Abyssborn: Sovereign of Sin and Ruin

So I am thinking of rewriting the Being a Necromancer in Dying Worlds work what do you think...

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{Chapter: 178: Decision Within The Defense Line}

"If sacrifice is inevitable…" he continued, eyes heavy with sorrow, "then let us at least allow them some dignity."

His words were not a challenge. They were an acceptance—resigned, but firm.

Another human demigod nodded in agreement. And then another. One by one, the leaders of the defense line gave their silent consent. They didn't have to speak aloud the words they dreaded.

It would be a purge.

A clean sweep of the infected before they could reach the rear lines.

Necessary. Inevitable. Unforgivable.

They hated it. But they agreed.

Alison had stood in the corner of that room, every fiber of her being screaming to protest. But in her heart, she knew it was the right decision. The only decision.

And so she, too, remained silent.

Because in times like this, even heroes were sometimes asked to become executioners.

After her expression shifted, Alison could only sink back into her seat, biting her lower lip until it turned white. Despite the raging storm of emotions inside her, she remained utterly silent.

Their decision—brutal as it was—had been accepted by default.

And she knew, deep down, that her silence made her complicit.

Even if she didn't speak a single word in agreement, the absence of resistance was, in every sense, the same as consent. Both gave approval. Both allowed it to happen.

There was no nobility in silence.

No moral high ground to claim.

Only the bitter taste of shame that settled heavily on her chest, burning her from the inside out.

What was worse was how cowardly she felt. At least those who had spoken in favor of the plan had stood up and owned it. But her silence? It was the worst of all worlds—guilt without purpose, pain without action.

Soon after, the proposal—code-named "Controlled Resolution"—was formally passed with 57 votes in favor and 11 abstentions. Alison's silence had contributed to that outcome, even if she hated herself for it.

Not long after, a second proposal was introduced—and passed.

It was titled "Observe the Plague."

This proposal received 41 votes in favor, with 27 abstentions. The wording was cold and clinical, the kind of detached language only policy-makers and scientists could stomach:

> Observe the Plague: While the plague is in its critical outbreak stage within the defense line, and while patient numbers remain high, it is imperative to observe and document the behavior, mutation, and characteristics of the plague in real-time. Various pharmaceutical agents will be prepared and tested without regard for cost, in an effort to extract data for future research, mitigation strategies, and the prevention of similar outbreaks elsewhere.

In other words, they were going to use the infected as living research specimens before the inevitable cleansing.

It was a decision that stripped the infected of their humanity. Instead of being citizens, they were now data points. Lab rats. Resources.

Yes, it sounded callous—perhaps even monstrous—but from the cold perspective of war and survival, it was a decision the leadership felt had to be made.

As they say. "The hardest choices require the strongest wills."

And so it was.

---

Far from the committee rooms and the suffocating weight of compromise, deep within the polluted lands…

The same darkness loomed.

In the center of an underground vault, thick with death flowers, Dex still watched.

A spell projection hovered silently in front of him, casting a faint light in the otherwise dark dungeon. The figures within the magical display looked exhausted, battered, and barely holding on. What had once been a pursuit team of elite professionals had now dwindled to just four or five ragged survivors.

Dex casually leaned back in his creaking chair, a jagged handle gripped lazily in one hand—his control tool. He was no longer rushing; no longer concerned.

He was simply enjoying the show.

On screen, his "actors" stumbled forward, endlessly pursued by demons whose numbers never seemed to decrease. The battle had stretched for days. Food had run out. Morale was shattered. The team's carefully planned strategy had collapsed under the constant pressure.

Dex, meanwhile, had eaten well. Slept well. Waited patiently.

And sent puppet after puppet after them.

---

The team captain, battered and bleeding, ground his teeth in frustration as he struck down another puppet. This one had several steel needles jammed into its skull and stared at him with a vacant expression—just like all the others.

It was the twentieth puppet.

The twentieth.

At first, he had thought the odd behavior was a coincidence—just a few unusual enemies in a chaotic land. But now it was clear.

Someone was controlling them.

Someone had deliberately orchestrated this pursuit to stall them, waste his resources, and whittle down his team.

That someone… was still watching.

Dex.

It was a cat-and-mouse game—but with the cats bleeding out, and the mouse laughing from the shadows.

Worse still, the environment was no longer neutral. The polluted land had grown stronger. The suppression force that kept magic and monstrous creatures in check was weakening, and now the demons fought with new strength and terrifying aggression.

Dex's puppets, enhanced by his magic and skilled control, used tactics that were far too refined to be natural. Advanced combat skills, feints, counterattacks, coordinated strikes. If not for the team's anti-demon gear, they would've fallen long ago.

And now, one by one, they were falling anyway.

From across the field, the captain heard his comrades scream—voices he'd known for years now twisted by terror and agony. He spun around, heart pounding, to see them overwhelmed. One was already down. The others wouldn't last long.

He reached for the emergency teleportation tool on his belt.

Still jammed.

Still useless.

The interference from the corrupted magic of the land made escape impossible.

He was cornered.

They were all going to die here.

With a heavy breath and a heart full of regret, he pulled out a small, black cube from his pouch. A last resort. A forbidden tool. One they'd intended to use against Dex himself—if they ever reached him.

There was no time left to save it for later.

With blood-soaked hands, he activated the cube.

The avatar's head turned toward him—just in time to witness the captain's final glare, a mix of fury and resignation.

In a split-second flash, the cube released a searing black light that pulsed outward like a wave of anti-matter.

Silence.

And then—nothing.

Everything within a several-kilometer radius vanished without a trace.

The terrain. The trees. The demons. The team. The avatars. Even the very ground itself.

Only a vast crater remained—scorched, dead, and hollow.

---

Back in his dungeon, Dex narrowed his eyes at the projection, then casually dropped the now-broken handle onto the stone floor.

With a soft scoff, he muttered, "Tch. I knew they had something up their sleeve."

Old trick.

The desperate final strike of a doomed hero—willing to die in order to take the villain down.

He'd seen it in too many books. Too many stories. Too many battles.

It was starting to get boring.

That was exactly why he never stepped onto the stage himself unless it was necessary. Always let others bleed first. Always wait until the enemy exhausted every last trick in the book.

After all, anyone who came for him had to come prepared.

And those kinds of people always had contingencies.

Still, the problem is solved now. Another chess piece off the board. Another team eliminated.

Dex stood and stretched, his joints cracking slightly as a thin smirk formed on his lips.

"Now that this little game is over," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the empty chamber, "the real show can begin."

The magic projection shifted once again—no longer showing his enemies, but instead turning toward the great defense line.

Toward the place everyone was watching.

Toward the crumbling wall of hope that humanity had barely held onto.

And there, amidst soldiers, plague, and despair—his next move waited patiently.

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