The land before them was dead.
Not barren — wrong.
The Dead Zones stretched like a cancer across the horizon: a twisted graveyard of ruined cities, blackened forests, and rivers that ran thick with sludge.
Above it all, the sky bled violet, thin lightning crackling without thunder.
The Black Cradle was near.
Kaela could feel it in her bones.
The Genesis Core pulsed against her back, its heartbeat syncing with her own.
They had crossed into a world that hated life.
And everything still breathing was about to be tested.
---
Crossing the Line
Kaela raised her fist, halting the column.
Behind her, thousands of boots stomped the dirt.
Ashen Sons.
Alliance survivors.
Steel Vultures mercenaries.
Stray champions like Ashen Var and Seraph.
They had all come.
And they would all die if she failed.
"You all know why you're here," Kaela said, her voice cutting through the chill like a blade.
"No more running. No more hiding."
She turned, eyes fierce.
"We move forward.
We tear down the Cradle.
We survive — or we become part of this grave."
Gravik roared approval.
The soldiers banged weapons on their shields.
Even the mercenaries howled, whipped into bloodlust.
Kaela nodded grimly.
"March."
And they did.
Right into hell.
---
The First Nightmare
It struck within an hour.
The ground began to breathe.
Pulsing.
Flexing.
Kaela barely shouted a warning before it exploded upward — a mountain of flesh and bone, covered in twitching eyes and gnashing mouths.
A Behemoth of the Cradle.
A living weapon from before history, stirred by the Core's presence.
It crashed into their front lines, scattering soldiers like insects.
Screams filled the poisoned air.
Gravik charged, howling, swinging his warhammer into its meat-flesh.
Dante unleashed rockets.
Nyla weaved binding magic to slow its advance.
Kaela dove through the chaos, cutting her way toward its massive heart.
A huge tendril whipped toward her—
Seraph's sniper bullet blew it apart midair.
Kaela reached the pulsing heart embedded in its belly.
Without hesitation, she jammed her blade into it — twisting.
The Behemoth gave one last, hideous scream — and collapsed in a spray of black ichor.
Victory.
But at a price:
Over 200 dead.
Dozens more contaminated — twitching, mutating before they could even be given mercy.
---
Betrayal in the Camp
That night, as the survivors camped inside the ruins of a shattered skyscraper, the next wound came.
The Steel Vultures turned.
In the dead of night, they rose — knives flashing — aiming straight for Kaela's tent.
They thought they would catch her sleeping.
They thought wrong.
Kaela met them with steel.
The fighting was brutal — personal.
In the darkness, the air stank of blood and betrayal.
Arin fought side-by-side with Kaela, blades whirling.
Ashen Var laughed as he carved down two traitors in a single stroke.
Dante planted charges, sealing exits — trapping the traitors inside with death.
When it ended, the Vultures were gone — every last one.
Kaela stood over their bodies, breathing hard, blood dripping from her sword.
She spoke to the silent soldiers watching:
"Anyone else thinking about betrayal — remember this."
None answered.
None dared.
---
New Allies, Strange and Dangerous
As the march continued, more approached:
A group of scarred monks, bearing black banners stitched with holy symbols, offering themselves to Kaela as "vessels of divine fire."
Former Hollowborn cultists, their mutations barely hidden, begging for a chance to fight the thing that had betrayed them.
A ragged squad of ancient war machines, half-human, half-circuitry, their AI minds seeking purpose after centuries lost in the dark.
Kaela accepted them all.
She knew madness would bloom among them.
Knew treachery would come again.
But she needed every sword.
Every bullet.
Every ounce of strength for what lay ahead.
---
The Approach to the Black Cradle
By the tenth day, they stood within sight of it:
A tower.
No, a wound in the earth, rising endlessly, made of bones, broken steel, and the corpses of gods.
The Black Cradle.
The birthplace of the Hollowborn.
The heart of the nightmare.
The prison of something deeper.
The Genesis Core pulsed wildly now — barely containable.
Kaela's own heartbeat matched its fevered rhythm.
The Cradle called.
And deep beneath its writhing roots, something else stirred — something older than history.
Something hungry.
---
Foreshadowing the Last Stand
That night, Kaela sat alone by the fire.
Arin approached, crouching beside her.
"You alright?" he asked quietly.
Kaela stared into the flames.
"No.
And I won't be."
Arin offered a rare, crooked smile.
"Good. It means you're still sane."
They sat in silence a while.
Above them, the stars twisted into impossible patterns.
Reality frayed around the Cradle.
Kaela whispered:
"I don't think we're going to survive this."
Arin placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Maybe not.
But we'll make sure the world does."
Kaela closed her eyes.
Nodded.
Then rose.
Tomorrow, they would storm the Black Cradle.
Tomorrow, everything ended.
One way or another.