As the human crusaders advance, their candles held high, the very atmosphere seems to grow heavier, more oppressive.
"Burn the bodies! Purify with the fire of the Goddess!" commands a priest, his voice echoing through the caverns, reverberating off the stone walls.
The soldiers, impassive, carry out the orders.
The human army advances like an unstoppable wave, a force of destruction and unwavering faith.
Nothing stands in their way.
At the heart of this marching army stands Zigfrid Von Heydrich, the Hero of Hallemagner.
With his golden magical armor shining like a beacon in the dark cavern, Zigfrid embodies pure power.
He’s a colossus, nearly two meters tall, with short red hair and a physique that exudes strength and determination. His green eyes, cold and unyielding, scan the battlefield with the ferocity of a lion seeking prey.
"Even though the Saint is not with us, her will is clear. We must close every rift, annihilate every dungeon, and bring her light to the darkest places," proclaims Father Weyank Eastern, marching alongside the hero.
The man tirelessly delivers sermons, prayers, and proclamations to inspire the men chosen for this sacred mission.
Weyank's powerful voice echoes deeply among the soldiers, instilling them with renewed vigor.
Tall and imposing, with dark skin and muscles honed by years of devotion and training, Father Weyank leads his men with the strength of his faith.
His dark eyes shine with fanaticism, and every word he utters carries unwavering conviction in the Goddess Chand.
The prayer resonates like a church choir, with the soldiers chanting in unison like an endless rosary. Not even the screams and the sounds of battle can silence the hymn.
"O Chand, with candles, we implore,
In your radiance, we explore,
Bless us, guard us evermore,
Darkness flees when you restore."
"In the glow of Chand, our candles alight,
Guiding us through the veil of the night.
Bless us, O deity, with your sacred flame,
In your radiance, we invoke your name."
The gates of Arach’Che’el stand before them, a colossal and intricate barrier.
Zigfrid remains unfazed. His sword rises, its tip aimed directly at the massive door.
"The gates to the city of the dark elves lie before us. That is where we will find the dungeon core," he states with a calm, unshakable voice that would break any fearful enemy.
Father Weyank nods. "No fortification can stop the will of the Goddess, nor her light," he replies, raising his hands in preparation for a powerful spell. The very air seems to tremble as he begins to chant, summoning the sacred power of Chand.
"We are the fire of redemption," Weyank shouts, his voice echoing out. "Darkness will be purified. The light of the Goddess will burn these sinners and seal every portal to hell."
The crusaders press forward, the light of their candles dispelling shadows and fear. Each step is a nail sealing the fate of the dark elves. Human mages cast spells that explode against the remaining defenses of the elves, while archers and warriors cut down anything in their path.
Zigfrid, always at the forefront, is an unstoppable force.
His armor gleams, his golden sword cutting down enemies as if they were nothing. The elves who dare approach are struck down with inhuman ease. A war machine, relentless—this is the Gold Heart of Flames, a Hero. His face remains impassive, his determination unwavering. He is the beacon in this endless night, the hero bearing divine judgment.
In recent days, the Church of Chand and various guilds have worked tirelessly to restore order and seal the rifts that have struck Neuesdorf like a cataclysm. So far, their mission has been unbroken, without defeat. Thanks to the Saint and the high-ranking ventures from the guilds, each dungeon has been sealed, and only a few portals remain open. Soon, this one too will be closed, and the situation will be brought back under control.
There is no hope left for any remaining survivors; too much time has passed. Now, he must fight for the living, as decreed by the Pope. The priority is to seal the dungeons, eliminate the sinners, and restore Chand's order. Only then will they focus on hunting down demons.
He knows the future of Hallemagner and humanity rests on his shoulders. It’s not only because the Pope entrusted him with such an important mission, nor solely because he is a devout believer in Chand.
After seeing the Saint and her radiance, he feels even more resolved to fight for his beliefs. No heretic will stand in his way. He will do anything to see that beauty once more, to see that smile again. The Saint, the very embodiment of the goddess Chand.
