The battlefield had gone silent, but the curse left behind by the god of justice continued to fester.
It started small. A farmer knelt in a field drenched in monster blood, trying to sow seeds in the newly tilled soil—only for the seeds to wither before they sprouted.
The soil had turned black, lifeless, as though the land itself had rejected growth. Word spread quickly.
Dozens of villages reported the same: fields tainted by the blood of monsters no longer bore crops, and rivers that had carried the black ichor left fish belly-up along the banks.
Fear followed in the curse's wake.
"What do we do now?"
"The gods are punishing us!"
"They followed Kyle Armstrong into blasphemy—and now we suffer!"
Whispers became accusations. Accusations became shouting. And soon, every region affected turned its eyes to the man who had slain a god.
Kyle stood on a raised platform outside the central war camp. All around him, people gathered—soldiers, nobles, peasants, clergy.
