Back in Stoneford, minutes before the revelation struck at the forest battlefield...

  The patrol reached the end of the southern district road, where weathered wooden barriers marked the boundary of the old Amber Stone mine. The entrance had been sealed for years—thick planks nailed across the opening, warning signs posted, the whole structure sagging with neglect.

  Sergeant Sal surveyed the area with practiced efficiency, his eyes sweeping across crumbling stone walls and collapsed mining equipment half-buried in overgrown vegetation.

  "Right. Nothing to see here," Sal announced, turning back toward the patrol. "Let's head back. Same route we came."

  One of the soldiers groaned audibly. "All this way just to turn around? We could've stayed near the inner districts where something actually happens."

  The second soldier nodded agreement. "Waste of bloody time, marching through empty streets."

  "Patrol routes exist for a reason," Sal said flatly, though his tone suggested he didn't entirely disagree. "Now move."

  Alph fell into step beside Lukan as they began the return journey, his mind only half-focused on their surroundings.

  Then, without warning, Alph's Slayer instincts screamed danger. Coldness flooded down his spine, every hair on his body standing on end as primal warning signals flooded through his enhanced perception. His entire body went rigid, eyes scanning their surroundings with predatory focus as he tried to locate the source of his unease.

  A low, guttural growl emanated from within the sealed mine entrance.

  The sound froze the leisurely patrol in their tracks. Casual conversation died mid-word as heads snapped toward the boarded-up entrance. The wooden planks that had sealed the mine for years suddenly seemed inadequate—flimsy barriers against whatever lurked in the darkness beyond.

  Sergeant Sal recovered first, his veteran instincts overriding initial shock. He pivoted smoothly back toward the mine, hand dropping to his weapon as his eyes narrowed with tactical assessment. His entire bearing shifted from patrol routine to combat readiness in the space of a heartbeat.

  "Y-you heard that, right?" One of the soldiers' voice cracked slightly, his words tumbling out in uneven rhythm. "My ears... they aren't—aren't playing tricks? That was real?"

  Alph's enhanced senses screamed warning as he felt whatever lurked in the darkness accelerating toward them with terrifying speed.

  "It's coming!" he shouted, his hands moving with practiced precision to draw the twin daggers from their sheaths at his back. The blades came up in a defensive stance, his body shifting into the combat-ready posture drilled through countless hours of training.

  Lukan's veteran instincts kicked in immediately, his hatchet appearing in one hand while the buckler on his arm rose to guard position. His weathered features set into grim lines as he positioned himself beside Alph.

  Sal, recognizing the urgency in Alph's warning, abandoned his position near the entrance and stepped back several paces. His weapon cleared its sheath as he set his stance, eyes fixed on the boarded mine entrance.

  They heard it before they saw it—the thunderous charge of something massive barreling through the darkness toward them. The wooden planks exploded outward in a spray of splinters and choking dust, the old barriers shattering like kindling before whatever force struck them. Debris scattered across the street, and a cloud of disturbed sediment billowed out from the ruined entrance.

  The figure that emerged from the dust was nightmare made flesh.

  A behemoth of twisted muscle and exposed bone towered before them, easily twice the height of a grown man. Its body was asymmetrical in grotesque ways—one arm swollen and misshapen from the shoulder itself, bulging with unnatural mass that made it hang lower than its counterpart. Viscous black ooze dripped from its corrupted hide, the same blight they'd been sent to observe in Borov Woods days ago. But seeing it from a distance on dead animals was nothing compared to this—a walking abomination that radiated wrongness with every labored breath.

  The patrol stood frozen, horror overriding training as they stared at the impossible creature. Hands trembled around weapon grips. Faces drained of color. Cold sweat broke across backs despite the cool air.

  One of the soldiers stumbled backward, his spear wavering as he thrust it toward the monster with shaking arms. His voice cracked with raw terror as the words tore from his throat.

  "What the fuck is this?!"

