The world was shaking.
The battlefield stretched like a wet womb torn open—half drowned in screams, half bound in iron.
On one side, the Moaning Domain surged forward. Shadows with dripping thighs, soldiers with cocks and cunts exposed, screaming like choirs of climax. Their moans hit the air like storm waves, shaking mountains, cracking the dead plains into wet ravines.
On the other side, the Legion of Chains advanced. Tall, faceless warriors, bound in links that rattled with each step. Their mouths gagged in iron muzzles, their arms dragged heavy shackles that cut grooves into the earth. They did not moan, they did not cry—they moved like silence weaponized, cold and suffocating.
The collision was inevitable.
The first impact was a storm.
A chained soldier swung its iron weight like a meteor, smashing through a dozen moaning shadows. The ground split, wet black nectar spraying like blood.
