THE CITIDEL MAINLAND 24 HOURS AFTER ATTACK ON LIBERTIES FOB
The citadel trembled under the weight of the undead horde marching toward it. The Evil One ( known in local language as Zaroth on the mainland), the harbinger of death and despair, stood at the front of his army, a towering figure whose presence seemed to warp the very fabric of reality. His eyes, cold and unblinking, were devoid of mercy, and his power radiated in a dark aura that caused the earth itself to quake beneath his feet. As he marched toward the gates of the castle, his army swirled behind him—a mass of corpses, reanimated by his unholy will, marching with relentless precision.
Inside the citadel, the Empress stood at the highest tower, her gaze fixed on the horizon where Zaroth’s army approached. The air was thick with the tension of impending doom. But within the Empress, there was no fear. She turned to her commanders, each one gathered around a massive table covered in maps of their kingdom. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across their stern faces.
"Zaroth’s army is closing in," the Empress said, her voice calm yet resolute. "The walls won’t hold for long. We must prepare for what’s to come. I will not let this be the end."
Commander Varus, a man of few words, stood with his back straight, eyes locked on the Empress. His weathered face betrayed the years of battle he had seen. He spoke gruffly, tapping his sword against the stone floor as if to ground himself in the harsh reality of the situation.
"His forces are overwhelming, Your Majesty," Varus said, his voice low. "The undead grow by the hour. We don’t have the strength to match them in direct combat."
General Iona, a fiery strategist with a mind as sharp as a blade, clenched her fist, her eyes narrowing as she considered the situation. She had fought on many battlefields, but nothing like this. Zaroth was not a simple conqueror—he was a force of nature, an abomination of life and death, reshaping the world with his dark power.
"We could set traps, ambushes," General Iona suggested, her voice filled with frustration. "But his power will still overrun us. Zaroth… he doesn’t just control the dead. He makes more of them from nothing. An army that never sleeps."
The Empress nodded, her expression firm as she listened to the reports. She was not new to war, but this was something different. Zaroth was no mere man—he was a monster, one who had the power to twist the very laws of life and death. But even so, she would not let her people fall without a fight.
"Then we fight not just for the land, but for the spirit of those we have lost," the Empress declared, her voice filled with defiance. "Our people will not be forgotten, even if their bodies fall. Prepare the defenses. Activate the last of the 3D printers. We will need every vehicle, every weapon we can muster."
Varus gave a reluctant nod, but there was little hope in his eyes. The 3D printers left behind by the Gods a melienia ago had been a last-ditch effort—a last line of defense. Yet, even with every weapon they could produce, Zaroth’s undead legions would still be overwhelming. The weight of the situation settled heavily on all of them.
"We’ll use the technology we have left," he said, his tone grim.
"But Your Majesty... it might not be enough. Zaroth’s power is… unlike anything we’ve faced. He wields the dead, reshapes the battlefield with his will."
The Empress’s eyes flashed with unshakable resolve. "He may control the dead, but he cannot control the living. Not while I stand. Not while any of us still breathe."
At that moment, the ground beneath them trembled. A distant roar echoed through the citadel—a sound like thunder, yet filled with the unnatural horror of something far darker. The earth shook with such force that the walls rattled, and the floor beneath their feet seemed to buckle. The undead were getting closer, and with them, Zaroth’s malevolent presence loomed over them like a storm.
And then, as if in response to their defiance, a voice boomed from beyond the walls. It was deep, reverberating, and carried by the winds—a voice that felt as if it came from the very depths of hell.
"You cannot stop me," Zaroth’s voice rang out, chilling the hearts of all who heard it. "This land, your people, your empire… they will be mine. The dead rise to serve me, and the living will follow, one way or another. This is your last stand, Empress."
The Empress stood tall, unyielding in the face of the threat. She drew her sword and lifted it high, its blade catching the light of the flickering torches. Her voice rang out clear and strong, carrying across the war-torn halls.
"You are mistaken, Zaroth," she declared, her eyes narrowed, filled with fire. "The dead are nothing but shadows of the past. The living are what makes a land strong, what breathes life into the future. We may be few, but we are unbroken. And we will never bow to the likes of you."
A sinister laugh echoed from the battlefield. Zaroth’s laughter was the sound of a thousand graves opening at once—a grotesque mockery of life itself.
"You speak of life," Zaroth said, his voice dripping with malice. "Yet you cannot even save your own people. Watch as I raise them from the grave. Watch as I take what is mine by right."
