​Nights in Vorkund were never truly silent, but within the Hall of Gear, the stillness felt so thick that heartbeats sounded like war drums. Emperor Volco remained awake. His back no longer rested upright; he was hunched over piles of reports scattered across the cold marble floor. The scent of engine oil and hot steam, which usually brought him comfort, was now stifled by a suffocating aroma of anxiety.

​The reports from the southern border read as if written by a madman. Two elite divisions vanished without a trace. Two prideful Heroes gone. Not a single carrier pigeon or steam signal had returned with good news. Volco sat on his throne, his fingers trembling slightly as they tapped against the armrest—Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm was monotonous, a futile attempt to balance the turmoil in his head as he sought logical answers amidst the impossible.

​"Entire battalions?" his voice cracked, soft yet laden with a pressure that could crush anyone's resolve. "Not a single soul crawled back even just to report, Balista?"

​Minister Balista stood beside the throne. His long, whitening beard quivered violently as he drew breath. "Hmm... none, Your Majesty. Wireless communications and courier routes to the border have been completely severed."

​General Herakles crossed his arms over his gleaming silver armor. His scarred face remained rigid. Tsk. He spat a glob of saliva to the side—a micro-gesture to discard his mounting unease. "This is no ordinary battle result. Two armies do not vanish without a trace overnight, not even at the hands of the Ignis-Sol military. Something else is out there."

​Volco opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat. Outside, the giant bronze bells across Vorkund began to scream. One. Two. Four. Eight. Their clanging collided in a panic, shattering the night's silence with a rhythm that frayed the nerves. It was the doomsday alarm—a code sounded only when the city's very existence hung by a thread.

​"Hah?! What is that?!" Volco bolted upright, his ceremonial robe snagging on the corner of the throne.

​An officer burst into the room, gasping for air. His face was as pale as paper, his armor fouled by black mud and dried bloodstains. Gulp. He swallowed hard before shouting, "Your Majesty! The southern gate—the southern gate is being hammered!"

​"By whom? Is Ignis-Sol launching a dawn raid?!" Herakles roared.

​"No, General!" The officer's voice pitched high, bordering on a sob. "They... they aren't human! The gate has been breached! The guards at the front... oh, they've all been butchered!"

​Volco felt a cold sensation creep from the nape of his neck down to his spine. "How many of them?"

​The officer stared at Volco with hollow eyes—the gaze of someone who had just witnessed hell leak onto the surface of the earth. "Thousands, Your Majesty. Perhaps tens of thousands. We... we couldn't count them in the darkness. They just keep... crawling forward."

​The southern gate of Vorkund was the mechanical pride of Brassvale. The thirty-meter-tall iron structure was reinforced with hardening magic and the latest steam-valve technology. In theory, no Golem or cannon could topple it quickly.

​But tonight, theory was shattered into pieces.

​It wasn't toppled by siege engines, but by thousands of bodies that knew no fatigue. Zombies with blackened skin and vacant eyes surged forward like a murky flood. They didn't stop when soldiers' spears pierced their chests. They didn't groan when swords severed their limbs. Even when boiling oil was poured from atop the walls, they remained silent, allowing their flesh to blister as they continued to push. They turned their own bodies into organic battering rams.

​One Zombie fell and was trampled; two others took its place. Ten were destroyed; a hundred more surged forward.

​Krit... Krit... CRACK!

​The iron hinges of the southern gate groaned, buckling unnaturally before finally giving way with a thud that shook the city's foundations. It sounded like the roar of a dying giant.

​The front-line soldiers didn't even have time to form a line. They were instantly swallowed by the black tide—hundreds of Zombies lunged, pinning them to the ground. The sound of crushing bones and intestines spilling under the weight of rotting feet created a horrific symphony of death.

​Captain Rafl, a veteran of thirty years, tried to raise his sword. "Hold your positions! Do not retreat a single step! For Brassvale!" he shouted until the veins in his neck bulged.

​Alas, his voice was drowned by the shrieks of his men being torn apart alive. Before Rafl could swing his blade, a Ghoul landed on his shoulders from atop a guard post. Long black claws drove into the gaps of his armor at the neck. Splat! Rafl screamed—a scream cut short as the Ghoul ripped out his throat in one savage jerk. Warm blood sprayed into the air, soaking the ground that had already turned into a marsh of corpses.

​The Ghouls were different from the Zombies. They were far more agile and bloodthirsty. Their bodies hunched with strangely creaking joints, their long arms dangled to the ground, and their pale yellow eyes glinted in the shadows. They moved erratically, leaping from one wall to another, pouncing on prey with predatory precision.

​Amidst the chaos, Wights appeared. These were undead who still retained remnants of military discipline. With rusted weapons and blunt axes in hand, they did not attack randomly. They directed the hordes of Zombies and Ghouls to vital points: watchtowers were scaled, command posts were surrounded, and armories were set ablaze. Vorkund's defenses were dismantled in a methodical and terrifying manner.

​Lian, a young archer atop a tower, fired his last arrow with a violently trembling hand. He screamed for help, but his voice was answered only by the night wind. Suddenly, he heard a heavy, wet breath right against the back of his neck. He turned, but all he saw was the darkness swallowing him whole.

​Thump... Thump... Thump...

​A Dullahan entered through the ruined gate. Its massive undead horse wore rusted black armor, neighing with a hoarse voice that tore at the ears. The headless knight swung a massive greatsword forged from bone. One sweep, and two guards were cleaved into four pieces. A second sweep, and three heads rolled across the asphalt. Nothing could harm it. Steam-bullets merely ricocheted off its armor. The horse kept walking, trampling the shapeless remains of human bodies.

