Damien had no more words left for grief.
His voice was gone, buried beneath the weight of too many screams, too many names carved into his soul. He couldn't mourn them all.
He couldn't even remember all their faces now. Only the way they fell. The way they screamed. The way they looked to him, not for salvation, but for vengeance.
So he gave them what they asked for.
He raised the dead.
And they responded to his furious call.
For every beast that fell, another soldier clawed its way into existence. For every body broken beneath claws or flame or fang, something came back, twisted by rot, animated by death, and bound to Damien's will. They weren't elegant. They weren't clean. But they were relentless.
And they were his.
His undead stretched outward in all directions, hundreds of meters thick, an ocean of bone and smoke and hate. The air around him buzzed with mana decay.
