Scott stared at the approaching invaders, the echoes of their confessions lingering in the air. Who the hell are these guys? The Chains of the Abyss coiled around his form, their chains towering over his body.

  The figures nailed to the floating crucifixes were barely human—flesh flayed, bones exposed, wounds gaping—yet they only groaned as ghostly arms lashed them with thorned whips.

  "Who the hell are these freaks?" the woman’s voice rasped as she staggered upright.

  Scott and the Amazonian leader watched as the invaders crossed the divide, the floating crosses drifting into their territory like harbingers of doom.

  The assembled champions turned their weapons on them, bloodlust gleaming in their eyes.

  "I’ll handle this," Scott said, stepping forward.

  Before his words had even faded, the crosses scattered—vanishing and reappearing across the battlefield.

  “Know pain!” The rasped decree shattered the silence.

  Red barriers flared to life around stunned champions. The ethereal hands hardened their whips into spears—jagged, obsidian, unholy. Then, without hesitation, they plunged them into the crucified warriors.

  And they stabbed. Again. And again.

  Blood sprayed into the air, soaking the ground as wails cracked the sky.

  Scott watched in stunned silence, as did the warriors of Amazoniah. Yet the spears did not stop. Each thrust became wilder, more frenzied.

  What the hell are they even trying to do?

  Then, from the corner of his eye, Scott saw it.

  A champion staggered back, caught by her comrades before collapsing to her knees. A heartbeat later, more followed—their bodies trembling, skin paling, as if something unseen was sinking into them.

  The first scream came—a ragged, soul-wrenching cry. Then another.

  Blood spewed from their mouths. Wounds bloomed across their bodies—phantom stabbings mirroring those of the crucified.

  Scott’s visage steeled.

  One by one, they withered. Limbs went limp, eyes rolled back, and they collapsed—never to rise again.

  Amazoniah’s warriors reacted instantly, hurling throwing weapons, while those in charge of the brass cauldrons activated the fiery bombardment. Towering flames surged toward the crucifixes, while others charged, blinded by vengeance.

  "Do not act rashly!" their leader bellowed, but rage had already taken them.

  Steel and fire met flesh and wood—spears, axes, daggers piercing the crucified figures. Limbs severed, heads toppled, torsos split apart. Then came the flames, roaring to consume them whole.

  The burning corpses writhed, their wails reaching new heights.

  Scott narrowed his gaze. Something was wrong. The barriers hadn’t wavered.

  Then—a pop.

  His head snapped toward the sound. A warrior stood frozen—headless.

  Then another.

  Pop.

  A scream.

  Pop.

  Limbs vanished. Heads rolled. Warriors burst into flame, their agonized shrieks piercing the battlefield.

  Scott turned toward the crosses.

  The flames vanished. The nailed warriors remained. Untouched. Rejuvenated.

  "I fucking knew it." Scott’s grip tightened on the War Hammer of the Mad God.

  The barriers swelled, inching closer together.

  "Get out of the barrier!" the territorial lord shouted.

  But it was already too late.

  The ethereal hands returned—spears glistening with fresh torment.

  “Agony is truth. Embrace it,” the rasped command was a death knell.

  Scott watched as Amazoniah’s warriors fled, sprinting toward the edge of the barriers. But no one could escape.

  The territorial lord trembled. Her skin reddened, her rage manifesting.

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  Above, the heavens churned. A sigil burned into existence—a massive bronze fist.

  She roared. And the battlefield shook.

  “You and your people are too weak to participate in this battle. If you fight them, you will die,” Scott’s voice whispered, cold and unwavering. “I’ll protect you and your people. In return, your territories are mine.”

  “To hell with you!” she spat, her form expanding with each passing second. “I will eliminate you—”

  Her words echoed, but before she could finish, she was swallowed by the inky grasp of the nihilistic zone. The connection between her and the sigil severed instantly, and the sigil vanished without a trace.

  “That wasn’t a suggestion,” Scott muttered, stepping forward.

  The same phenomenon rippled across the battlefield. Every member of Amazoniah—including their mounts—disappeared into the nihilistic zone.

  “Sacrilege!” the withered leader roared, his raspy voice thundering through the air. “Who are you to deprive them of witnessing pain?!”

  Scott didn’t respond. He kept advancing toward the reddened barrier, the Chains of the Abyss hissing silently behind him, barely restraining their hunger.

  The ethereal punishers halted. The spears of torment reverted to whips, and at that moment, the barrier visibly shrank.

