"The divine calling of an Abyssal Ruler does not allow for defeat. Only death." Valacar’s voice was a low, somber murmur. "If the strongest among them falls, their world is completely consumed by the Graying. And all of us within it are devoured by the Unhallowed. There is no escape, Orion. In a Graying world, the planar barriers are sealed. You can’t run."

Silence descended, heavy and absolute. Orion and Valacar sat across from each other, goblets in hand, lost in their own thoughts.

After a long moment, Orion looked up, his gaze locking with Valacar’s. "How long until the next Graying?"

The question was critical. Before it happened, Orion had to reach the sixth plane of the Abyss and secure the Abyssal Springhead. The Conquest Legion needed to carve out a foothold there, and time was now a finite resource.

"The exact time is uncertain, but the word is no more than a year. A rumor that supposedly comes from an Abyssal Ruler."

Hearing he had roughly a year was a small, but significant, relief. Orion felt the tension in his shoulders ease.

"Lord Valacar," he said, the mood shifting instantly from cosmic dread to pragmatic business. "How about a trade? One of your Archlords for every Giant slave in Mosela Citadel."

The Unhallowed were a terrifying, existential threat, but they were not an immediate one. Orion compartmentalized the fear and moved on. The archlord he’d captured—the one Valacar had sent to test him—was now his primary bargaining chip. For all the fine wine and hospitality, Orion knew the demigod would never concede anything significant without something of value in return.

"As you wish, Lord Orion." Valacar raised his goblet. It was a good deal. Orion wasn’t trying to bleed him dry. In the Abyss, an archlord was a strategic asset, capable of anchoring an entire flank of a faction.

"As you’ve seen, I’ve fought my way up from the first plane. I need manpower. I need slaves. A lot of them," Orion stated plainly. "Can Mosela Citadel meet that demand?"

Pillaging The Crimson Plain was off the table now. Going head-to-head with a demigod on his home turf was a losing proposition for him and his First Army. Negotiation was the only viable path.

"Slaves are the one thing Mosela Citadel has in abundance," Valacar said with a gesture toward the window. Outside, countless slaves toiled for their next meal, keeping the fortress so clean that not a speck of dust marred the ground. "I would recommend the Abyssal Swine. They serve as excellent cannon fodder and can double as shock troops. In a pinch, they’re also a decent source of rations. Most importantly, they breed fast and are easy to maintain. Give them the lowest-grade scraps, and they will multiply endlessly for you."

Valacar’s smile was confident. "I know, of course, that the lives of such base creatures are hardly a fair trade for another of my people. So, for my other archlord, I will offer you this."

With a flick of his wrist, a flask appeared on the table between them. "This contains all the giant I have refined over the centuries. Pure, golden blood. Its quality is nearly on par with that of a demigod."

The offer was made with the utmost seriousness. It was a clear gesture of goodwill.

"And if you accept this trade, Orion, I ask that you agree to one condition."

The potent, metallic scent of giant—specifically from the Shadowabyss race—filled the air. The temptation was immense, but Orion held back.

"I’m listening."

A flicker of pleasure crossed Valacar’s eyes. No immediate refusal meant the deal was on the table.

"Mosela Citadel wishes to establish a formal alliance with you, Lord Orion. We hope to acquire a steady supply of resources from the outside world through you—minerals, equipment, magical plants... even food. Naturally, we will provide resources of equal value in every exchange. We want to open a new supply line, with you as our partner."

Orion almost hadn’t realized the strategic advantage he held.

"Done," he said without hesitation. "I accept your alliance, Lord Valacar."

An equal exchange meant he lost nothing. Besides, building a network in the Abyss was a strategic priority. He hoped that one day, when members of the Stoneheart Horde ventured into these planes, they would find allies who recognized—and perhaps even aided—them. Whether Valacar’s intentions were genuine, only time and his actions would tell.

Orion picked up the flask and secured it.

"This has been a pleasant evening, Orion," Valacar said, visibly pleased. To avert a major war and secure the safe return of two of his top commanders before the coming of the Unhallowed was the best possible outcome.

"Indeed. A pleasure doing business."

Orion remained in Mosela Citadel for three days. Valacar himself served as his guide, giving him a complete tour of the fortress and holding nothing back, even explaining the key architectural principles behind its construction.

In turn, Orion sent word to Standard-bearer Vex, ordering the release of Iskar and Perrin.

On the day of Orion’s departure, the banners of Mosela Citadel flew high. The thunder of war drums and the call of horns echoed from the ramparts—a send-off so grand it could have been mistaken for a declaration of war.

As a final gift, Valacar presented Orion with a contingent of Siren-Spiders. Their combat prowess was negligible, he explained, but their culinary skills were unmatched, especially when it came to preparing abyssal ingredients. Furthermore, their unique appeal made them a valuable asset for recruiting certain other abyssal races.

Back at the main camp on The Crimson Plain, Orion gathered the leaders of his armies in his command tent and briefed them on the new alliance.

"That’s the situation. Lord Valacar is a demigod. I don’t fear him, and he doesn’t fear me," Orion concluded. "This entire plain is his territory. Since we are now allies, raiding the local populace would be... bad form."

