Arrayed against the terrible force of the numberless dead
the starving, elderly, and outnumbered Pythians, doomed to die
none more so than this brave man
But with bodies turned into mist, and channeling the divinity of their goddess herself, could they succeed where countless Chinese have fallen?
As the armies clash, divine might rains down from the skies
the Wailing Ladies, who can slaughter men with a single sigh, turn the Pythian flank, but even they are falling to the faith of the holy men of Pythium,
as an lone angelic Harbinger holds fast the right flank.
What is this? The horde is thinning? How can this be? The god of Ermor himself has been paralyzed, no longer spewing skeletons!
Wounded, fatigued, and aged, the warriors of Pythium push on. Most die.
But as holy power rains down from the sky, soon only the Prince of Darkness himself is alive, yet unable to move or defend its unholy body, as a Harbinger plunges its sword into its black heart freeing the world from the Burden of Time itself and extending the turn timer by a full day.
The cost was grave,
but without the sacrifice of the men, nay,
the angels of Pythium, we all would have perished.