  Sergeant Sal's mind processed the brutal reality —years of combat experience cutting through shock to reach the only viable conclusion. They were hopelessly outmatched. Whatever this abomination was, it would slaughter them all if they tried to fight.

  "Spears forward! Form up on me!" His voice cracked like a whip across the paralyzed patrol. The two soldiers with spears jerked into motion, muscle memory overriding terror as they moved into defensive formation.

  Sal raised his sword and shield, bashing them together with a resounding clang that echoed off the shabby houses. Once. Twice. Three times. The metallic crashes cut through the monster's growling, drawing its attention with deliberate provocation.

  The abomination's head swung toward him, red eyes blazing with mindless fury and corruption-fueled madness. Its massive form shifted, focusing on the source of the noise.

  "Lukan! Alph!" Sal shouted without taking his eyes off the creature. "Retreat! Get reinforcements! NOW!"

  "You won't—" Alph started, protest rising in his throat even as his body recognized the futility.

  Lukan's weathered hand clamped onto Alph's shoulder, yanking him backward with surprising strength. The veteran's voice was harsh, brooking no argument.

  "Shut up and move! Don't let their sacrifice go to waste!" He pulled Alph several steps away, his words coming rapid-fire. "You run for the noble district—find the town watch! I'll head for the guard tower, light the signal fire!"

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  Behind them, the monster roared—a sound that had no place coming from anything that had once been sentient. Steel clashed against corrupted flesh. One of the soldiers screamed, the sound cutting off with terrible abruptness.

  Alph's body wanted to turn back, every instinct screaming to help his companions. But Lukan was right. Running was the only option that made tactical sense.

  He broke into a full sprint, boots pounding against uneven cobblestones as he raced through the southern district's winding streets. Behind him, another scream tore through the air, followed by the monster's triumphant bellow.

  Alph didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. His legs pumped harder, carrying him away from the massacre toward the only hope they had left—reinforcements that might arrive in time to save something from this disaster.

  Back at the forest battlefield, in the present moment...

  The soldiers completed their tactical withdrawal successfully, formations holding despite the psychological pressure of retreating from such nightmarish opponents. Seth limped back with the main force, his left arm hanging at an awkward angle and blood seeping through a gash in his armor where one of the Death Warriors' curved blades had found purchase. Unlike Sergio and Draven who had eliminated their undead opponents with overwhelming force, Seth had been forced to simply survive and disengage—a testament to the difficulty of fighting above one's tier.

  Captain Draven surveyed the battlefield with precision, his eyes assessing distances, positions, and the corrupted horde that waited with unnatural patience around the Necromancer. His forces were clear of the blast zone. The enemy remained concentrated in their defensive formation.

  "Sheryl," he commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority despite his unbridled fury. "Unleash your magic."

  Sheryl stood among the rear guard, her face still drained of color from the horrific vision that continued to haunt her thoughts. But she was a Tier 4 Celestial Astrologer of the Bright Church, and her duty demanded she set aside personal horror to execute her orders.

  Her trembling hands turned the pages of her leather-bound tome with deliberate care, flipping through sections until she reached the spell she sought. The page depicted stars falling from the heavens in brilliant cascades, ancient script glowing faintly around the illustration.

  She channeled her astral magic, weaving the complex patterns required for large-scale offensive spell work called Starfall of Judgment.

  The sky above darkened as if caught in a sudden eclipse, daylight bleeding away to reveal deep velvet darkness. But this was no empty void. New constellations blazed into existence overhead, forming argent sigils that burned with holy radiance against the false night. The celestial patterns positioned themselves with geometric precision, ancient symbols of judgment written across the heavens.

  Sheryl's voice rang out clear and resonant, cutting through the unnatural silence as she completed the incantation.

  "From firmament, your burning light release, Let this holy Starfall grant the land its peace."

