelis, Jayson whispered, "Don't do it…"
But the Queen's eyes burned with venom. "You hold power you do not understand. The Orb of our kind was never meant for your kind. It called to us. And now, it will return."
Vanthelis looked at her, emotionless. Then, with a calm breath, he replied—his voice dark and cold.
"You can drown in your own blood."
The Queen's smile vanished.
So did the last remnants of mercy.
The Queen raised her hand, a conch-horn swirling with malevolent runes pulsing in her palm.
"The final wave comes."
From the depths behind her, the waters churned again—this time with a darker presence. Shadows deeper than night rose behind the frontlines, and monstrous creatures never before seen began surfacing.
But Vanthelis turned back into the Necropolis, silent. Ishlar appeared beside him, his armor cracked but his grip steady.
"What now?" Ishlar asked.
"We hold," Vanthelis whispered. "No matter the cost."
"And if we fall?"
Vanthelis's lips curled into a grin, the first in days.
"Then we rise again."