Chapter 80: Rock Bottom
The explosion was beyond sound. It was a pressure that flattened everything in its path.
The elevated platforms shattered. The marble columns snapped like twigs. The great window behind the council's bench vaporized, and the ceiling above it collapsed in a cascade of stone and fire. Bodies were thrown through the air, limbs flailing, mouths open in silent screams.
Dominic was blasted off his feet.
He hit the ground hard, the Wobbly trait absorbing some of the impact, but not enough. His ears rang. His vision swam. Blood ran from his nose, his ears, a cut above his eye. He tried to rise and couldn't. The world was smoke and fire and the sound of people dying.
When the smoke cleared, the Tribunal Hall was gone.
The walls had crumbled. The roof had fallen. The grand chamber where nobles had sat in judgment was now a broken shell, open to the sky. The city beyond it was burning.
And the lich floated above the ruins, surrounded by the dead.
Dominic staggered to his feet, gasping for breath as the full horror slammed into him—a crushing blow to his senses.
The city was ablaze.
From his vantage point in the battered hall, he watched chaos unfold—a symphony of destruction: explosions tearing through neighborhoods, smoke billowing from countless points, flashes of magic and steel lighting up the streets below. The Church had launched a relentless assault everywhere at once. This was no longer a city; it was a war zone.
And the lich continued to rise.
It hovered higher, its tattered robes swirling in the scorching air, its icy gaze sweeping over the battlefield like a ruthless general assessing his victory.
It raised both arms, and the corpses started to rise.
Not just the fallen from the Church. Everyone. The nobles killed in the blast. The guards who tried to escape. The servants trampled in the chaos. They stood, their eyes empty, wounds still bleeding, and turned toward the living.
The lich was no longer just attacking. It was building an army.
And it began to preach.
"Rejoice, children of the Empire!" The lich's voice echoed across the burning city, vast, terrifying, and oddly kind, like a savior welcoming lost sheep into the fold. "For you have been chosen! You have been deemed worthy of the Eternal Will! The old world is dying, and you are witnesses to the start of its final moments. What an honor! What a gift!"
The dead rose all over the ruins, some whole, some not. A fallen guard with a shattered spine dragged himself upright. A noblewoman with a broken neck stood with her head lolling at an impossible angle. A child, no older than ten, rose with empty eyes and a gaping wound in her chest.
"Do not fear death, for death is only the beginning! The flesh is temporary, but the soul is eternal, and the Eternal Will has claimed you!" The lich's voice grew louder, more fervent. "The seal weakens! The one who has been waiting since before your empire was born will soon walk among you! And you will serve! You will bow! You will become part of something far greater than this crumbling world!"
The risen dead turned toward the living, their empty eyes fixed on those who still breathed.
"The Church of the Eternal Will has prepared this moment for centuries! We have labored in shadows, waited in patience, and now the harvest begins! Rejoice! Rejoice! For you will not die today! You will be transformed!"
Its voice was no longer just sound. It was pressure, a force that pressed into the mind, made the heart stutter, and planted images of darkness and devotion behind the eyes. The surviving nobles screamed. Some of them stopped fighting. Some of them dropped to their knees, weeping, their wills breaking.
"Kneel, and you will be spared! Resist, and you will become as the dead are, empty vessels for the will of your betters!" The lich's cold eyes swept over the battlefield, and for a moment, they lingered on Dominic. "And all that you have built, all that you have loved, all that you have fought for, it will be consumed and given a new life."
The ensuing battle was not merely a fight; it was a brutal massacre that left destruction in its wake.
The remaining elites of the Church, the elite S-rank and SS-rank members who had survived the devastating blast, joined the ranks of the fallen in their relentless assault. They moved through the rubble-strewn ruins like feral wolves, mercilessly slaughtering anyone who still dared to stand. Some nobles fought valiantly with their personal guards and house mages forming desperate, shielded defensive lines, trying to hold back the oncoming tide, while others were overwhelmed and perished in the chaos.
