The Western Region burned under ash-choked skies. Poison radiated in waves, swirling green across shattered plains. Skeletal Frost Towers, still obstructed and incomplete, groaned under strain, their scaffolds bending from every impact. Death Towers pulsed furiously, arcs of crimson energy slicing through the toxic haze, barely keeping the defenders' fragile lattice intact.
Then, all ten lords acted together. Without warning, they unleashed their full power, a coordinated storm of devastation designed to annihilate the Western Region's defenses. Arcane hurricanes, poisoned tempests, and seismic strikes slammed into walls and barrier formations.
> Lord of the Tang Sect (cold, commanding):
"Now! Destroy their barriers! Fracture their walls and leave nothing standing!"
The effects were cataclysmic. Barrier nodes exploded, fissures running along every defensive line. Walls splintered, lattice conduits screamed, and obstructed Frost Towers shuddered violently, struggling to channel Death Tower energy through damaged structures. Scaffolds cracked, beams collapsed, and arcs of energy collided with waves of poison in a blinding storm of chaos.
Repair golems surged into action, but the destruction was relentless. Rune engineers wove regeneration runes into fractured conduits, desperately stabilizing crumbling lattice threads. Medics dashed through toxic clouds, administering antidotes and energy-restoring elixirs to exhausted cultivators.
> Engineer Lyren (shouting over the roar):
"The barriers are shattered! Frost Towers can't take another strike like this!"
Corpses piled high as banshees screamed through the smoke, and undead tree beings pressed forward in unrelenting waves. Ash and toxic fumes blocked what little light remained, painting the battlefield in eerie green and crimson hues.
Even amid chaos, the defenders moved with grim precision. Death Towers fired layered volleys, arcs of energy cutting through poison clouds, while obstructed Frost Towers strained against their incomplete construction, reinforced with every pulse of arcane energy. Repair golems, engineers, and medics worked at speeds that would normally take months compressed into hours, patching lattice nodes, reinforcing beams, and stabilizing critical conduits.
> Rune Master Faelin (voice strained, adjusting a regeneration rune):
"If the walls collapse completely, the lattice unravels… we hold what we can!"
The battlefield was apocalyptic: walls fractured, barrier nodes destroyed, Frost Towers groaning under obstruction, poison waves rolling across ash-choked plains, and mountains of corpses blotting out the dim light. Yet the defenders endured. Every conduit, every rune, every repair pulse became a lifeline in a storm of destruction.
The ten lords paused, surveying the devastation. The Western Region had been broken, but not conquered. The next wave could shatter the line entirely—unless the defenders could endure with every ounce of will, energy, and precision left.
The night was alive with fire, poison, and death. The battle had entered its most desperate hour.
The Western Region trembled under a storm of ash and poison. Green-hued radiation twisted through the air, coating shattered plains in a sickly glow. Barrier formations quivered under constant bombardment, conduits screamed under strain, and Death Towers pulsed furiously, arcs of crimson energy slicing through the haze, barely keeping the defenders' fragile lattice intact.
Then, the ten lords acted in unison, unleashing their full power. Waves of arcane devastation, poisonous tempests, and seismic strikes crashed into walls and barrier formations, each impact magnified by coordinated precision.
> Lord of the Tang Sect (cold, commanding):
"Now! Break their barriers! Fracture their walls and leave nothing standing!"
The effects were catastrophic. Barrier nodes exploded, fissures ran along every defensive line. Walls splintered under crushing force, conduits screamed, and arcs of Death Tower energy collided violently with poison waves. Support structures groaned, beams collapsed, and every lattice pulse was stretched to its maximum capacity.
Repair golems surged into action, working frantically alongside rune engineers. Conduits were reforged, regeneration runes weaved into fractured nodes, and lattice threads were reinforced as best as possible under near-overload conditions. Medics and alchemists dashed among poisoned cultivators, distributing antidotes and energy-restoring elixirs, keeping the exhausted defenders alive.