While the Abyss had little room for honor, openly screwing over an ally was a line Orion refused to cross. It was simply unprofessional.

"My lord, securing that many Abyssal Swine from a demigod is a massive win in itself. This trip was more than worth it," said Bidalun, commander of the First Army. The swine would go a long way toward solving the Conquest Legion’s supply problems.

"My lord," Scourge Warden Eparus spoke up, his voice heavy with memory. "I urge you to select a site for our own fortress and begin construction immediately.

A long time ago, I had the misfortune of fighting the Unhallowed. I was only a lower lord then... I couldn’t even withstand the pressure of its aura. It took more than a dozen archlords to finally kill a single peak-level Unhallowed."

A deep, instinctual dread settled over him. As Scourge Wardens, they were children of the Abyss, born with fragmented, ancestral memories of the Unhallowed.

In truth, the very existence of the Scourge Wardens and the Doomguard was the Abyss’s own immune response to the Graying. On the higher planes, they were the front-line troops in the war against that cosmic horror. But Eparus’s rank was too low; most of his inherited memories remained locked away.

"What exactly are they?" Orion asked.

Eparus shook his head. "My lord, they have no fixed form. Every one is different, a unique monstrosity. And they don’t have power tiers like we do. The moment they manifest, they are at the absolute peak of their rank. The archlord I saw... its power was that of a peak archlord."

That information made Orion’s brow tighten. No tiers, just straight to peak? Does that mean a demigod-level Unhallowed would manifest as a sixth-stage demigod?

The thought alone made his skin crawl. A sixth-stage demigod was practically a true god. Like Thresh, the commander of the Champions Alliance.

Orion suspected he was at that level. He’d never seen the commander fail, never seen him truly tested. Every move was just a blur, a single flash of a blade, and it was over.

"What about the demigod-level ones?"

"I do not know, my lord," Eparus admitted.

Orion sighed. He was grasping at straws, asking a legendary-peak warrior about the matters of gods.

"Assemble the armies. In three days, I will tear open the planar barrier. We descend to the sixth plane," Orion commanded, his voice ringing with authority. "When we get there, we will fight, whether our enemy is an archlord or a demigod. We will carve out our territory and we will build our fortress."

The finality in his tone was clear. A great battle was imminent, and this time, there would be no avoiding it.

"My lord," Bidalun interjected carefully, "if we encounter a demigod-led faction, and you are occupied by their leader, the Conquest Legion lacks the means to counter their other high-level threats. We could face... certain difficulties."

Even with Eparus, Holrivus, and Thronlis, who could hold their own against a lower archlord, they would be overwhelmed by an upper or peak-level opponent. If Orion couldn’t intervene, Bidalun feared their forces would be annihilated.

Orion gave him an approving nod. Bidalun’s rational, strategic thinking proved he was the right choice for commander. "I have already considered this. Once we reach the sixth plane, I will summon another of my avatars. Taking our place there is non-negotiable. Not even a demigod will stand in our way."

His voice was iron. The palpable relief in the tent from Bidalun, Ashreign, and Eparus was immediate. They did not fear a desperate fight. They only feared a hopeless one.

***

In an unknown realm, within a black tower belonging to the Cult of Four, a teleportation circle flared to life.

A succubus with coiled goat horns stepped out—a true abyssal succubus, of a purer bloodline than even Delilah or Lilith. But this was merely a vessel. The soul inhabiting the body was the traitor, the Witch.

She scanned the tower and moved with practiced familiarity toward a vast, cathedral-like hall. At the far end stood four towering statues of the gods. In the center of the chamber, the Clown stood with his eyes closed, murmuring prayers like a priest at morning mass.

"Praying is useless. The four have no forgiveness for sinners and traitors," the Witch’s cold voice cut through the silence. She walked to a circular table and poured herself a drink.

"I am a traitor, I admit," the Clown’s dry voice rasped, filled with a strange, unreadable quality. "But not to them. As for being a sinner... we’re all sinners. Everyone who draws breath is born in sin."

The abnormal tone in his voice didn’t escape the Witch, but she didn’t care enough to ask what game he was playing. "So you offer them your devotion, hoping they’ll pardon you?" she asked, taking an indifferent sip.

"I open my heart and pray for their salvation. My only fear is that they won’t bother to come."

They spoke with shocking blasphemy, right here in the shadow of the four gods. But outside the immediate vicinity of the statues, the Clown had woven a screen, a pocket of silence that blinded their stone eyes.

After a moment, the Clown broke the silence. "The commander has made his move."

"Another single slash, I assume? As powerful as ever." It was the result both of them had expected, but that unwavering, absolute power only deepened the dread in their hearts. No one wanted to be on the radar of such an invincible being.

"I don’t need you to tell me how strong the commander is," the Witch said sharply. "What I want to know is, after losing two Archbishops in a single joint operation, do they still have any intention of invading Silverwood Realm? Or has their nerve finally broken?"

She set down her goblet and reached up, her fingers tracing the curve of her goat horn as if caressing a lover.