The interior of the Southern Kingdom is chaos incarnate.
The enemies have presented their lack of desire to surrender, so an announcement will be useless.
Only a resolute march remains.
Kalakuta leads the charge through the ruined walls, his blade already wet with blood. The Freedom Fighters pour in behind him, their battle cries echoing off the ancient stone buildings that make up this final bastion of the old world.
But something is wrong.
The defending soldiers don't fight with the discipline of trained warriors.
Their formations are ragged, desperate. Their equipment varies wildly—some wear proper armor while others clutch weapons with hands more familiar with farming tools than swords.
Kalakuta cuts down an opponent and sees the man's face properly for the first time.
Terror.
Not the calculated fear of a soldier facing death, but the raw, primal terror of someone who has no business being on a battlefield.