> Engineer Lyren (yelling over the roar):
"The barriers are shattered! The walls can't take another strike like this!"
Corpses of hundreds of thousands piled into mountains, ash swirling around them, while banshees and undead tree beings surged forward relentlessly. The air shimmered with waves of poison radiation, reflecting the crimson arcs of Death Towers.
Despite the chaos, the defenders moved with grim precision. Every conduit, every pulse, every repair was executed at maximum output, compressing weeks of work into hours. The lattice strained under the pressure, yet every repair and energy adjustment was a lifeline against total collapse.
> Rune Master Faelin (panting, adjusting a regeneration conduit):
"If the walls break completely, the lattice will unravel… hold what we can!"
The shattered walls smoked, barrier nodes flickering weakly under the strain of collapsed conduits. The air was thick with poison, ash, and the acrid tang of burning siege matter, yet the ten lords pressed forward without hesitation. Each step of their coordinated advance sent tremors through the plains, crushing barricades and sending shockwaves along partially repaired lattice lines.
> Lord of the Tang Sect (voice slicing through the chaos):
"Forward! Leave nothing intact! Every lattice, every wall—break them all!"
Banshees screamed in coordinated waves, their spectral forms weaving through poison clouds. Undead tree beings uprooted themselves and surged ahead, smashing the remnants of fortifications with every swing of gnarled branches. Siege engines, fueled by the lords' command, launched massive projectiles that tore through any remaining barricades.
The defenders moved like shadows across the fractured battlefield. Repair golems scuttled between broken conduits, weaving regeneration runes into weakened nodes. Medics and alchemists dashed along shattered walls, distributing antidotes to cultivators staggering under poison exposure. But the advance of the lords was unrelenting.
> Engineer Lyren (shouting, panic edging his voice):
"They're pushing deeper! Our repaired nodes can't hold this pressure! Conduits are overloading!"
> Rune Master Faelin (grim, adjusting a pulse regulator):
"Then we buy time—every pulse counts. Stabilize what we can. We cannot let them reach the central lattice!"
The ten lords moved with terrifying synchronicity. One unleashed a wave of seismic energy, shattering the ground beneath a critical conduit line. Another commanded a storm of poisoned spectral arrows, turning the battlefield into a green-hued maelstrom of death. Every impact shook walls, twisted beams, and battered repair points that had been barely stabilized during the temporary ceasefire.
Despite exhaustion, the defenders worked at maximum efficiency, channeling Death Tower energy into arcs that cut through swarming banshees and poisoned air. Every pulse reinforced fragile barrier nodes, slowed the lords' advance, and kept the lattice intact just long enough to prevent total collapse.
> Lieutenant Kaelven (yelling over the roar of war):
"Hold the lines! Every conduit, every node, every pulse—stop their advance, no matter what!"
The battlefield had become a living nightmare: ash-choked skies, mountains of corpses, waves of poison, and the coordinated terror of all ten lords pressing forward relentlessly. Yet the defenders endured. Every repair, every regeneration rune, every surge of Death Tower energy was a lifeline, a fleeting resistance against unstoppable momentum.
The ten lords advanced inexorably, eyes glinting with the promise of destruction. The Western Region trembled under their might, and the defenders knew that one misstep could unravel the fragile balance holding the shattered lattice together.
The night was alive with green-hued poison, crimson arcs of energy, and the relentless advance of death incarnate.
The Western Region was a vision of apocalyptic chaos. Ash swirled in thick clouds, and poison radiation painted the battlefield in sickly green. Corpses of thousands smoldered, barricades lay in splinters, and conduit nodes flickered under maximum strain. Yet the ten lords pressed forward, undeterred by the searing poison or the injuries their own assault had inflicted.
Green-tinged wounds ran along their forms, burns from backlash, and spectral cuts from shrapnel. Poison radiated in waves, yet they moved with synchronized precision, advancing like a living storm of devastation.
> Lord of the Obsidian Sect (voice unwavering, commanding):
"Do not falter! Injuries are irrelevant. Every step is closer to breaking their line!"
