A week had passed since the Undead Realm had spilled its rotting guts into the Eightyfoy War Cage, and the world—at least my world within the Ravena Mansion—hadn't stopped spinning and advancing for even a second.
If anything, it was accelerating.
We had confirmed through the Precursive Umbra that the portal in the underground of the Eightyfoy wasn't just a singular invasion point but an opportunistic gate that several different factions were exploiting to benefit themselves.
They weren't a unified front, per say.
And many, like the time where Surreal massacred an entire Undead battalion, were opportunistic stragglers who had strayed from the main northwest-bound army, drifting instead into the outskirts of Endia's Grave like lost, starving wolves.
