[: 3rd POV :]

All of the sudden, Arcturus lifted both arms high above his head.

His voice, now reverberating with an unnatural echo, carried through the stone like a hymn of madness.

"O Great Apocalypse King…" he intoned, his head bowing low, his hands trembling with fervor.

"I, your loyal servant, offer unto you the finest harvest yet—hundreds of high rankers, brave and strong, led willingly by my hand into your holy slaughter!"

The words stabbed into the hearts of the mercenaries and guild members like icy blades.

Betrayal had already shattered them—but this was blasphemy, madness beyond measure.

Gasps and curses tore from the group.

"You led us here… just to kill us?!" the dwarf roared, his voice trembling with rage, though his legs shook beneath him.

"You damned traitor!" the silver-haired elf spat, her bowstring drawn though her hands quivered uncontrollably.

But Arcturus only laughed, a low, broken sound that crawled into their bones.

He pressed his hand against the altar, his forehead touching the cold, blood-soaked stone.

"Be glad," he whispered at first, then raised his head, eyes wide and gleaming with fanatic fire.

His voice thundered like a curse.

"Be glad that all of you will be sacrificed… for that itself is a mercy compared to what awaits this planet!"

His words struck them like the tolling of a death knell.

The mercenaries shouted in fear and fury, voices overlapping in chaos—

"Sacrifice?!"

"He's insane!"

"Stop him before it's too late!"

But before they could raise their weapons, a sound split the chamber.

*Crack… groooaaannn…*

The statues—those foreign, shifting forms that had once seemed lifeless—moved.

The first statue's head tilted downward, its eyes burning like molten coals as it stepped off its pedestal.

The sound of its movement was wrong, like metal screaming against stone.

Then another moved.

And another.

The chamber trembled beneath their weight.

"No… no, no, no!" a young mercenary screamed, stumbling backward, his sword shaking in his hand.

"They're alive—they're alive!"

"Formation!" the veteran barked, but his voice cracked, betraying the fear gnawing at him.

"Hold formation, gods damn it!"

The statues did not wait.

One lunged forward with an inhuman speed, its elongated arm swinging like a scythe.

A mercenary cried out as he was slammed against the wall, his bones broke under the sheer force, his scream silenced in an instant.

Blood splattered across the stone floor.

Panic erupted.

The elf loosed an arrow, but it shattered against the figure's chest, the shaft reduced to splinters as though it had struck a wall of iron.

"They don't fall!" she screamed.

"They don't even bleed!"

A mage unleashed a burst of fire, the flames roaring against one of the towering beings.

For a moment, the chamber lit with hope—until the creature simply walked through the inferno, unscathed, its faceless head tilting in mockery.

"What are these things?!" the mage shrieked, stumbling back as his staff shook in his grip.

Arcturus laughed louder, his voice rising above the chaos, echoing madly through the blood-soaked chamber.

"Witness!" he bellowed, arms stretched wide.

"Witness the harbingers of His return! Offer your lives! Offer your blood! Your screams will be the chorus that heralds His coming!"

Another mercenary swung his blade with a desperate roar, only to be caught mid-strike.

One of the beings gripped his weapon—and with a simple twist, snapped both sword and arm like brittle twigs.

His scream filled the chamber before being silenced as the creature crushed his arm in its grasp.

Terror spread like wildfire.

The survivors huddled close, panic burning in their eyes as they realized—this was no ordinary fight.

This was a slaughter.

And their betrayer, their Guild Master, stood at the altar with reverence in his eyes and madness in his laughter.

Chaos tore through the chamber.

Screams, steel clashing against stone, spells erupting like fireworks in desperation—yet nothing seemed to falter the advancing statues.

Every strike was swallowed, every effort mocked.

The mercenaries and guild members were moments away from breaking entirely.

Then, amid the screams, a voice cut through.

"We can't just stand still!"

Walter roared, his sword braced firmly against the ground, his voice shaking with fury but burning with resolve.

"We think about it later—but right now, we need to gain control!"

The second-in-command's voice struck like lightning in the storm.

Heads whipped toward him, the sound of desperation momentarily stilled.

Walter, blood dripping from a gash across his forehead, glared at the oncoming statues with fire in his eyes.

His hand trembled—but his stance was unyielding.