Banshees screamed in unison, weaving through clouds of poison, their spectral forms undimmed by the radiation. Undead tree beings surged, limbs splintering against barricades yet pushing relentlessly forward. Siege engines fired in synchronized volleys, their destructive arcs tearing walls and barrier nodes apart as if mocking the defenders' repairs.
Repair golems and rune engineers scrambled to keep conduits stable, weaving regeneration runes into battered lattice threads. Medics administered antidotes and energy-restoring elixirs, yet the poison continued to claim its toll on the exhausted cultivators. Every node stabilized was a temporary reprieve, every pulse of Death Tower energy a fragile lifeline.
> Engineer Lyren (yelling over the roar, voice raw):
"Even at maximum output, conduits can't hold much longer! They're relentless—nothing stops them!"
> Rune Master Faelin (grim, recalibrating a failing node):
"Then we endure. Every pulse, every repair, every surge counts. The lords may bleed, but they will not retreat."
The ten lords advanced with terrifying inevitability. Poison licked at their forms, but each injury only sharpened their focus. Arcane energy, bloodied and raw, crackled around them. Every strike, every command, every motion further fractured walls, shattered barrier nodes, and sent conduits screaming under overload.
The battlefield had become a maelstrom of death and poison, ash-choked and crimson-lit by Death Tower energy. Mountains of corpses blotted out the dim sky, yet still, the lords moved forward, ignoring wounds that would fell lesser cultivators.
> Lieutenant Kaelven (shouting, fists clenched):
"Every node must hold! Every pulse must reinforce the lattice! Do not let them breach the central formation!"
The Western Region trembled, but the defenders endured. Conduits glowed with maximum energy, repair golems moved frantically, and regeneration runes flared under repeated strain. Even as the ten lords pressed on, unstoppable in their advance, the lattice held—fragile, strained, but alive.
The night seethed with poison, fire, and relentless movement. Injured yet unstoppable, the ten lords continued their march, a tide of devastation that would not relent until the Western Region was either shattered or the defenders found a way to hold them at bay
The air was thick with ash, poison, and the electric pulse of overloaded conduits. Every wall, every barrier node, every lattice thread trembled as the ten lords advanced, their injuries bleeding green-hued poison, yet their momentum unbroken.
> Commanding Elder (shouting):
"Hold your ground! Brace for impact!"
The first wave hit like a living storm. Banshees screamed through the gaps, striking at cultivators and repair golems alike. Undead tree beings smashed barricades, sending splinters flying. Siege engines, guided by the lords' precise commands, launched heavy projectiles that struck barrier nodes in synchronized volleys.
Defenders responded with a fury of Death Tower energy, arcs of crimson fire meeting spectral waves, cutting down swarming banshees in explosions of green and red. Repair golems darted between damaged conduits, weaving regeneration runes while rune engineers reinforced barrier nodes with arcane precision.
The ten lords reached the line. Their steps fractured the ground, their strikes splintered walls, and their attacks pushed through weakened lattice nodes.
> Lieutenant Kaelven (yelling, blade in hand):
"Engage! Protect the conduits! Every pulse counts!"
Blades clashed, axes tore through armored golems, and arcane glyphs flared as cultivators met the lords head-on. Poison smoke swirled around each strike, searing exposed flesh and staining the battlefield green. Corpses continued to mount, yet every defender fought with desperate precision, holding formation wherever possible.
> Rune Master Faelin (voice strained, weaving runes mid-combat):
"Stabilize nodes! Push regeneration pulses! Do not let a single lord breach the central conduit!"
The battle became a maelstrom of motion. The ten lords struck in coordinated waves, one fracturing the left flank, another smashing the center, while others focused on right-side nodes and conduits. Every strike caused arcs of energy to overload, conduits groaning under the strain. Repair golems worked tirelessly, often throwing themselves between collapsing lattice points and advancing lords, buying crucial seconds for human cultivators.
