The clouds hung low that evening, fat with ash and smoke. The Lardom Dome—a gleaming relic of gold-veined marble and sapphire glass—rose like a dying sun behind the shattered skyline. Its stained windows still shimmered, but its base was ringed in barricades, dead horses, and beastman corpses stacked like firewood.
No retreat. No surrender. Not here.
That was the command passed down through the ranks of the demi-human army. Priests, fanatics, retired knights, even boys too young to fight had been handed spears and holy blades.
Because this was no ordinary palace.
This was the spiritual heart of their kingdom.
And the humans were coming.
From three sides, battalions of human riflemen, mortarmen, and cavalry closed in. General Wilhelm Drossen stood on a blown-out balcony of a courthouse tower, scanning the dome through binoculars.
"They'll fight to the last here," he muttered.
A young officer nodded beside him. "Religious zealots."
Wilhelm's lips barely moved. "Then let's break their gods."
At 1400 hours, the first 20mm mortars landed on the plaza before the Dome. One after another.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
A statue of a lion-kin prophet cracked in half. Stained-glass windows exploded outward in a rain of shimmering shards. Fire licked up the steps. The golden banners burned.
Yet no one ran.
Instead, from the fire and rubble, a line of shield-bearing warriors marched forward. Chanting. Unblinking. Ten feet between each man. Behind them, archers with glowing runes let loose volley after volley. Some arrows burned with blue flame. Others cracked midair with thunder. A squad of human riflemen went down screaming as a lightning-charged bolt split them open.
"They've got rune archers!" someone yelled.
"Keep moving! Advance under cover!"
Despite the magic, despite the bravery—the humans had ammunition.
They poured round after round into the advancing fanatics. Rifle lines adjusted. Mortar teams walked their fire up the stairs. Smoke drifted. Shells screamed. Chants turned to gurgles.
Then the final line of defenders—a group of monks with flaming swords—charged.
It was a glorious suicide.
And it lasted eleven seconds.
The Maschinenwerfer opened up from the rear, slicing them down mid-sprint. The plaza fell quiet. Flames crackled where holy oil had ignited. The marble steps ran slick with blood and crushed flowers.
The Dome's great obsidian doors stood unguarded. Blown open. Behind them: silence.
Wilhelm ordered eight squads inside. Six infantry. Two flamethrowers.
"Flush them out," he said. "No prayers will save them now."
They stepped into the sacred halls, rifles raised.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and blood.
Statues towered over them—gods and beasts with twisted faces, some broken, others weeping molten tears from cracked stone.
Then—movement.
From behind pillars, pews, and balconies—dozens of demi-humans ambushed the humans.
A panther-kin dove with twin daggers.
A priestess hurled a fire rune.
A child with a spear screamed as he charged into a wall of bayonets.
"CONTACT!"
Gunfire ripped through the sacred hall.
Blood painted the walls. One human went down to a cursed blade that turned his veins black before he hit the floor.
But the humans pressed forward.
Grenades were tossed behind confession altars. Runes exploded. The left wing caught fire. The ringing of bells turned to the crack of rifles and the roaring pulse of fire-throwers sweeping clean rows of statues and hiding places.
Still, voices cried out:
"PROTECT THE GENERAL!"
"SHIELD HIM WITH YOUR BODIES!"
That was the real objective.
In a vaulted chamber at the rear of the Dome—past three layers of dead defenders—they found him.
General Saar-Mavuk.
A lion-kin, fur matted in blood, armor cracked, one eye swollen shut. He held a broken sword in one hand, a rosary of teeth in the other.
He stood alone before a smoking altar.
Wilhelm entered, rifle raised.
Saar-Mavuk didn't kneel.
"You cannot rule this land. You will poison it."
Wilhelm said nothing.
He fired once—into the general's thigh.
The beastman collapsed.
Two soldiers moved in, shackling him with runed chains.
"Bag him. Take him west."
"Yes, sir."
As Saar-Mavuk was dragged out, dozens of civilians outside watched in silence. They didn't cheer. They didn't scream. They simply lowered their heads.
The humans torched the Dome.
Its sacred ceiling collapsed an hour later—molten gold dripping like tears over the altars and corpses.
"Glory to the Führer," an officer whispered.
And the human army moved on.