He never thought he would experience such a feeling. Is this what they call love? He wonders as he thinks of her, or is it merely his devotion to the goddess?
Ultimately, it makes no difference. Whether it’s love or devotion, he will do what he must.
The dark elf commander watches in horror as his army crumbles under the human onslaught.
He shouts orders, but he knows it's all in vain. The messenger sent to the Queen is their last hope. But as he sees his warriors fall, with the blood of dark elves staining the ground, he realizes the end of the Underealm may be near.
No, he cannot accept this.
"Ul'Ilharess Azherie Loree’nahil, Ilharess ulu'neitar d'Oloth'ar, Ilhar d'lil!" he shouts, rallying his soldiers for a desperate charge in the name of their queen.
The dark elf soldiers, pushed to their limits, launch themselves at the enemy forces.
Their faces are marked by exhaustion, anger, and the grief of losing their comrades. The elven commander, his cloak soaked in blood and armor shattered, leads the assault with desperate resolve. His twin blades glint faintly in the firelight as he strikes down the first crusader standing in his path.
The elf strikes with all the strength he has left, managing to pierce the enemy soldier’s armor.
But before he can savor this small victory, a blade pierces his side. He screams in pain as blood pours from the wound, while the crusader smiles beneath his helmet, withdrawing the sword and letting the elf collapse to the ground.
The commander falls to his knees, his eyes filled with frustration and helplessness as his army disintegrates around him.
The crusaders advance relentlessly, their shields forming an impenetrable wall, protected by mages and clerics who continue chanting prayers and spells to bolster their defenses. Human archers release a continuous rain of arrows, each finding its mark among the elven ranks.
Giant spiders launch themselves at the soldiers, using the environment and their webs to their advantage, descending from the ceiling and leaping from the walls. Yet, it is a futile assault.
They are repelled and slaughtered by the holy swords of the crusaders and the fire of the mages, who incinerate their webs.
The black blood of the arachnids mixes with the dust of the cavern, creating a foul sludge beneath the invaders’ feet.
The dark elf commander, kneeling, his body ravaged by wounds and blood flowing freely, lifts his gaze.
His despair-filled eyes watch everything they’ve built over the years crumble before him.
The walls of the Underealm are stained with the blood of his kin.
The lifeless bodies of dark elves and their spiders lie scattered, shattered and burned, while the piercing sound of the sacred flames of the human crusade echoes like a grim death melody.
Then, above him, his sentence looms.
The lights of Chand's candles cast the shadow of death over him. Zigfrid towers over him.
The hero’s sword, long and massive, hangs heavily in his right hand, already soaked with the blood of elves. Raised above the commander, the blade is poised to descend.
Zigfrid regards the commander with an expression of cold indifference, as though his opponent were nothing more than a trivial obstacle in the path of his holy mission.
But that is not the last thing he sees.
*KATABOOOOMMMM*
In that moment, a deafening roar splits the air.
From above, piercing through the ceiling of the vast cavern they’re in, an immense beam of light breaks through the rock.
The light is blinding, a shaft of pure energy that illuminates the entire battlefield, making everything unreal for an instant.
The commander’s nearly lifeless eyes are caught in the brilliance, and for a fleeting moment, he believes he sees something divine, something terrible.
The beam strikes the gates of Arach'Che'el directly with devastating force.
The massive doors, which had withstood centuries, disintegrate in an instant.
The stones crumble like sand in the wind, while a cloud of debris and smoke billows into the air.
The sound of the impact is so intense that it makes the entire cavern quake, with the echo reverberating into the distance like the roar of the earth itself.
"All is lost," is all the commander can think.
The hero’s blade descends, cleaving him in half.
The elf’s split body falls to the ground, each half in an opposite direction. Blood mingles with the dust and debris.
The commander’s eyes finally close, and the silence of death envelops him.
Around him, the slaughter rages on.
