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!"
