The dawn of the third day broke over the Crimson Wastes, painting the sky the color of dried blood. The entire hollow hummed. Tens of thousands of creatures had gathered around the Altar, and their voices merged into a single rhythm — a hymn that made the earth tremble. Demon Eyes swarmed in the sky so thickly that the sunlight barely pierced through them. Crimers, great and small, stood motionless along the edges of the amphitheater. People in scarlet robes stood in orderly rows, and their eyes burned with fanatical fire.
Mens Sanguinea stood at the Altar itself. Her crimson dress billowed in the wind, her hair the color of fresh blood streaming over her shoulders. The mark on her palm pulsed in time with the rhythm of the Brain. She was beautiful and terrifying at once — the Bride, ready to receive her husband.
Arthur stood at the center of the Altar, surrounded by a barrier of crimson light. Nearby, at the foot of the Altar, in a cage of crimson bars, lay Veridis. She was weak, but her eyes blazed — she did not take her gaze off Arthur. Somewhere far away, beyond the hollow, battle already thundered. The armies of the Human Empire and the Light had begun their assault. But here, in the heart of the Crimson, it seemed like a distant echo, of no consequence.
The Brain of Cthulhu manifested — enormous, pulsating, with tentacles studded with bony growths. Its presence crushed the mind, forced hearts to beat to an alien rhythm. Mens looked upon Him with ecstasy, close to madness.
And then everything went wrong.
The Brain of Cthulhu had already stretched its tentacles toward Arthur, ready to consume him, when something awakened within the youth. The essence of the doppelganger, of which no one knew — not Mens, not the priests, not even Arthur himself — rose up against the intrusion. Two wills collided in a single body, and the energy of that collision burst outward.
The Altar cracked. The sacrificial veins that fed it ruptured, and the crimson light stored within them transformed into a shockwave. It rolled through the hollow, sweeping away everything in its path.
Demon Eyes, swarming in the sky, flared and rained down as ash. Crimers, great and small, halted mid-step and collapsed into shapeless heaps — their connection to the Brain was too strong, and its agony became their death. Cultists standing closest to the Altar were incinerated on the spot. Those farther away were hurled back and maimed, buried beneath piles of rubble.
Mens, standing at the epicenter, was caught by the blast wave and thrown to the edge of the hollow. Her body was dragged across the stones, her dress torn to shreds, her skin covered in abrasions and burns. But she was alive. Stunned, half-blind, she crawled back toward the ruins of the Altar, not understanding why.
Veridis, sensing mortal danger to her human, tore free of her cage. With a powerful lunge, she crossed the meters separating them and covered Arthur with her body, taking the hail of shards and debris upon herself. Her scales held, though they cracked in many places, and blood streamed down her emerald flanks.
And Arthur himself lay unconscious upon the ruins of the Altar. On his left hand pulsed a crimson mark, exactly like the one Mens bore. One eye, when his eyelids fluttered slightly from a gust of wind, gleamed crimson. To anyone who saw him now, the picture was clear: the ritual was complete. The man had become a god. But exactly how it had happened remained a mystery.
The hollow had become a mass grave. Tens of thousands of creatures, who moments before had been ready to receive their new god, now lay motionless. Only a few survived — those at the very edges of the amphitheater or beyond it. They fled, carrying with them fragments of memory and the seeds of a new, twisted faith.
---
The armies of the Human Empire and the Light entered the hollow an hour after the explosion.
Soldiers picked their way between piles of dead creatures, pinching their noses against the unbearable stench. Smoke still rose from the ruined Altar. General Allar, commanding the vanguard of the Light, halted twenty paces from the ruins and raised his hand, ordering his men to stop.
There, upon a heap of melted crimstone, lay a man. Young, wounded, in a simple chestplate and a cloak wrapped around his waist in place of trousers. His hand was marked with the sign of the Crimson, and his eye burned crimson.
Beside him lay a green dragon. It was wounded, but breathing. Its body covered the man like a living shield.
One of the soldiers breathed an old, forgotten word, heard once from his grandfather:
"Reborn..."
"He completed the ritual," Allar said grimly. "We are too late."
A murmur ran through the ranks. Soldiers gripped their weapons. But before Allar could give the order, three bolts of lightning tore the sky. Three Rifts, born at the moment of the explosion, now pulsed above the hollow like open wounds. And from these wounds armies poured forth.
