The realization hit Lucian with the force of a physical blow, a sickening clarity that stripped away all hope of a traditional victory. The tactical landscape hadn't just changed; it had inverted. Every ounce of sweat, every desperate swing of a blade, and every explosive burst of mana from his warriors was being harvested like grain in a field.
The ritual wasn't just a machine; it was a parasite, and the army was its primary food source. The more they fought to survive, the faster they accelerated their own extinction.
"General Ironheart!" Lucian roared, his voice cutting through the cacophony of clashing steel and the guttural screams of the emerging god.
Ironheart was there in ten seconds, moving through the chaos with the grim, singular focus of a predator. He skidded to a halt beside Lucian, his armor splattered with the dark, oily blood of the corrupted, his breathing heavy but controlled.
"Orders, Lucian?"
