A new mill has opened beneath Witherspoon City, but it doesn't grind soy milk—it grinds tons of blood and minced flesh.
When the thunder of early spring breaks the chill, the relentless iron hooves explode across the vast wasteland; golden bolts of lightning flash over the desolate land, casting a chilling light of slaughter and trampling.
Eighty-four gigantic unicorns, adorned in stars and moonlight, gallop full tilt with their heads down into the thick formation of the Hai Mu coalition; their heads gaze down upon all beings, their forms arrow-like, their massive spiral horns long as masts tearing through air with unrivaled ferocity, like Titanic dreadnoughts preparing to ram the Atlantic icebergs. The earth bows beneath their thick hooves, along their path, countless corpses, clods, and shattered rocks become fleas, bouncing and springing high as if wound-up.
