The sky dimmed as the projection snapped shut with a crackle of distorted magic.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then the screaming started again.
The hesitation barely a second long was all the terracotta warriors needed.
With enchanted stone limbs and blades fused into their arms, they surged like a tide of death. Their once-statuesque forms moved with impossible precision, striking at pressure points, joints, wings. Angelic shrieks and demonic snarls filled the air as the golems crashed into the stalled frontline, showing no mercy, no emotion—only commands burned into them by Morpheus himself.
Human wizards flanked them in tight units, launching curses over the terracotta shoulders and shielding the warriors with walls of hex and ward. Purple lightning rippled across the field, followed by firebombs and freezing gales. The collaboration was perfect: stone soaked the hits, humans delivered the blows.
Dozens of angels fell from the sky, wings shredded.
Demons were ripped apart mid-lunge, their bodies tossed aside like rotting meat.
Zelus roared.
His golden armor cracked as his divine fury surged outward. Magic exploded from his frame like a sunburst, flinging back attackers with brute force. His spear reformed in his hand as he shouted above the fray, "NO MORE DELAYS! FORWARD! FORWARD!"
He stepped forward and the ground beneath him glowed.
He was too late.
Kazuki stood on a nearby ridge, hands pressed flat to the soil, eyes narrowed in focus. The old wizard had waited for this moment, calculating every angle.
A soft click echoed through the dirt then the ward activated.
The anti-magic ward surged to life, invisible until it wasn't: a sphere of pale distortion shimmered into view, locking around Zelus like a dome. His aura fizzled instantly. The magic light encompassing him like divine power sputtered, sputtered then died.
The god staggered, wide-eyed. "What—"
Kazuki didn't let him finish.
Outside the ward, the master transfigurationist drew both arms up and the world responded. Shards of broken stone rose like a school of fish, each whittled midair into spinning razors, glinting with deadly intent.
Kazuki flung his arms forward.
The blades screamed as they shot toward Zelus.
The god dodged left, ducked under, twisted right but not fast enough. One of the conjured blades, forged from obsidian sliced clean through his left arm at the bicep.
Zelus howled as the limb fell to the ground, trailing golden ichor.
"RETREAT!" bellowed one of the surviving captains, their voice cracking with disbelief. "ALL FORCES, RETREAT!"
Horn calls blared across the bloodstained ridges. Wings snapped open, portals ripped into being, and shadows fled the shrine one by one.
And then haunting, cruel, and unmistakably calm came the laughter.
It echoed from the western wall of the shrine. There, high above the carnage, stood Morpheus, wand lazily resting across his shoulders, the hem of his robes fluttering in the storm wind.
"You flee so quickly," he called, voice amplified just enough to reach every corner of the field. "No glorious last stand? No divine vengeance?"
His eyes glinted like daggers. "Go back to your masters like the dogs you are."
His tone was mocking, but cold. There was no rage in him only precision, and the satisfaction of a trap fully sprung.
Below, the wounded god clutched his bleeding shoulder. His jaw clenched as he locked eyes with the distant figure. No response. Just retreat.
And so they did.
As the enemy vanished into the sky and shadows, the defenders of the shrine stood breathing heavy in the silence. The terracotta warriors froze in place, awaiting their next command. The fires hissed in the rain.
And on the wall, Morpheus watched them go.
***
Smoke curled upward from shattered mountaintops and the scorched edges of the portal gates. Somewhere far from the battlefield, in the fractured sky above a desolate plateau of black stone and red clouds, a cavernous war room had formed a swirling rift conjured by both Hell and Heaven, their generals locked in temporary, fragile alliance.
Malgareth, the demon general, paced in jagged steps, hooves cracking molten fissures into the rock. His leathery wings were partially unfurled, tail lashing the air with fury. "Fools!" he spat, his voice an infernal growl that made even the flames themselves recoil. "We handed them an opening! The shrine was fractured. Their lines were collapsing! And you let that wand-wielding corpse steal it all back with a speech?!"
Seraphion, angelic general and winged commander of the Radiant Host, stood at the opposite side of the chamber, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Her halo pulsed erratically, dimming and flaring in turn. "Do not presume this is on me, Malgareth. The moment we trusted the squib strategy your half-blood devils' idea, no doubt was the moment we poisoned the assault."
Malgareth bared his fangs, eyes glowing like coals. "Careful how you speak."
"Or what?" she snapped, her wings flaring wide. "You'll lose us another battle?"
They were about to collide—magic flaring, blades half-drawn—when the dimensional gate behind them hissed and burst open.
Zelus stormed through it.
The god's entire left side was soaked in celestial ichor, his golden breastplate half-shattered. A bloodstained wrap had been hastily tied around his shoulder, where his arm used to be. The cloth was already soaked through.
"Idiots!" he roared, stalking into the war room like a descending meteor. "Arrogant, blind, bickering idiots!"
Malgareth turned, lips curling into a dark smile. "Ah, the one-armed arrival graces us."
"Say it again," Zelus growled, stepping dangerously close. "And I will rip your tongue from your skull."
Seraphion looked him over with narrowed eyes. "They took your arm?"
"They took my moment," he snarled. "That worm Kazuki used a null-field ward, sapped my power like I was nothing. Then he transfigured the damned ground into a thousand blades and—"
He gestured furiously to the stump. "Do you know how long it takes a god to regrow a limb properly? Days. Weeks if it's not immediately cauterized with high-fire. Do you know how undignified it is to walk into war missing a bloody arm?"
Malgareth barked out a harsh laugh. "What, can't conjure a phantom limb like the rest of us mortals?"
Zelus didn't rise to the bait this time. His rage had already curdled into something worse: humiliation. He stalked past both generals and slammed his remaining fist into the central war table, cracking the obsidian surface. "They were ready. This was meant to be a surgical strike swift, overwhelming, unrelenting. And yet we gave them time to regroup."
Seraphion's voice was cold now. "Because someone underestimated Morpheus."
Zelus spat. "Because someone relied on squibs. That entire offensive plan was held together with human glue. Mortals! Non-magical ones! What were you thinking?!"
The three stood in silence, each steaming in their own fury.
Finally, Malgareth spoke, his voice quieter now, but darker. "They burned the squibs."
Seraphion's eyes flicked toward him. "We saw."
Zelus scoffed. "A mercy. Morpheus knew we turned them into spies, and saboteurs And you two expected them to take down the anchor?"
Malgareth sneered. "He mocked us for it. How did he know."
Zelus's good hand clenched, and the floor beneath him cracked. "He'll pay."