With a wave of his hand, the ground before him split open, and from the earth, more undead legions rose, their bodies decayed and twisted, but their eyes glowing with an unnatural light. The stench of death and decay filled the air as Zaroth’s dark magic surged, powering the army that had once been lost to time. Machines long abandoned groaned to life, fueled by his will and powered by the dark energy he commanded. The skies above darkened as his power grew, and a sense of finality gripped the hearts of those within the citadel.
The Empress, despite the overwhelming odds, did not flinch. She turned to her commanders, who stood with a grim determination in their eyes.
"Do not let his words fool you," the Empress said. "He may control the dead, but he has none over the spirit of those who fight for their land. We will stand against him, and we will survive."
Commander Varus stood tall, his gaze unwavering. "Prepare the vehicles," he said, his voice sharp and commanding. "Set up the defensive lines. We’ll make sure they know they can’t just walk over us."
General Iona’s expression hardened with determination. "If he wants to see what we're made of, we’ll show him. We fight with everything we have left."
The Empress stepped forward, drawing her sword and raising it high above her head. Her voice rang out, a rallying cry that filled every corner of the citadel.
"All of you, listen. We may face death itself, but we will not surrender. We will fight until there is no breath left in our lungs. This is our land, our home, and we will not let it fall. Now, gather your strength! For the dead may rise, but the living will always have the last word."
The battlefield was a maelstrom of fire, steel, and dark sorcery. The clash of armies roared across the land, echoing through the valley like the bellows of a dying god. In the sky, the biplanes of the citadel’s air force weaved and dived through the storm clouds of battle, their machine guns rattling as they tore through the leathery wings of the demonic dragons. The beasts screeched, their eyes burning with eldritch fire, retaliating with blasts of hellfire that sent the fragile aircraft spiraling toward the earth in trails of smoke and flame.
On the ground, the khaki-clad soldiers of the citadel fought with unrelenting determination, their bolt-action rifles cracking as they fired into the ranks of the undead. Bayonets glistened in the firelight as men fought tooth and nail against reanimated corpses and twisted abominations. The dead did not flinch, did not hesitate. They marched forward with mechanical precision, animated by a power beyond mortal comprehension.
Lumbering forward in the heart of the battle, the Olympus tanks pressed on, their steel hulls battered but unbroken. These titanic machines—resembling the Mark V tanks of an older, bygone war—were more than mere relics of industrial might. Their magically enhanced cannons roared, launching shells imbued with arcane energy that exploded in flashes of blue fire, disintegrating legions of the dead. Their thick iron treads crushed bone and steel alike, carving a brutal path through the battlefield.
But the Demon Lord stood at the center of the chaos, his power a maelstrom of darkness that twisted the very ground beneath the citadel's forces. With a single gesture, the earth heaved as if alive, splitting open to swallow entire squads of soldiers. Great stone spires erupted from the ground, impaling tanks before slamming shut like the maw of some ancient beast, crushing the metal beasts within. The air crackled with unholy energy as he strode forward, his cloak billowing like a specter of doom.
At the center of it all, the Empress stood atop the crumbling ruins of a watchtower, her blade glowing with divine light. She moved like a specter of war, her silver armor gleaming with streaks of blood and fire. She had no illusions about the battle—this was not just a war for survival. This was a fight for the very soul of her people.
The Demon Lord grinned, his jagged teeth flashing as he raised a clawed hand, dark energy pooling in his palm.
"You cannot stop me, little queen," he sneered, his voice reverberating through the battlefield like a funeral bell. "Your kingdom crumbles, your people are mine. Stand aside and I may grant you a merciful death."
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The Empress did not falter. She tightened her grip on her sword, her knuckles white.
"You’ve already stolen too much," she spat, stepping forward, her aura burning like a beacon against the darkness. "I will not let you take anything more."
With a cry, she lunged, her blade slicing through the air like a comet. The Demon Lord met her strike with a conjured blade of pure shadow, the impact shaking the very ground beneath them. Sparks of dark and holy energy crackled where their swords met, casting eerie shadows across the battlefield.
The two titans clashed in a deadly dance, each blow shaking the land around them. The Empress struck with precision and fury, her every move fueled by the weight of her people’s hope. The Demon Lord countered with raw, brutal power, his magic warping reality itself as he sought to crush her beneath the weight of his might.
