March of The Dead (MotD)

Deep beneath the earth, where the very concept of light seemed forbidden, where the air was so thick with Mana one could feel it pressing down on them, a single man stood in the large disk-shaped room.

With each deep breath he took, Mana responded, flowing into him with each inhale, and blowing away with each exhale.

In just two short years, Alaster had explored the world more than any Human or Argalon. He had uncovered historys so ancient that it rivaled that of the world itself. Discovered places that had been pivotal in the world of the present. Fought the very same Monsters the great Ancestors fought.

In that time, unburdened by emotional connection, Alaster fostered powers he had been neglecting. Powers that he had ignored to retain his Humanity.

Powers that could have saved her.

He would not make the same mistake. Now, he grabbed any power he could, absorbing it into himself or adding it to his collection. Those who fought back were made an example of.

In this manner, the entire Deep Dark now fought under his banner of a single thorny rose on a black background.

It had been her favorite flower.

Now, none would forget.

Now, it's presence instilled fear upon Demon and Human alike.

From this circular room, Alaster breathed in the very essence of the world, feeding the seed that had taken root in his soul when he ripped out that Demigod's heart.

The seed of Divinity.

From this circular room, his legions swept over the Deep, cleansing it of the rot, positioning themselves where he commanded.

From this circular room, he watched the war unfold. The lives it took, he used. The devastation it spread, he nourished. The horror it created, he inhaled.

This room had once been where the Ancient Sages of the Argalon People had ushered the Titans to sleep, cursing them into a coma. Alaster had no intention of undoing the curse, but the Titans had something that surpassed the Gods, making the Heavens fear the Earth.

Something that rivaled that of creation itself.

And in their slumber, it oozed off them like smoke. Here in this chamber that had condemned them to their eternal rest, the smoke gathered.

That is why Alaster stayed here, in this bland circular room of smooth, undecorated, ordinary stone.

Each hour he spent amid the Essence of the Primordial, the more it tore at his flesh and soul to tear out the Divine Seed buried deep within, the more it welcomed him into its midst.

Soaking into him.

Changing him on a fundamental level that surpassed that of birth or soul.

And in doing so, it changed the Seed.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

Absorbing both Divine and Primordial Energies, it mutated, and Alaster watched closely. Watched as it changed within his soul, from a white seed with swirling marks, to a grey orb with sharp outgrowths of black root and white point.

He felt the Seed rebel, tearing at his soul, ripping it apart piece by piece. Only for his soul to absorb the souls of the plentiful dead around his Minions and repair itself just as fast as it was torn away.

Pain that would have lobotomized an ordinary man racked his mind, ignoring the pain resistances of his numerous Abilities, yet Alaster ignored it, having felt such pain before, only much deeper, much sharper.

Taking one final breath, the earth quaked. The surfaces of the room cracked, spiderwebbing from the center of the room. Where Alaster stood.

It had sprouted.

A single black vine with a single white leaf edged in bloody red. So fragile looking, yet fused within, the power of both Heaven and Hell.

Alaster breathed out, "It begins."

* * * * *

It was felt before it was seen.

One moment the world was as it always was. The wind was gently blowing. The birds chirped as they flew through the sky. The deer gracefully pranced around chewing grass and leaves as they went.

The next, it was as if time froze. As if a blanket of iron was placed on the world, bearing down and crushing all beneath it. Countless creatures perished in that moment, their souls incapable of withstanding the pressure. The rest felt as if their chests were being crushed, as if all the air had vanished.

It was felt around the world. Battles froze, spells sizzled away, arrows dropped from the sky, weapons clattered to the ground.

The Northern Prince looked to the sky, expecting some mighty being to descend from the Heavens. He was looking in the wrong direction.

The Lissurian King and Duke Redmond froze in their meeting room, a map with figures between them. Their bodies refused to listen to them. Their souls quivered. They felt as if a thousands pairs of eyes were locked on them with bloodlust.

Far from the battlefields, the people of Galmore felt the pressure, felt its malice and horror, yet only two people recognized it for what it was.

It lasted for less than a minute, yet effected the world. But before anyone had time to contemplate what had happened, or resume what they were doing, the earth beneath their feet moved. Shaking with such force that entire battlefields lost their footing.

The Northern Prince watched as a hill imploded, revealing a dark hole in the ground. A portal from hell he thought. And from this portal, marched row upon row of knights clad in black armor, their eyes glowed necrotic green, their capes bloody red.

Distant from him, yet right next to the edge of the battlefield. The Knights were upon them before they could react, cutting apart Humans and Demons alike as if they were butchers.

They cared not for what flag they flew, what color they bled, nor whether they fought or fled. Like wraiths of shadow, weapons and spells missed them as if it was intentional. Each fall of their blades caused blood to rise.

Yet they were only the vanguard, thousands of Knights marched from the gapping maw of earth, and thousands more of Ghouls poured after, crashing into what the Knights left behind, tearing them limb from limb and consuming what they could, whether it lived or not.

The Prince ordered a withdraw, yet it was not just the Humans that obeyed. The Demons fled just as quickly as the Humans. Those too slow, too clumsy, or too unlucky soon joined the dead.

Far to the East, at the same time, another tunnel opened up, and spewed forth an army of the dead. They tore through the ranks of the Demons preparing to attack the three Kingdom Alliance.

Thinking they were allies, the Humans cheered for the defeat of the Demons, but the Dead only turned their attention to them. They cut and ripped as the Humans tried to flee. The Lissurian King and his cousin were caught unaware and while they succeeded in fleeing, it was at the cost of nearly a dozen of their Master Tiered bodyguards.

The Demons sieging the fortresses of the Taurains were surprised when Skeletons seemingly appeared from among their own ranks. Weak and pathetic, yet given enough numbers and even ants could kill a man. The Necromancers were moving, no longer hiding or being passive.

Below the surface, where the true war was being fought, the forces of the Deep retaliated, pushing back against the Demons that had invaded their territory.

Blood flowed in rivers. Mountains of bodies grew. Fields of grass were reduced to a forest of discarded weapons driven into the ground. Forests leveled and burning. Mountains cratered. Hills flattened.

The age of Ash had begun.