The battlefield groans beneath the weight of a hundred thousand feet, though most of them are inhuman. Dimartino's vanguard has gathered in force - an army of twenty thousand, monsters and n alike, lined at the edge of the clearing where the undead led by Corpsie have made their stand.
The horde across the field is dead still, and the thirty thousand rotters are packed tight, shoulder to shoulder. A sea of death - soulless humans without will. Their groans are muffled by the sheer volu of their number. It's less a sound and more a pressure. An on.
Barns breathes deep and hoists the Silver Rake above his head. Fire catches in his eyes, but his hands do not shake.
"Adventurers, no - FIGHTERS OF DIMARTINO!" he roars. "CHARGE!"
The monsters scream. Kobolds yip and howl. Trolls bellow. Skeletons raise rusted swords. Adventurers tighten their grips. Underhill's Royal Police fall into formation. Godrick leads the first surge, his twin blades flashing like arcs of lightning.
And then, the two armies finally collide.
The sound deafens as flesh creaks against bone. Secret Arts crack through marrow and blast enemy undead apart - though true to Barns' orders, there is a refined focus not to destroy the bodies so much they can no longer be resurrected.
The undead army faces no such handicap - it ans that Barns and the forces of Dimartino must simply fight even harder.
His monster army tears into the undead like a tide of fury. Barns doesn't wait to lead the second wave - he's already running, Fla Thrash igniting up his arms. Eldrie looses arrow after arrow from behind, bloodthorns lashing out like living snares as his vines capture zombies in bloody cages.
The battle is chaos incarnate. Claws et teeth. Shields shatter. Acid blood sizzles in the grass. Trolls slam zombies into the ground, shattering limb and bone. Barns slashes down a hulking undead, only to turn and block a flying ribcage hurled like a boorang.
"Roscoe! Use it now!"
Roscoe, hiding behind a formation of armored orcs, activates Rousing Resonator, his unique ability. A pulse of glowing rainbow light surges through Barns' body and empowers his every attribute.
Every strike becos faster. Harder. The Silver Rake hums with excitent as the weapon ripples with energy unlike any it has ever known.
Across the field, the undead push back. Their numbers seem unending - for every one that falls, three more push forward. A ghoul latches onto a goblin's arm and rips. A banshee screams and causes a wave of monsters to stagger.
Godrick rallies the front. "HOLD, YOU BASTARDS! THIS IS OUR HO!"
Even Underhill is on the field. His cane twirls between blows, jabbing and stabbing any who dar get too close. He moves with the undeniable grace of a warrior, which only deepens the mystery as Barns catches a glimpse of his fellow cane-wielder.
Eldrie's arrows light the sky. Each one bursts into red vines on contact, pinning undead against trees, against each other, against the ground. Still, they keep coming.
Ti becos a blur. Minutes stretch into an hour. Undead corpses build into mountains. The ground turns slick with ichor and mud. Yet the fighters of Dimartino hold the line.
Then - only when the tides of undead begin to falter - the Zombie Lord makes its appearance.
A low, deranged groan rises above the din. A sound like laughter through a gaphone made of bone.
From within the ranks of the undead, a figure stumbles forward.
"AH! AH! AH! YOU DIDN'T THINK I'D MISS THE PARTY, DID YOU?"
The cosmonaut.
Corpsie.
The silver suit gleams in the misty light. The barrier's glow behind Barns reflects off the helt's glass. The thing waves.
"BOO."
Barns feels the shift instantly. The air sharpens.
"FORM RANKS!" he shouts. "NOW!"
The trap is set.
Adventurers, police, and spellcasters peel away from the lee and converge like gears in a clock. A shifting wall of armor and will. A circle begins to form around the cosmonaut.
Corpsie twirls. "Aww, a spotlight for ? You SHOULDN'T HAVE!"
It moves. But not faster than the eyes trained on it. Dozens—hundreds—lock their gazes. Eldrie doesn't blink, his red eye locked on like a hawk. And nearby, Roscoe channels every drop of his energy into empowering Barns to his absolute limit.
"You're not going anywhere," Barns growls.
Chains fly from all sides. Runic, glowing, sizzling with divine power. Corpsie shrieks. It twists, turns - but there's nowhere to go. The circle tightens.
A shriek. A SNAP.
The body changes. But the suit does not.
The mont the form lts away, Underhill's squad descends. The empty suit falls limp and is imdiately sealed in a reinforced crystal case - sothing that can be seen into from every direction but traps the spacesuit neatly.
"Got you," Underhill mutters, sweat pouring down his brow.
Corpsie is captured.
And the morale of Dimartino explodes.
The monsters roar. The adventurers surge forward. Even the wounded drag themselves up for one last charge. What was desperation becos fury.
"FOR CLANCY!" soone shouts.
"For DIMARTINO!" another echoes.
Barns plunges into the fray again, Silver Rake lighting the battlefield. Fla Thrash cuts glowing arcs. Eldrie fights with a broken bow in one hand, his vampiric eye blazing red. Roscoe continues to sing, fueling Barns with power that makes him faster than lightning.
They fight. And fight. And fight.
Until the last undead, a twitching jawbone riding on a spinal column, is shattered under Godrick's boot.
It is done.
Barns drops to one knee. His limbs scream. His lungs burn. But he is alive.
Around him, silence settles. The wind finally moves through the grass. The sll of rot fades.
But he isn't finished.
He reaches into his cloak.
The red marble. Still cool. Still wet.
"Clancy," he whispers. "Ti to co through one more ti."
He lifts it high.
Behind him, the barrier pulses—then explodes outward. Osmond and Maria, watching from the rear, release the full wave of cleansing light. It spreads across the battlefield, holy and bright.
All fallen bodies—monster and human, zombie and warrior—are touched by the light.
The ground trembles.
A hum rises, deep and resonant.
Then—
Life.
Flesh regrows. Bones repair. Rot reverses.
One by one, the fallen begin to move.
Eyes open. Hands grasp. Voices whisper.
Then shout.
Thirty thousand new lives, gifted in the span of a heartbeat.
Dimartino is reborn.
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