The world had devolved into a maelstrom of chaos, a symphony of shattering bone, clanging steel, and the desperate, defiant war cries of the living. Kenjiro and DragonSlayer were a two-man army, a whirlwind of deadly grace and raw, destructive power cutting a swath through the unending tide of the skeletal horde. For every skeleton they shattered, two more seemed to rise from the black, volcanic rock to take its place. They were gaining ground, pushing relentlessly toward the two masked figures on the bluff, but it was like trying to empty the ocean with a bucket. They were making progress, but the sheer, overwhelming number of the enemy was a crushing weight, a promise of an inevitable, exhausted defeat.

"There's too many of them!" DragonSlayer roared, his sword a blur of silver as he decapitated three skeletons in a single, fluid motion. "We're not going to make it!"

Bombom didn't reply. His jaw was set, his red eyes burning with a cold, hard focus. He ducked under the clumsy swing of an armored skeleton, his foot lashing out to shatter its knee joint before he spun, his elbow connecting with its skull with a satisfying crunch. He could feel it, a strange, exhilarating energy flowing through him, a residual echo of the raw, untamed magic he had absorbed from the pyramid's cube. He was faster, stronger, his movements more precise than they had ever been. But DragonSlayer was right. It wasn't enough.

And then, just as a flicker of despair threatened to extinguish the fire in his belly, he heard it. A familiar, booming voice, a war cry that was equal parts ridiculous and utterly, magnificently heroic.

"LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEROOOOOOOOOOOY JENKINS!"

A figure, clad in the same black, scarred armor they had seen in HozyHoo, came charging past them, his massive, worn sword held high. He wasn't running so much as he was a force of nature, a one-man stampede that crashed into the skeletal front line with the force of a meteor. Skeletons were sent flying, their bones scattering like bowling pins, their formations shattered by the sheer, unmitigated chaos of his arrival.

Bombom looked back, and his breath caught in his throat.

It wasn't just Leroy.

From the direction of the allied army, a new wave of heroes was charging, a chaotic, disorganized, but utterly glorious vanguard of familiar faces. A massive bolt of lightning, so bright it momentarily outshone the gloomy, overcast sky, arced over their heads, striking a hulking bone golem and causing it to explode in a shower of electrified shrapnel.

"HEY BOMBOM!" a familiar, cheerful voice yelled. Taguro was running toward them, his hands crackling with raw, untamed electrical energy, his eyes literally zapping with power. He waved, a wide, manic grin on his face, before unleashing another torrent of lightning that tore through a fresh wave of skeletons.

From the sky, a series of brilliant, roaring fireballs descended, each one a miniature sun that incinerated dozens of skeletons at a time. Kaito was there, hovering in the air, his nine fluffy tails a vortex of pure, elemental flame, a foxy, dangerous smirk on his face as he rained down fiery destruction.

Jairson strode through the chaos with a calm, almost lazy confidence, a carton of orange juice in one hand, his two massive revolvers in the other. He didn't seem to aim, his movements a fluid, instinctual dance of death as he fired a relentless barrage of enchanted bullets, each one finding its mark with unerring accuracy.

Thick, thorny vines erupted from the black, barren rock, snaring entire legions of skeletons, their grasping tendrils crushing bone to dust. Flora stood at the heart of the living labyrinth she had created, her hands outstretched, a serene, focused expression on her face as she commanded the very earth to rise up and fight alongside them.

And then, Bombom saw the weirdest, most unexpected, and somehow most reassuring sight of all. A wiry old man with a long white beard was zipping through the battlefield, his movements a blur of pure, unadulterated kleptomania. It was 9fingers. He wasn't fighting, not really. He was stealing. He snatched a glowing, enchanted sword from a skeletal champion, a priceless, jewel-encrusted helmet from another, stuffing them into his seemingly infinite pockets as he whispered his familiar, nonsensical spell. "Can't let those freaks steal what's mine," he cackled, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face as he deftly dodged a retaliatory swing, his very presence an act of pure, chaotic defiance.

Beside him, another, even stranger figure appeared. A bald man in impossibly fancy, expensive clothes, a look of profound boredom on his face. He whispered a single, dry word: "Taxation." In an instant, the weapons of every skeleton in a ten-meter radius simply... vanished, leaving them standing there, disarmed and confused. Bombom's mind flashed back to the countless phone calls, to the partner 9fingers was always talking to. This had to be him.

The tide had turned. The arrival of his two chaotic, dysfunctional, but fiercely loyal parties had injected a new, wild energy into the battle. But the final, breathtaking piece of the puzzle fell into place when a soft, green light, as warm and gentle as the dawn, began to spread across the entire battlefield. Lyrielle stood at the heart of the allied army, her hands raised to the sky, her ancient, leather-bound tome floating open before her. From its pages, a torrent of pure, life-giving magic poured forth, coalescing above her into the spectral image of a massive, ancient tree, its branches spreading out to cover the entire army. It was the Yggdrasil. A shimmering, golden rain of healing energy began to fall, closing wounds, mending bones, and washing away the exhaustion and despair of the soldiers on the front lines.

Bombom and DragonSlayer, their spirits bolstered by the arrival of their friends and the sheer, overwhelming spectacle of the battle, renewed their charge, a fresh wave of determination fueling their every blow. They were close now, so close to the two masked figures on the bluff. But as they fought their way through the last of the elite, black-armored skeletons, a strange, unsettling feeling began to creep into Kenjiro's heart.

It started as a faint, rhythmic thrumming, a vibration that seemed to resonate not in his ears, but in the very marrow of his bones. His heart began to beat faster, its rhythm syncing with the strange, otherworldly pulse. The world around him, the chaotic, beautiful symphony of the battle, began to fade, replaced by a familiar, terrifying image. The dark, empty void. And in that void, the single, massive, all-seeing eye.