> Engineer Lyren (panting, shouting over the chaos):
"The central formation is at maximum strain! Barrier pulses are flickering—hold as long as you can!"
Even in the midst of poison radiation, the defenders' discipline and coordination allowed them to hold, inch by inch. Arcane wards, elixirs, regeneration runes, and Death Tower volleys combined in a desperate ballet of survival against the unstoppable advance of the ten lords.
The Western Region was now a crucible: walls fractured, conduits overloading, corpses piling into mountains, and the battlefield a haze of green poison and crimson energy. Every second of delay mattered; every pulse of lattice energy bought time.
And yet, the ten lords continued forward, unstoppable and unwavering, striking with the precision of masters, determined to shatter the defenders' fragile line entirely.
The siege weapons had torn through 400 meters of walls, pulverizing barricades and cracking barrier nodes under a storm of fire and arcane projectiles. Ash and poison radiation hung thick over the battlefield, but the ten lords did not falter. In a single, terrifying surge, they advanced 200 meters, stepping over debris and shattered defenses as if the devastation around them were nothing.
Repair golems darted across fractured conduits, weaving regeneration runes into lattice threads strained to their limit. Medics and alchemists moved between cultivators, distributing antidotes and elixirs as the green-tinged poison licked at their bodies. Every pulse of Death Tower energy was pushed to its maximum to slow the oncoming tide, but the lords' advance left little room for pause.
> Commanding Elder (shouting over the roar of the battlefield):
"Hold! Brace for close combat! Every node, every conduit, every cultivator must stand!"
Banshees screamed through the ash-choked skies, and undead tree beings smashed through debris, yet the defenders pressed themselves into the shattered lines. Conduits glowed furiously under overdrive, regeneration runes flared, and lattice threads groaned under the strain.
The ten lords moved like living storms, injuries and poison radiation ignored, cutting a path of devastation through the Western Region. Walls fractured further, barrier nodes flickered and overloaded, and the battlefield became a maelstrom of ash, poison, fire, and unyielding advance.
Every inch the lords claimed was met with desperate resistance, every conduit pulse and repair attempt a lifeline. Yet despite the chaos, the ten lords continued forward, unstoppable, closing the remaining distance to the defenders' core positions with terrifying precision.
The battlefield trembled as Khaldron's command echoed across the Western Region. Without hesitation, the order was given: activate the supernova of the Death Tower, regardless of whether the structure itself survived the backlash.
Every remaining conduit surged with energy, arcs of crimson and silver firing in wild, brilliant flashes as the Death Tower unleashed its destructive pulse. Even at only 10% of total Death Star energy, the force disintegrated everything in its radius—walls, barricades, siege engines, swarming banshees, and the undead tree beings—leaving only ash and smoldering ruins in its wake.
Khaldron moved with calm precision, weaving the Bend of Reality from the unveiled world around the defenders. The lattice itself shimmered and folded, bending perception and physicality to shield every cultivator, golem, and medic from the catastrophic blast. Poison radiation and shards of debris bounced harmlessly off the protective distortion as the pulse radiated outward.
> Engineer Lyren (panting, awestruck):
"The entire formation… it's gone… yet no one was harmed!"
Barrier nodes and conduits strained under the aftermath, sparks leaping from overcharged nodes, yet the lattice held. Repair golems surged immediately to stabilize the remaining conduits, weaving regeneration runes into the fractured nodes. Medics moved through the stunned lines, checking for survivors, while the poisonous haze still clung to the battlefield, now mingled with the acrid smoke of obliterated siege engines.
The ten lords had been thrown back, some staggering from the pulse, others reeling as their attacks were disintegrated before reaching the inner lines. For a moment, the Western Region was silent, the oppressive tide of assault halted by a single command and the overwhelming force of Death Tower energy paired with Khaldron's mastery of the unveiled world.
The battlefield quivered, still alive with residual energy, yet every defender was intact, the remnants of the shattered line now safe—if only briefly—from the relentless onslaught.