Frank continued to fight fiercely, his blade flashing as he struck down a shambling noblewoman whose vacant eyes stared blankly ahead and whose hands still bore the ornate rings of her house. His face was bloodied, and his breaths were ragged with exhaustion, but he refused to stop. "Kane! We can't hold this position!" he shouted.
Dominic understood the gravity of their situation. The Tribunal Hall had become a slaughterhouse, a grotesque scene of death and destruction. They had no choice but to retreat, regroup, and find a strategy to confront an enemy capable of raising the dead from the grave.
But time was against them, slipping away too quickly.
A high-ranking member of the Church's elite forces confronted him, an SS-rank, swifter and more lethal than her counterparts, her blade a shimmering silver streak slicing through the dense smoke. Dominic barely managed to parry, the impact reverberating violently through his arms, legs, and spine. He was amped up, adrenaline coursing through him, yet the distance between them was insurmountable.
Florence surged forward, her halberd, a weapon with a long, ornate shaft and a heavy blade coated in a dark, oily substance, catching the woman's blade and forcing her to retreat. But Florence was wounded, her torso and limbs torn by a dozen deep cuts, her movements sluggish, and her breathing ragged from exhaustion.
The SS-rank smiled coldly, a hint of contempt in her eyes.
She moved with lightning speed.
The subsequent exchange was too rapid for the eye to follow. Steel clashed against steel, sparks flying in the smoky air, and then Florence was sent flying backward, her halberd slipping from her grasp, spinning through the air. Her body crashed through a shattered pillar, sending debris flying, and disappeared into the wreckage beyond.
"Florence!" Dominic shouted, panic thick in his voice.
The SS-rank turned toward him, her blade dripping with blood, a sinister smile curling on her lips.
Dominic's heart pounded fiercely within his chest. Through the bond, he could sense Florence's pain, an intensity that went beyond physical agony, rooted in something darker. Frustration and rage simmered beneath her skin, mingling with the agony of a warrior painfully aware she was fighting at only a fraction of her true strength.
Theresa's voice crackled through the chaos, strained and desperate. "Dominic—I can't hold them back—there are too many—"
Below, Lysandra was pinned down, her formidable A-rank strength barely enough to stave off the relentless undead flooding the narrow corridors. Frank was shouting orders with urgency, desperately trying to organize a retreat before the situation spiraled further out of control. Wobbly, the dimly glowing orb of Wobbly sputtered erratically, its light flickering as if on the verge of dying out.
Meanwhile, the lich hovered above them, still speaking in an ominous tone.
"Rejoice, for you witness the beginning. The new one will rise from its ashes, and those who served the Eternal Will shall be rewarded."
Its voice echoed into their minds, seductive yet terrible, carrying an unsettling weight. Some of the surviving nobles faltered, halting their resistance. Others released their weapons, trembling as their resolve shattered. A few simply sank to their knees, entirely broken in spirit and will.
Dominic staggered, his eyes darting around as he took in the chaos surrounding him: the city engulfed in flames, the charred remains of buildings collapsing, and bodies rising from the dead in disturbing silence. Nobles dressed in torn, bloodstained garments wept uncontrollably, their faces twisted in despair.
Frank, his shirt soaked in crimson gore, relentless in his assault, swung his weapon with savage determination. Lysandra's slender rods, embedded with faintly glowing runes, cracked sharply against corpses, sparks igniting like miniature starbursts with each powerful strike. A flickering, unstable light struggled to pierce the darkness, casting moving shadows on the broken pavement.
Theresa fought alone amidst the chaos, her magic flashing fiercely as she struck back at the relentless horde of enemies. Florence was trapped beneath a pile of rubble, broken wood, shattered stone, her face contorted with desperation as she fought to free herself and rise to join the fray.
A wave of hopelessness washed over him, heavy and suffocating, threatening to crush his spirit.
Then cutting through his despair, the system pulsed.