The stench of smoke, acid, and scorched earth strongly clung to everything.

For the past three hours of marching and fighting, the thousand-strong company had been carving a brutal path through the Reaper Forest's last stretch of hell. The trees had thinned. The sunlight had started breaking through in slivers. Birds, actual real ones, could even be heard somewhere in the distance.

But still, no one felt relief.

They were running on fumes, they are already exhausted.

Only two hours left to the forest's edge, at least that was what the fedora-wearing scout estimated after triple-checking their location, runes, and several cursed moss patches that may or may not be alive.

Two more hours.

That was all need to get out of this damn cursed forest.

And yet every step felt like dragging a broken cart through tar and mud.

Many ant bodies littered the trail. Chitin, ichor, and twitching limbs formed a grotesque breadcrumb trail behind them. Dozens of small skirmishes had broken out every fifteen minutes, just enough to keep them from fully regrouping, just enough to wear them down slowly.

"How many casualties?" Darin asked, voice low as he jogged alongside the Sorceress, his hammer dragging a heavy trail behind him.

"One hundred and sixty dead," she replied, not looking at him. Her eyes stayed forward. "Almost all lower-tier. We've lost a few Stage Ones, 8 Twos. Mostly because some ant warriors escaped the encirclement and got them"

"And the Stage Threes?"

"Exhausted. But alive." Content first released on M_VLEM_PYR.

Darin glanced around.

The Stage Threes were easy to spot now—bloodied, half-drenched in sweat, and surrounded by a respectful perimeter of cultists and mercs who knew better than to get in the way.

He looked at Vincent.

Vincent wasn't even laughing anymore.

Just stalking forward, two blades hanging at his sides, posture tight and head low. His armor had more acid burns than metal left.

Alvin wasn't even pretending to joke. He marched alongside Vincent with a permanent scowl and a string of curse words that may or may not have summoned something.

Even Steve—Which is always-energetic, and ever-curious, had stopped hopping around. The teen dragon simply walked beside Darin like a tired guard dog, eyes darting to every burrow and mound with silent readiness.

And Grumble?

Grumble rode on a dead ant like a throne, licking its eye socket. Probably resting since his total kill count on a thousand now.

Because of course, it's to be expected.

Darin sighed and looked up at the fractured canopy overhead.

"Two hours," he muttered. "We just need to hold for two more hours."

"Assuming they don't follow us out of this god damn forest," the Sorceress said, quiet.

Darin didn't reply. The thought had been gnawing at him for the last hour like a termite behind his eyes.

What if the ants weren't bound to the Reaper Forest?

What if this wasn't an isolated nest—but the beginning of an expansion?

A species that could overwhelm surface cities… counter elite casters… trade blows with high-tier aura knights…

"We have to make it out," Darin muttered.

"Not for us," the Sorceress agreed. "But to warn the world."

"Or its either we end it here, before they get a foothold and expand"

A low horn blew somewhere at the rear of the column.

Another burrow collapse.

More tunnels.

More ants.

It never ended.

Darin turned toward the scout who jogged up beside him, brow drenched with sweat beneath that eternally smug fedora.

"Another wave?"

"Light one," he said. "Scouts mostly. Trying to break the line."

"How's the formation holding?"

"Barely. If you've got a miracle my lord, now's the time."

Darin let out a sharp breath and looked ahead—toward the thinning trees, toward the sliver of sunlight that danced through the branches like salvation.

Just two more hours.

That's when it happened.

The mountain range to the south shuddered, just a tremor at first, like a breeze across the stone. Then came the sound.

A low, echoing chant. Loud. Unified.

Voices.

Thousands of voices.

Every head turned toward the south slope.

And there, emerging from a hidden pass carved into the stone, came the reinforcements.

At the front, arms wide, robes tattered from travel and glory in equal measure, the one and only—stood the Stranger.

The man who'd vanished days ago. The one who saw meaning in everything Darin said. The one who thought each of Darin's groans and complaints were divine riddles and some grand plans passed down through eldritch eons.

He now stood atop a floating disc of shadow and purple light, arms dramatically raised high as three thousand cultists poured down behind him like mad bulls.

All in full regalia.

Robes, banners, glowing eye-etched masks, enchanted weapons.

There were fanatics carrying holy relics shaped like Darin's face mid-sneeze. One had what suspiciously looked like Darin's broken boot from earlier, mounted like a sacred artifact. A marching chorus hummed, off-key and with alarming enthusiasm, the Ballad of the Grumbling Lord.

The entire cultist sect had arrived.

And with them, the Sect Master himself, clad in robes made from stitched reality, floating slightly off the ground, and a ring of many Elders that hummed with arcane pressure.

The Stranger pointed toward Darin, who blinked in pure disbelief.

"BEHOLD!" he screamed. "THE OVERLORD WALKS! THE CYCLE CONTINUES! THE PATH UNFOLDS EXACTLY AS HE DECREED!"

He turned to the cultists behind him, eyes wild with adoration and madness.

"WE SHALL NOT FALL, FOR HE IS WITH US!"

The cultists raised their weapons.

"FOR HE IS OUR TRUTH!"

"FOR HE IS OUR TRUTH!"

"FOR HE IS OUR TRUTH!"

The mountain echoed.

"FOR HE IS OUR WRATH!"

"FOR HE IS OUR WRATH!"

"FOR HE IS OUR WRATH!"

They surged down the slope like a tidal wave of fanatics, spells charging in their palms, blades glowing with ancient glyphs.

"FOR THE OVERLORD!"

Darin stood there. Soaked in sweat. Covered in grime. Face slack in exhaustion.

Then he let out a slow, exasperated sigh.

"Well… I guess that's one way to start a miracle."