---
From the first Rift came the legions of Etheria. Skeletons, goblin-summoners, ogres — endless ranks of soldiers, marching in orderly squares. The Old One's Army was going to war, and it cared not who stood in its way.
From the second Rift spilled a wave of chaos — the legions of Calamity. The Molten Legion, the Astral Infection crawling like a plague, and the forces of the Abyss. There were no bosses among them — only rank-and-file soldiers, but there were many. Very many.
Both armies struck simultaneously — at each other, and at those caught between them. The hollow, only just quieted after the explosion, filled again with screams, the clash of metal, and the roar of magic.
---
The Empress of Light recognized both armies. She hovered above the battlefield, her wings shining with blinding radiance. When the forces of Etheria poured from the first Rift, her face remained motionless — only her wings flared brighter for a moment. The Old One's Army was familiar to her: she had fought them side by side with the King of Men many years ago, during the Last War. They had driven the enemy back then, but had not destroyed them completely, and now Etheria had returned like a vengeful ghost.
But when the legions of Calamity emerged from the second Rift, even her vaunted composure cracked.
"Calamity..." she whispered. "This cannot be. This world was sealed."
She had seen these beings once, in deep antiquity, before the King of Men had ever taken up a sword. Their power was legendary, and now it poured into the world like a plague.
---
Chaos reigned. The Old One's Army attacked the legions of Calamity. Calamity tore through the ranks of men and Light. Men and Light fought back against two enemies at once. Creatures that had survived the explosion of the Altar darted between the combatants, attacking everyone indiscriminately.
In this chaos, no one noticed Arthur regain consciousness.
He opened his eyes and saw above him the emerald gaze of Veridis. She lay beside him, pressing his side with her body. He ran his hand over her scales and felt the mark on his palm pulse in response.
"You survived after all," came a voice from the side. Mens stood a few paces away, leaning on a chunk of crimstone. "You became Him. I knew. I believed."
"I am not Him," Arthur answered hoarsely.
"You will get used to it. And I will wait."
Arthur did not argue. He looked around. Three Rifts pulsed above the hollow. From two, troops still poured forth. The third was silent.
"We're leaving," he said. "Through that portal. It's our only chance."
Mens looked at the silent Rift. Then at the battlefield. Then at Arthur.
"I will follow you. You are Him. And I am His Bride."
Veridis rose with difficulty. They moved toward the third Rift. No one stopped them. They reached the portal, and Arthur, without looking back, stepped into the unknown. Veridis followed him. Mens — last.
The portal softly closed behind them, leaving behind only a faint scent of crimson smoke. And somewhere far away, on the other side of the sealed portal, Arthur opened his eyes and saw above him the emerald eyes of the dragoness. Beside him stood Mens, and on her lips played a mad smile.
They were in another world. And a new chapter of his life was just beginning.
---
And in the hollow, the battle continued. The armies of men and Light bled, fighting against endless streams of creatures. The Empress of Light was already preparing to give the order to retreat when she stepped onto the battlefield.
The Dryad emerged from the shadow of the forest, tall and pale as the first snow fallen on dead earth. Her eyes, ancient as the world itself, gazed upon the three pulsing wounds above the hollow. She spoke not a word. She simply raised her hands.
From the earth, enormous roots burst forth with a roar — thick as ancient oaks, covered in runes and thorns. They entwined the Rifts like living serpents, and the Rifts began to close like healing wounds. The stream of creatures, moments ago endless as a river in flood, was cut off. Armies deprived of reinforcements scattered in panic.
The Dryad touched each of the three portals, and they shrank to the size of walnuts, then vanished into the folds of her mantle. Then she turned and walked back into the forest, without uttering a sound.
The Empress of Light exhaled, feeling the invisible grip on her throat release. The Dryad had intervened and saved them all.
The invaders, left without reinforcements, were doomed. The armies of the Empires, emboldened by the sudden salvation, redoubled their onslaught. By sunset, it was over.
The three Rifts were gone. Arthur, Veridis, and Mens had vanished into the unknown. And in Terraria, at the site of the hollow, only a scorched scar remained — a silent reminder of the day a god nearly took flesh.