Time passed. On the third day, news came from Athven: countless Risen, backed by a massive army of beasts, along with a large group of Summoners and Spiritual Guardians, were closing in.
It was an endless mass of enemies marching toward the World Tree — and everyone around it. The great battle was near.
Pure miasma burst out, darkening the skies. The air was thick with corruption and sorrow.
That small world was opened, and a little over eight thousand troops stepped out from within. Immediately, all the pure and natural life in that place withered and then decayed in a tragic, rotten way.
Just that kind of scene was already threatening on its own. The very air smelled of death and felt oppressive.
The miasma held an energy and power that the Risen could absorb, letting them launch their attacks even more effectively. It was like water to a fish — without it, their fighting strength would drop hard.