Below them, the battle raged on. The biplanes continued their desperate struggle against the dragons, bullets and fire crisscrossing the sky in a deadly ballet. The soldiers of the citadel fought tooth and nail against the undead, their cries of defiance lost in the deafening roar of battle.
And still, the Olympus tanks pressed on, their cannons booming defiantly even as the Demon Lord’s dark magic ripped the ground asunder. The war was not yet lost.
But neither was it won.
Not yet.
The battlefield trembled under the weight of clashing titans. Smoke and ash filled the air, the sky a twisted tapestry of fire and darkness. In the center of it all, amidst the chaos of war, two forces of unimaginable power advanced toward each other—unstoppable, inevitable.
The Empress sprinted across the shattered remains of a fallen watchtower, her blade gleaming with divine light as she cut through waves of monstrosities clawing their way toward her. A hulking beast with molten cracks running along its obsidian hide lunged, jagged fangs bared. With a single fluid motion, she ducked low and spun, her sword carving an arc of radiant energy that sliced through the creature’s throat. It barely had time to gurgle before collapsing in a heap of dissolving embers.
She pressed forward, her boots barely touching the ground as she leaped from one ruined building to another. A winged abomination swooped down from above, its shriek rattling the very air. The Empress narrowed her eyes and flipped backward, dodging its claws by mere inches. Mid-air, she twisted her body and hurled a shimmering spear of light, impaling the beast straight through its blackened heart.
Not a moment to rest. More surged toward her—hulking undead knights clad in corroded armor, spectral horrors with burning eyes, slithering nightmares from beyond reason. She moved like a storm given form, her blade an extension of her will. Every strike sent divine energy crackling through the battlefield, each step taken with purpose.
On the other side of the battlefield, the Evil One advanced. His mere presence twisted the world around him—his long, tattered cloak billowed with the force of unseen winds, shadows clawing at the air. With an effortless gesture, he raised a hand, and the ground itself responded, splitting open to vomit forth more of his unholy army. The dead rose in droves, silent and obedient, marching forward with soulless eyes.
A great rumbling filled the air. From the smoke, one of the Olympus tanks roared forward, its massive cannons locked onto the Demon Lord. With a deafening explosion, a shell imbued with holy magic shot toward him.
The Evil One exhaled, almost disappointed. He lifted his hand—and caught the shell mid-air. The moment his fingers touched it, the sacred energy fizzled into nothingness, crumbling into harmless sparks.
With an effortless flick of his wrist, he sent the projectile hurtling back. The explosion rocked the ground as the tank was sent flipping end over end like a child’s toy, crashing into a nearby battalion.
Another tank rumbled toward him, its enchanted plating shimmering with protective runes. The Evil One cracked a twisted grin. He raised his hand, and the earth beneath the vehicle buckled, lifting the machine high into the air. The crew inside barely had time to scream before the Demon Lord clenched his fist. The tank crumpled like paper before being hurled aside, crashing into the wreckage of another.
Nothing would stop his advance.
And then—
The Empress landed before him.
The two stood amidst the carnage, warriors of legend surrounded by a battlefield of the damned. The fires cast eerie shadows against their faces, their eyes locked in an unspoken challenge.
"You’re persistent," the Evil One mused, his voice like the grinding of ancient stones. "But you are wasting your strength. Stand down, little queen."
The Empress said nothing. Instead, she raised her sword, divine energy surging around her like a burning halo.
The Evil One smirked. "So be it."
In a blink, they clashed.
Their first exchange sent shockwaves across the battlefield, knocking back soldiers—both living and dead. The Empress moved with blinding speed, her sword striking like lightning, each blow crackling with celestial fury. The Demon Lord countered with his own blade of void-black energy, the air around it distorting with each swing.
She ducked beneath a horizontal slash and countered with a rising strike, her blade tracing a glowing arc upward. The Evil One caught it with his gauntlet, the force sending cracks spiderwebbing through the ground beneath him. With a single motion, he twisted his grip and sent a pulse of dark energy outward, forcing her back.
The Empress flipped mid-air, landing gracefully atop a crumbling turret. She launched herself forward again, closing the distance in an instant. Their blades met in a rapid series of strikes, sparks flying as steel and darkness clashed again and again.
The Demon Lord lashed out with his free hand, tendrils of shadow erupting from his fingertips. The Empress severed them mid-air, weaving through the assault like a specter of war. She pressed in, delivering a flurry of rapid slashes, each one aiming for the core of his being.