  “Speak, damn you!” the leader bellowed, but his fury met only silence.

  Scott was only feet away from the barrier when a familiar chime resonated in his mind.

  Scott stopped, eyes narrowing at the impromptu notification. You’ve got to be kidding me. Another invader? What the fuck is a Wanderer?

  The odds of two forces invading one territory were slim—four in a row was absurd.

  He turned eastward. Another tear had manifested. Chains rattled in the distance, their clinking incessant. Deep, labored groans followed.

  A figure emerged, draped in tattered blackened robes, dragging a massive sarcophagus bound by snow-white chains. The marble coffin trembled violently, its lid threatening to burst open. Hundreds of glistening runic talismans plastered across its surface barely kept it sealed.

  The hooded figure trudged forward, groaning—a sound ancient and weary.

  Scott watched as the crucifixes repositioned themselves, reappearing a hundred meters ahead of the Wanderer, blocking all paths. Yet the figure pressed on, undeterred.

  Do they know each other? Scott wondered but quickly dismissed the thought as the reddened barrier sealed the new invader within.

  I need to eliminate these bastards before— Scott's thoughts came to an abrupt halt.

  He blinked. Once. Twice.

  The world shifted.

  Celestial beings strode across existence itself, their presence eclipsing all else. He couldn’t comprehend their forms—only their feet, titanic and unknowable. A primal, long-forgotten fear coiled around his spine, threatening to drag him under.

  Scott had barely processed the notifications before an unbearable, primordial pressure crushed down on him.

  From afar, chilling screams erupted. He knew without looking—the champions nailed to the crosses had been erased. And he was next.

  As if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, the battlefield returned. The celestial beings were gone. The War Hammer of the Mad God and the Chains of the Abyss lay dormant once more.

  Scott remained frozen, chest pounding, gaze locked on the approaching Wanderer.

  The hooded figure stopped next to him, dragging the rebellious coffin with them. Its lid trembled fiercely, still struggling against the paper talismans’ hold.

  Scott’s gaze flickered toward where the crucifixes once stood. His breath hitched.

  The crosses lay shattered, their occupants mutilated beyond recognition. A red string bound the dismembered corpses together, preventing them from scattering entirely. The macabre display was grotesque—artistic in its horror. Worse still, the battlefield, once strewn with the dead, had been wiped clean.

  Chains jangled, pulling Scott's attention back to the Wanderer. The figure now stood directly before him.

  A sudden thud rang out, and a small dust cloud rose. The coffin had been planted at his side.

  Scott's eyes traced its trembling lid, then lifted to the hooded figure.

  A voice, ancient and boundless, echoed in his mind. “Do you also seek death?”

  His lips parted. His body trembled. He tried to speak—but no words came. Only silence.

  A notification, blackened and ominous, appeared before his eyes.

  The voice returned. “Do you also seek death?”

  The urge to answer welled within him, clawing at his throat. But he refused.

  Just fuck off and leave me alone, you freak, he thought, keeping his emotions tightly leashed.

  Even without the Nameless One’s intervention, he knew—if he crossed this figure, death was the only outcome.

  The Wanderer said nothing more.

  Another heavy thud filled the air as the coffin settled. The hooded figure remained still, waiting. Watching.

  “You reek of the Great Old Ones,” the voice came a third time, tinged with curiosity. “Have they finally invaded this dimension?”

  The figure lifted a hand—its outstretched limb swallowed by the folds of its cloak. But Scott ignored the motion, his focus locked onto the hooded figure. Then—he saw it.

  Cataclysmic vortexes devouring universes. Annihilators of dimensions. Heralds of forgotten eras. He stared into the abyss—and the abyss stared back.

  A low, pulsating hum filled his ears. The world blurred. Then, reality snapped back into place.

  The wanderer’s hand, once reaching toward Scott, had pivoted to the trembling coffin instead—the source of the disturbance.

  “I already fed you,” the wanderer sighed, patting the rebellious sarcophagus. “Why must you cause so much trouble?”

  With a casual grip, he grasped the chains binding the coffin and resumed his trek, dragging the massive burden behind him.

  Scott stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the spot where the wanderer had stood.

  “I’ve seen your madness.” The voice slithered through the air, distant yet clear. “How long can you hide it from the rest of the world?”

  Scott’s head snapped toward the direction of the voice, but the wanderer—and the coffin—were gone. Only deep skid marks and a grotesque masterpiece of mutilated bodies remained in their wake.

  Then, the system chimed.