The others rallied to his call, clinging to his words as if they were the last rope over a bottomless abyss.

"He's right!" the elf snapped, drawing another arrow despite the tears brimming in her eyes.

"If we die here, there won't be a later!"

The dwarf spat blood onto the floor, hefting his axe once more.

"Then let's at least die on our feet! Better that than waitin' like lambs at the butcher!"

A mage steadied his staff, his knuckles white, forcing back the trembling in his hands.

"Form a line—support each other! Don't give them openings!"

They drew closer, shields raised, weapons steadying.

Their formation was messy, frayed by fear and grief—but still, it was a formation.

A wall against the tide.

The statues came.

One swung its elongated arm down like a hammer, the force shattering stone where Walter had stood a second earlier.

He rolled aside, his blade flashing with steel as he slashed across its leg.

Sparks erupted from the blow, but the creature did not fall. It didn't even slow.

"Damn it!" Walter snarled, his teeth grinding.

The dwarf roared and struck from the flank, his axe cleaving into the side of another statue's torso.

The impact rang like steel against an anvil, the vibration running up his arms.

The statue turned, faceless head tilting, and with a single backhand strike, sent the dwarf crashing into a wall.

He coughed blood, but pushed himself up with stubborn rage.

"They don't bleed…!" the elf shouted, loosing arrow after arrow.

Each shaft snapped uselessly against the statue's hide.

"They don't even feel pain!"

"They're not alive in the way we understand!" one of the mages cried, summoning a torrent of lightning that surged across a creature's frame.

The chamber filled with blinding light, the smell of ozone sharp in the air.

For a heartbeat, hope flared—until the statue walked through it, unhindered, its steps echoing like a war drum.

"No effect…?" the mage whispered, his voice hollow.

"They can be stopped!" Walter barked, though his voice cracked under the strain.

His blade slashed again, carving sparks from stone.

"I don't care what they are—nothing is invincible! Keep pressing!"

But deep down, all of them felt it.

The despair gnawed at their chests like a parasite.

Their strikes only slowed the creatures at best.

They could stagger one, trip another—but never destroy.

Each kill attempt only bought seconds, not salvation.

The statues pressed closer, each movement precise, methodical, merciless.

Arcturus' laughter filled the chamber, sharp and triumphant, echoing off the bloodstained walls.

"Fight all you want!" he cried, kneeling once more at the altar, arms stretched high in ecstasy.

"Struggle, resist—it changes nothing! You will still fall, one by one, until every drop of blood fills His cup!"

The mercenaries grit their teeth, fighting not only the unholy constructs but also the weight of betrayal and despair pressing on their souls.

"Hold the line!" Walter bellowed again, his sword clashing against stone.

"As long as we're breathing—we fight!"

Their resolve was steadying—but with every blow that failed to break stone, with every comrade struck down screaming, a single truth clawed at their hearts.

No matter how fiercely they resisted… these things could not be killed.

The chamber was on the brink of collapse.

Shouts, screams, steel clashing, spells bursting—all of it was chaos spiraling into despair.

The statues pressed on relentlessly, their movements otherworldly, as if guided by some unseen will beyond comprehension.

Then—

"All of you… stand back."

The words were not loud, not shouted.

They were cold, so cold that the very temperature of the chamber seemed to plummet the instant they echoed.

Every voice, every scream, every frantic cry was crushed under the sheer weight of that tone.

The mercenaries froze mid-swing.

The guild members, who had been gritting their teeth in desperation, lowered their weapons without realizing it.

Even the statues—inhuman, faceless, relentless—hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if that voice had reached into something deeper than their existence.

Silence devoured the room.

Their eyes shifted, searching for the source.

Fear mingled with confusion, their minds screaming 'who was it?'

Yet before any of them could speak, the same voice resonated again.

This time, it was colder.

More absolute.

It was not merely a voice, it was a decree, carrying the inevitability of ruin itself.

[: Indomitable Destruction: Decay of Nothingness :]

The moment Daniel's words unfurled, the chamber itself seemed to bow to them.

The air thickened until it pressed against their lungs, forcing shallow breaths.

The torches sputtered, their flames dying as if smothered by an unseen void.

The altar shook, the statues stilled mid-step, their carved red-stone eyes flickering as though afraid, after all, Daniel had finally made his move.

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