"H-hey Bombom, what's wrong?" DragonSlayer's voice was a distant, muffled sound, a voice from another world.

Kenjiro looked at him, his own face pale, his red eyes wide with a terror that was not of this world. "The eye..." he whispered, his voice a hoarse, strangled sound.

The thrumming grew louder, faster. The necromancer on the bluff was laughing, a high, triumphant sound that cut through the haze in Kenjiro's mind. He was channeling his power, his red-glowing eyes fixed on Bombom, the catalyst for some terrible, final ritual.

"Do you see that?" the necromancer's voice echoed, not in the air, but directly in Kenjiro's mind. "The thing inside you... it is our leader. And we are awakening him."

A surge of pure, protective rage, so fierce it momentarily cleared his own head, washed over DragonSlayer. "H-hey!" he roared, his voice cracking with a desperate, furious loyalty. "Don't you dare destroy my Bombom!"

The necromancer just laughed. "We are going to do more than that," his voice echoed. "BEHOLD!"

The world exploded in a wave of pure, agonizing power. Kenjiro's heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. He dropped to his knees, a scream tearing from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. A massive, raw, open wound ripped itself into existence on his back, not the two smaller wounds from his shadows, but a single, gaping, bleeding tear in the very fabric of his reality. And from that wound, it emerged.

The eye.

It was a grotesque, beautiful, and utterly terrifying thing, a sphere of shimmering, cosmic energy, its iris a swirling galaxy of dead stars, its pupil a black hole that threatened to consume all light, all hope. It twitched, it pulsed, and then it looked around, its gaze a physical, crushing weight that swept across the battlefield. And then, it looked up, its gaze fixed on the churning, magical sky. A brilliant, blood-red aura erupted from it, and from its sides, six magnificent, terrible wings, woven from the very fabric of shadow and starlight, unfurled. It opened, not a mouth, but a tear in its very center, and it screamed, a sound that was not a sound, but a language that was never meant for mortal ears.

"Un Mals Med Veh Un Ur Gon Mals Fam Graph 12 7 9."

The words, the concepts, the sheer, overwhelming wrongness of them, washed over the battlefield. And the world stopped. Every single person, every single skeleton, every single one of the millions of combatants, was frozen in place, trapped in a single, terrible moment of absolute, paralyzing fear. Even the two necromancers on the bluff were locked in place, their faces masks of ecstatic, horrified triumph. The world began to go black, the light draining away as if being sucked into the eye's abyssal pupil.

And then, a portal, a tear in the encroaching darkness, ripped itself into existence. And from it, 03 stepped out.

He let out a soft "tsk" of pure, unadulterated annoyance. He looked at the massive, winged eye that now dominated the sky, and with a lazy, almost bored motion, he summoned his shadow sword. He lunged, a blur of motion, and pierced the eye. But the blade passed right through it, causing no damage, only a faint, shimmering ripple in its cosmic form. The eye pulsed, and with a movement that was not a movement, a simple shift in reality, it was gone, teleported to some unknown corner of the universe.

But its presence, its awakening, had left a scar. As it vanished, the shadows on the battlefield, the long, dark shapes cast by the rocks and the bodies of the fallen, began to writhe and twist. They rose up, forming into sharp, spectral claws, into silent, screaming mouths, into terrible, mindless entities of pure, destructive hunger. And they began to kill.

Kenjiro couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't even close his eyes. He was forced to watch as the shadows, the very absence of light, descended upon his army, his friends, his world. They tore through the ranks of the living and the dead with an indiscriminate, silent fury. He could hear the screams, the gurgles, the sickening, wet sounds of bodies being torn asunder. A single, hot tear, a tiny, insignificant drop in an ocean of despair, traced a path down his cheek.

In the distance, he could see 03, a lone, dark figure fighting a hopeless battle against the endless tide of his own summoned darkness. He fought with a cold, desperate efficiency, his shadow sword a blur of motion, but for every shadow he dissipated, a dozen more rose up to take its place. He was gone, vanishing into another dark portal.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The shadows receded, melting back into the ground, leaving behind a scene of utter, absolute devastation. The paralysis broke. Bombom could move again. He looked around. The black, rocky shore was now red, slick with the blood of the fallen. Seventy percent of his army, his grand, hopeful crusade, was gone, their bodies broken and scattered across the battlefield.

He saw them then. Gluteus and DragonSlayer. They had been caught at the edge of the shadow's rampage. They lay in a heap, their bodies rent with deep, smoking wounds, a dark, corrupting energy sizzling in their torn flesh.

"D-don't worry," Bombom stammered, his voice cracking as he scrambled to their side. "Lyrielle will help you guys! Just resist!"

DragonSlayer looked up, a weak, bloody smile on his face. "Ehehe," he coughed, a spray of blood erupting from his lips. "It seems this might be my end. Go... get him, Bombom-" His eyes went dull, his head slumping to the side.

Gluteus let out a small, nervous laugh, a sound that was so utterly out of place it was heartbreaking. "D-don't worry, Bombom," he gasped, his massive form beginning to harden, his skin turning to a dull, gray stone. "We did all w-we could. N-now... it's y-your turn." His voice faded, his transformation completing, leaving only a perfect, tragic statue of a hero in his final moments.

Bombom stared, his mind a screaming vortex of pure, unadulterated grief. He threw his head back and screamed, a raw, primal sound of pure, soul-shattering despair. "LYRIELLE!"

She arrived a moment later, her face pale, her emerald eyes wide with a dawning, horrified understanding. She knelt beside the fallen heroes, her hands glowing with a desperate, frantic light. But it was no use. The light flickered and died.

"I-I'm sorry, B-bombom..." she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I... I can't heal the d-dead..."

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