​Two Death Knights followed behind, their blue fire-eyes burning ghoulishly behind black helms. Their horses stamped, shattering Vorkund's cobblestones. Their swords pointed toward the city's heart, and tens of thousands of Plagueborne moved in unison at that signal.

​Destruction spread as fast as fire in dry grassland.

​The Elite District, filled with stone mansions and beautiful stained-glass windows, was overrun in an instant. Nobles who were usually arrogant now ran in tattered silk pajamas, screaming for mercy from creatures that had no ears to hear. An old baron tried to fight back with his family sword, but three Ghouls pounced at once, dragging him into the darkness of his own hallway.

​At St. Gear's Orphanage, Rina—a frail old woman—clutched the orphans tight in a damp basement. "Close your eyes, darlings... don't look," she whispered, holding back sobs as the door above them began to be hammered violently. Crash!

​News of the city's fall reached the Hall of Gear not through a messenger, but through the scent of death seeping through the vents.

​Thamuz entered first. The executioner of the Gear-Breaker Church no longer looked human. His armor was severely dented, thick black blood dripped from his giant axe, and a wound on his forehead gushed fresh blood that soaked his eyes. He panted, yet his hands still gripped his weapon with the last of his strength.

​Behind him, Inquisitor Morvain followed with staggering steps. His magic staff pulsed dimly and erratically—a sign his mana was at its nadir. His usually cold face appeared emotionally shattered.

​"Your Majesty..." Thamuz bowed slightly, a gesture of respect he had never offered before. "Vorkund... the city has fallen. We managed to take down one Death Knight, but their numbers... I fear even God has abandoned us tonight."

​Morvain stepped forward with pale lips. "Lho, something is leading them from atop the main tower. That creature... it resurrects every one of our fallen soldiers. We are not fighting an enemy that can be depleted; we are fighting our own dead selves."

​Volco stared at the two men. Two fanatics in the name of sanctity, now standing as witnesses to the ruin of their kingdom.

​"I know," Volco said with a strangely calm voice, as if he had accepted his fate. "We will hold here. Until the last breath."

​BOOM!

​The doors to the Hall of Gear exploded into splinters of wood and iron. A skeletal figure with a billowing black cloak entered calmly. A Lich. Its eyes glowed with a cold green fire, piercing through the soul of anyone who dared look. The staff in its hand emitted black smoke that swirled like serpents.

​Thamuz didn't wait a second. He roared—a shout that vibrated the stone walls—and lunged. His giant axe struck the Lich's shoulder with a heavy thud. The shoulder bone cracked, yet the Lich did not flinch. The creature spun its staff, and a bolt of dense green light shot out, punching a hole through Thamuz's chest.

​The executioner was sent flying, crashing into the wall until it cracked. "I... eh... not yet..." He tried to rise, but the Lich already stood before him. A single touch of a skeletal finger to Thamuz's forehead, and instantly the executioner's skin blackened like charcoal. Thamuz died with his eyes wide open.

​Morvain raised his staff, attempting to chant the final forbidden holy spell. "PURIFY!" A blinding white light exploded, singeing the Lich's cloak. However, in the blink of an eye, the creature vanished and reappeared right at the nape of Morvain's neck.

​Krit.

​The cold touch made Morvain freeze. Black blood began to flow from his eyes, ears, and mouth. He collapsed without getting a chance to utter a final word. One by one, the palace guards fell. Balista slumped over. Herakles fell with his sword still in hand.

​Finally, only Volco remained.

​The last Emperor of Brassvale stood alone. The sword in his hand felt incredibly heavy now. He stared at the Lich, but the creature merely stepped aside, making way for its master.

​From the darkness of the ruined doorway, Wabil of Plague drifted in.

​Her filthy white gown fluttered as if blown by a ghostly wind. Her black hair veiled her face, leaving a pair of pupil-less white eyes staring straight at Volco. She stopped right in front of the King.

​"You... what do you want?" Volco asked, trying to maintain his dignity despite his trembling voice. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

​Wabil smiled thinly behind the veil of her hair. A friendly smile, yet it felt like a scalpel in the brain. "What do I want? Hmm... nothing. I simply need a grand seat to begin everything. And you... you are no longer required in this chapter."

​Wabil raised her hand. Two fingers touched Volco's forehead as gently as if she were blessing a child.

​"You are no hero. But you are a persistent leader. That is enough for my collection."

​Volco felt a cold sensation that sucked away every bit of warmth in his soul. He wanted to scream, but his voice was locked in his throat. His wide eyes witnessed the final seconds of his kingdom before eternal darkness took over. His body slumped to the marble floor with a heavy thud.

​Emperor Volco died at the foot of his own throne.

​Wabil turned gracefully. She hovered toward the golden throne of Brassvale, passing the rows of corpses filling the room. Every Plagueborne present bowed their heads as the Harbinger sat upon the throne made of golden gears and pistons.

​Wabil leaned back. Her fingers began to tap against the throne's armrest. Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm was exactly the same as the one Volco had made moments ago.

​Outside, Vorkund was burning. The screams had stopped, replaced by the sound of dead footsteps filling the streets. The industrial city was dead.

​Wabil stared north, toward the Lamenting Forest where Zero Castle lay.

​"Now..." her voice echoed in the minds of her entire army. "Let us prepare for our next visit. I tried to be kind, Maiden... but you prefer the harsh way."