  At the final word, a single impossibly bright star at the heart of the new constellation descended. It was not a falling rock but a focused column of pure celestial light, within which countless smaller stars cascaded and swirled like luminous rain. The beam struck the earth not with a crash but with the sound of a thousand chiming bells—a deafening yet beautiful hum that resonated through bone and soul alike.

  The corrupted beasts caught within the column didn't burn. They were unmade by the spell's purity, their twisted forms dissolving into silver ash that scattered on winds that hadn't existed moments before. The Death Knights and Death Warriors—powerful constructs of necromantic art—lasted seconds longer, their enhanced durability buying them only the briefest delay before they too crumbled to nothing beneath the judgment of celestial fire.

  When the light finally faded, the battlefield was transformed. The ground where corruption had taken root was purged completely, the blight scoured away by holy radiance. A soft, peaceful luminescence lingered in the air like morning mist, a testament to the judgment that had been delivered and the cleansing peace that had been granted to the tortured land.

  Silence blanketed the battlefield like fresh snow.

  The sheer magnitude of Sheryl's spell left the assembled forces stunned, their eyes still adjusting to the return of normal daylight after witnessing celestial judgment made manifest. Several younger soldiers who had stared too directly into the descending starfall clutched at their faces, crying out as temporary blindness struck them. Their companions guided them away from the front lines, creating minor confusion in the ranks as veterans helped the afflicted find stable footing.

  But what captured everyone's attention was the result. The corrupted beasts they'd been fighting desperately mere minutes ago had simply ceased to exist. The Death Knights and Death Warriors that had pressed their elite fighters so hard were gone—not defeated, but unmade. Only silver ash remained where nightmares had stood.

  Master Abel stared at the transformed battlefield with something approaching awe, his bardic senses still reeling from the residual magical energies. His voice emerged quiet, carrying a slight quiver that betrayed his uncertainty.

  "Did we... did we get him?"

  Captain Draven's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the cleansed ground. Every tactical instinct he possessed screamed that something was wrong. The spell had been devastating, comprehensive—nothing should have survived that judgment. Yet a tugging feeling in his gut kept insisting that the Necromancer yet lived.

  Before anyone could respond to Abel's question, the sound of slow, deliberate clapping echoed from within the cavern entrance.

  Abel reeled backward as if physically struck, his face draining of color. Around him, soldiers raised weapons with trembling hands, eyes fixed on the dark opening where their enemy lurked.

  "Shit," Draven cursed under his breath, his worst fears confirmed.

  The Necromancer's voice drifted out from the shadows, carrying that same mocking theatrical quality that had defined his every interaction.

  "Wonderful display, truly magnificent! Such power, such precision! The Church certainly trains its—"

  The voice cut off abruptly mid-sentence, as if something had captured the speaker's attention. Silence stretched for several heartbeats, broken only by nervous shuffling among the ranks.

  Draven seized the opportunity, his voice ringing with challenge.

  "Show yourself, coward! Face us properly instead of hiding in the dark like a rat!"

  A heavy sigh emerged from the cavern, carrying none of the earlier mockery. Instead, it held genuine disappointment—the sound of someone whose carefully laid plans had just collapsed.

  "How... unfortunate." The Necromancer's voice had lost its theatrical edge, replaced by something almost pitiful. "The mission target failed in advancement. All that preparation, all that timing..." Another sigh. "Well, no matter. My mission here is complete regardless. I won't be playing anymore."

  Corbin melded into shadows and disappeared as if he'd never been there at all.

  Draven stood rigid, his mind racing through possibilities. Was this genuine retreat, or an elaborate feint designed to lure them into the cavern for an ambush? The abrupt departure felt wrong, too easy after such elaborate preparation.

  He made the only decision that prioritized his forces' survival.

  "All units, orderly retreat back to camp," his voice carried absolute authority across the silent battlefield. "Maintain defensive formations. Stay alert for pursuit or ambush."

  The army began withdrawing with disciplined efficiency, shields raised and weapons ready, leaving behind the cleansed ground and the mystery of an enemy who had simply chosen to walk away.