Amid the chaos of the Western Region, one Death Tower trembled beyond endurance. Its conduits screamed and lattice threads quivered violently, pushed past mortal comprehension by the unleashing of Death Star energy. Then, in a single, cataclysmic instant, the tower shattered.
A pure white explosion erupted, not with the fiery wrath of mundane destruction, but with a radiant, ethereal majesty. Light poured forth in torrents, cascading like liquid frost, illuminating the battlefield in a blinding, reverent glow. The air itself seemed to warp and sing, as if the world itself paused to behold the beauty of annihilation.
The walls surrounding the inner line trembled, ash and dust spiraling upwards, yet no defender was harmed. The white radiance seemed to fold space itself, swallowing the remnants of the collapsing tower, siege engines, and swarming banshees in a silken cocoon of disintegration.
> Rune Master Faelin (voice trembling, awe-struck):
"By the lattice… such beauty in destruction… a reverence born of death itself…"
The field of vision was bathed in alabaster light, arcs of energy dancing along fractured conduits, refracting through poison haze and ash to create patterns of celestial geometry. Even the advancing ten lords staggered, their forms caught in the brilliance, momentarily halted by the purity of devastation.
Repair golems and cultivators stared, frozen in the blinding reverie, as the lattice hummed in harmonious resonance with the fallen tower's remaining energies. Every pulse, every shimmer of the remaining Death Tower nodes, seemed to bow in silent homage to the annihilating beauty that had just unfolded.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield was transformed: a chaotic apocalypse rendered sublime, the destructive force so profound it became a vision to revere, a white cataclysm of gothic grandeur. And in that radiance, even the ten lords felt the weight of their own mortality as they advanced.
The pure light receded slowly, leaving behind smoldering silence, shattered nodes, and scorched earth—a testament to power and beauty intertwined, the Death Tower's final gift to the defenders and the lattice itself.
The blinding white radiance of the collapsed Death Tower washed over the battlefield like judgment incarnate. The ten lords, the apex of martial mastery, found themselves struck by a force beyond comprehension. Their legendary weapons shattered, mythical siege engines crumpled under the wave of Death Tower energy, and every barrier-disrupting device they carried was obliterated in an instant.
Poison, radiation, and prior injuries had weakened them, but the supernova and death pulse left them crippled. Limbs burned, flesh scorched, and conduits they attempted to manipulate overloaded and exploded. Even the most resilient among them staggered, caught in the reverent fury of pure white destruction.
> Lord of the Tang Sect (screaming in disbelief):
"Impossible… every formation… destroyed… we cannot endure!"
One by one, their defensive equipment and mythical tools failed, fracturing into twisted remnants that littered the battlefield. Siege engines once thought unbreakable now lay in smoking ruin, their operators either incinerated or flung across the cratered terrain.
The ten lords, bloodied, poisoned, and grievously injured, made the impossible choice: retreat. Broken, battered, and unable to continue their advance, they fled from the Western Region, leaving behind shattered remnants of power that had once seemed unstoppable.
The defenders, stunned by the spectacle, watched as the ten lords vanished beyond the horizon. Repair golems surged forward immediately, stabilizing conduits and reinforcing fractured barrier nodes, while medics and alchemists tended to cultivators, still reeling from the raw magnitude of the Death Tower's collapse.
> Rune Master Faelin (whispering, awe-struck):
"They… they actually fled… every weapon, every formation… annihilated before their eyes…"
The battlefield was a graveyard of mythical power: siege engines twisted and molten, weapons shattered, and the air still shimmered with lingering energy. The Western Region, though battered and scorched, had survived the unthinkable. The ten lords had come to claim dominion, yet they had fallen before the ultimate force of the Death Tower and Khaldron's unveiled world.
Silence settled briefly over the Western Region, the surviving defenders catching their breath, standing among the ruins, victorious yet wary, knowing that the battle's aftermath would demand vigilance for weeks, perhaps months, to come.