The Graven Maw's corpse was still steaming when the second wave struck.
It didn't come as marching soldiers or towering beasts—it came as shadows. A tide of darkness that poured over the battlefield like liquid night, swallowing the dead and the living alike. The ground screamed under its weight, cracks forming as if the very earth wanted to flee.
Russ's grip on the scythe tightened. The air vibrated. The Void inside him stirred, hungry.
"They're trying to break our lines!" Maven's voice cut through the chaos. Her eyes glowed, and a circle of blazing runes erupted beneath her feet, unleashing a pillar of sapphire fire that split the shadow tide in two.
But the shadows reformed. They always did.
Not this time.
Russ stepped forward, scythe humming like a heartbeat. The darkness around him warped, threads of reality bending toward the blade's edge. His pupils turned to pools of black, and his voice came out as both his own and something far older.
"Back to nothing."
He swung.
The swing wasn't just steel—it was a tear in existence. The shadows convulsed as if struck by lightning. A massive rift of white fire split the battlefield, devouring the wave. Every creature caught within screamed—not in pain, but in loss, as though their very identities were being erased.
Kael roared, charging past Russ to crush a skeletal warlord whose armor writhed with cursed sigils. With every strike, Kael's blows rang with molten fury, his gauntlets burning bright as the heart of a forge.
To the left flank, Maven summoned a cyclone of frost and flame, freezing a cluster of abominations mid-charge before shattering them into shards. Each shard burned with Voidfire, lingering like curses in the air.
But above them all, the sky began to tear.
The Hollow King was watching.
Through the cracks in the heavens, an immense eye appeared—golden, reptilian, and impossibly vast. It turned, slowly, until it locked on Russ.
His heart stilled.
A whisper slid into his mind, cold and absolute.
"You carry what is mine."
Russ spat on the ground. "Come take it."
The ground beneath him erupted as blackened chains shot up from the soil, each one tipped with blades made from the bones of ancient kings. They lashed toward him, shrieking.
Russ moved.
One heartbeat he was still—the next he was a blur, weaving between the chains with inhuman precision. Every swing of the scythe left glowing arcs in the air, and every arc severed a chain, releasing bursts of violet flame.
But the chains kept coming.
Until Russ did something no one expected—he planted the scythe in the ground and let go.
The blade drank deep.
The battlefield quaked as the Void inside Russ spilled outward in a storm of black fire, swirling upward like a hurricane of stars. The very air bent, sound muffled, as if they had been cast into an endless void between worlds.
Then Russ raised his hands.
From the vortex, spectral wings burst forth—vast, skeletal, and laced with lightning. The wings beat once, and the storm answered.
Every enemy within reach was hurled into the sky—shadows, beasts, even armored titans. They hung weightless for a moment.
Russ leapt.
He soared through them, the scythe back in his hands, each swing tracing arcs of silver light that split monster after monster into dust.
When his feet touched the ground, silence fell.
The sky's crack sealed, the Hollow King's gaze retreating.
But Russ knew what that meant.
This was no victory.
It was an invitation.