But he was fast. Too fast.
A single counter-strike sent her skidding back, her boots digging trenches into the dirt. The Evil One extended his hand, and the battlefield answered—skeletal hands erupted from the ground, grasping at her limbs, attempting to drag her down.
With a defiant cry, she unleashed a pulse of divine energy, shattering the undead grasping at her feet. She launched herself forward, sword raised high.
Their blades clashed again, a dance of steel and shadow, each strike sending ripples through the air. The Empress lunged, divine light crackling around her sword as she aimed for his heart. But the Evil One was faster.
With a single motion, he caught her blade between his fingers, the sacred energy flickering as his mere touch drained its power.
"Predictable," he mused, his voice dripping with amusement.
Before she could react, he drove his own blade forward, piercing through her armor, through her ribs. A gasp escaped her lips, her body shuddering as the cold steel slid into her. Blood, dark and rich, dripped from the wound onto the scorched ground.
The Evil One leaned in, his voice a whisper of triumph. "It's over. You’ve lost."
But the Empress smiled. Even as pain wracked her body, her eyes held no fear—only defiance. Slowly, she lifted a trembling hand and pointed behind him.
Above the ruined battlefield, above the burning remnants of her people’s last stand, the citadel trembled. Gears that had long been silent groaned to life, massive runes glowing with forgotten power. From the highest tower, a construct of unimaginable scale rose—a railgun forged by ancient magics, its barrel humming with raw energy, its core pulsing with the might of a thousand generations.
A weapon meant for gods.
The Evil One barely had time to turn his head before the heavens ignited.
The blast struck with the fury of a dying star, engulfing the battlefield in searing white light. The ground quaked, stone and steel reduced to molten slag in an instant. The force alone was enough to shatter mountains, to erase cities from existence. The shockwave tore through the clouds, ripping the sky apart.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then the dust settled.
And he was still standing.
The Empress could only watch in horror as the impossible became reality.
The Evil One held the railgun's round in his hand, its tremendous power still crackling in his grip. Not only had he survived—he had caught it.
His grin widened, his glowing eyes burning with something far worse than amusement. "Impressive," he said, examining the round like a child inspecting a toy. "But let’s see how you handle it."
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the projectile back toward the citadel.
The sky wept fire.
The round slammed into the heart of the kingdom, and in an instant, everything—the palace, the towers, the homes, the people—vanished in a storm of destruction. The shockwave shattered what little remained, leaving only fire and ruin in its wake.
The Empress collapsed to her knees, the light in her eyes dimming as she watched her home, her people, everything she had fought for—burn.
The Evil One turned away. His work here was done.
There were greater things to accomplish.
The 3D printers—relics of lost technology—held the key. With them, he would craft the pieces necessary to bring back the gods themselves.
And once they rose, bound to his will…
Nothing in this world, or the next, would stand in his way.
The Evil One stood amidst the burning ruin, the glow of the fires casting flickering shadows over his form. The Empress lay broken behind him, watching in silent agony as he surveyed the battlefield like an artist admiring his masterpiece. But he was not finished.
He lifted his hand, and the air grew heavy, thick with something unseen yet suffocating. A pulse of darkness radiated from him, rippling across the scorched earth. From the shattered remains of soldiers—friend and foe alike—the black ooze began to seep.
It slithered over broken bones, wrapping around rusted armor and shattered weapons. The bodies twitched, then convulsed, jerking upright as the vile substance consumed them, filling the gaps where flesh and steel had failed.
The dead rose.
Some still bore remnants of their former selves, faces twisted in expressions of eternal torment. Others were something else entirely—fused with the wreckage of war. The remains of tanks, their steel husks groaning, reshaped themselves with unnatural fluidity. Once rigid armor twisted into grotesque new forms, organic tendrils slithering through gears and barrels. Wings of shattered biplanes flapped with newfound sinew, the broken machines given new, horrific life.
Where there had once been an army of the dead, now there stood something more.
A fusion of flesh and war.
The Empress could only watch, helpless, as the battlefield—her battlefield—turned against her.
The Evil One gazed at his new legion, his expression one of satisfaction. He extended a hand, and as one, the creatures—his creations—turned toward him, awaiting command.
A cruel grin spread across his face.
"Rise, my legion," he said, his voice a whisper and a roar all at once.
"And let this world kneel."
