The eastern wastelands became a sea of fire and shadow.
Imperial spells rained down like falling stars, tearing through waves of lesser demons. Blades engraved with ancient runes cleaved flesh and bone, releasing shrieks that echoed across the corrupted land.
Yet for every demon that fell, two more crawled out of the Abyssal Gates.
They did not fear death.
They did not retreat.
They advanced.
"Hold the line!" an Imperial commander roared. "Do not break formation!"
A massive demon crashed into the front ranks, its body exploding under concentrated magic. Black blood splattered across the ground, sizzling as it ate through stone.
Then the ground shook.
A towering Abyssal Behemoth emerged from the mist, its presence alone crushing nearby soldiers to their knees. Its roar shattered eardrums and fractured the earth.
"Anti-heavy formation!"
"Mages, suppress it!"
The legions responded instantly.
Chains of light wrapped around the behemoth's limbs. Sigils flared. A coordinated barrage struck its skull, detonating in a blinding flash.
The behemoth collapsed.
Cheers erupted—
And were immediately silenced.
The Demon Lord stepped forward.
The air froze.
Its crimson eyes swept across the battlefield with cold amusement. With a simple gesture, the fallen behemoth's corpse twitched—then rose, stitched together by abyssal corruption.
Terror spread through the ranks.
"Undead transformation…" a soldier whispered. "That thing's beyond standard threat level!"
The Demon Lord smiled faintly.
"Struggle," it said softly. "Your resistance makes this far more enjoyable."
It raised a finger.
The sky darkened.
A wave of pure Abyssal pressure slammed into the legions. Shields shattered. Soldiers were hurled backward like leaves in a storm. Blood painted the wastelands.
For the first time, the Imperial Legions began to fall back.
---
Far away, within the Imperial Capital, Aurelius Valen watched through the World Throne's projection.
His expression did not change.
"The Demon Lord has revealed itself," one guardian said grimly. "If it advances further, civilian zones will be endangered."
Aurelius's fingers tightened slightly on the armrest.
"Still within acceptable loss," he said.
The guardians stiffened—but did not argue.
This was the cruelty of an emperor.
Not indifference.
But calculation.
If humanity was to survive a war against gods, this level of pain was unavoidable.
"Prepare the second line," Aurelius ordered. "Deploy the Saint Regiments."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
---
On the battlefield, a new presence descended.
Dozens of figures clad in silver-white armor landed like meteors, their auras sharp enough to cut through the abyssal mist.
Saints.
Their arrival stabilized the front instantly.
Blades sang. Spells tore reality apart. Demons began to fall in droves.
The Demon Lord's smile faded.
"So," it murmured, eyes narrowing. "The Emperor sends his true fangs at last."
Its gaze lifted—beyond the battlefield, beyond the horizon.
Toward the capital.
Toward Aurelius Valen.
"Enjoy your test, World Emperor," it whispered. "When the Abyss truly awakens…"
It spread its arms.
"You will learn what despair means."
The gates pulsed violently.
Deeper within the Abyss, something answered.
Something far older.
The world trembled.
And the war escalated beyond all expectations.
(This was only the beginning.)