The battlefield had changed.
There were no more towers, no more fallback lines. Only two armies stood now—facing each other between the crumbled valley walls and the looming shadow of the Necropolis.
On one side, the undead.
On the other, the sea-born fury of the Naga.
Vanthelis stood tall at the center of his forces, dark cloak whipping in the wind, the Orb of Abyssal Blood pulsing faintly at his side beneath layers of shadowwoven cloth. The moment the Queen laid eyes on him again, her fury cracked the skies.
And then—
The Queen launched the first arrow.
It screamed through the air like a banshee and exploded just inches from Vanthelis's head. Poison mist hissed outward, sizzling the ground.
But Vanthelis didn't flinch.
He took a step forward, lifting his hand.
His body shimmered.
The Queen's expression twisted into confusion for a second—until she saw her own reflection standing across from her.
Vanthelis had morphed—taking her form completely. From her gills, to her scaled limbs, and even her strange living armor. He lifted an identical coral-etched crossbow, loaded it with a gleaming arrow, and returned fire.
The Queen snarled as her shoulder sparked in pain.
"I will rip your soul apart," she hissed, her real form glowing with mana.
From the side, a cry erupted—an echoing voice that split the ears of everyone within the nearby ranks.
"GRAAAAHHH!"
It was the Naga Princess. Her scimitar pulsed with runes as she clashed directly into Ishlar, who met her strike with Frostmourne.
The shockwave cracked the stone beneath their feet.
Ishlar grunted, one foot sliding back.
But he didn't waver. With a flash of green energy, he raised his palm and cast Death Coil, the blast slamming into the Princess's chest and forcing her back. She twirled midair and landed with grace, but her eyes narrowed.
With a snarl, she activated Illusion.
Three copies of her spun outward like waves, surrounding Ishlar from three angles. He breathed heavily, his mind racing to identify the real one.
Behind them, the armies charged.
The gnolls howled as they led the charge, followed by snarling ghouls, dragging jagged bones and rusted axes. Acolytes, unarmed but glowing with dark channeling energy, raised their hands—summoning small necrotic explosions to slow the Naga frontline.
The Naga warriors surged in—spear-wielders backed by tidecallers. Water magic slammed into undead lines, pushing back ghouls, snapping bones.
But the defenders did not break.
For every gnoll that fell, another leapt forward. For every ghoul torn in two, another rose behind it. Even the young acolytes, though weak in body, fought with terrifying precision—channeling spells, healing wounds, binding fallen foes to rise as lesser undead.
In the chaos, Vanthelis and the Queen circled each other—mirror images of rage and cunning.
The Queen activated Stone Gaze—a wave of petrifying light surging from her eyes. Vanthelis dodged, barely. His borrowed form flickered but held. She fired again, this time unleashing Poison Arrow, tagging his shoulder.
It burned, even through the illusion.
But then—Vanthelis smiled.
With one fluid motion, he morphed again, this time into the Princess.
The Queen's eyes widened in fury.
"You dare mock both of us?!"
Vanthelis lunged forward, scimitar flashing.
He copied the Voice Echo, roaring with amplified force, and though it lacked the deep magic behind the real Princess's siren voice, it was enough to shake the battlefield. Even the Queen winced as dust and blood scattered from the shock.
But she recovered quickly.
Her Mana Shield activated, and she slammed her clawed tail down, knocking Vanthelis back.
Meanwhile, Ishlar was now deep in his duel.
The illusions had him surrounded, each Princess slashing and parrying, using perfect mimicry.
But Ishlar wasn't guessing.
He closed his eyes—and activated Unholy Aura.
With the surge of energy, he moved. Swift as death.
He slashed through the first illusion—nothing.
Second—smoke.
The third—steel clashed with steel, and blood sprayed.
"You're not clever," Ishlar growled.
The real Princess screeched and tried to leap back—but Ishlar was faster.
He raised Frostmourne and whispered an ancient chant.
The dead stirred.
From the bloodied field, ten corpses rose—five gnolls, five naga, bones barely holding together, but eyes glowing blue.
Animate Dead.
"Kill her," he ordered.
They charged.
The Princess raised her hands and screamed—Sirens Command!
The Naga behind her turned, entranced, charging into the path to defend her. They clashed with the skeletons—but the distraction worked.
She vanished into the mist with a shimmer, teleporting short-range across the field.
Ishlar growled. "Coward."
But the battle had only begun.
He looked over to other acolytes who is fighting, but that makes a worm wriggle out on his chest and bitten him, he looked at it and he killed it in a strike.
And in his chest—his Heart of Tarasque began to thrum. His wounds closed. His strength rose.
He smirked.
"I don't need to win our duel," he whispered. "I just need to survive long enough."