Abyssborn: Sovereign of Sin and Ruin

{Chapter: 183: The Fall of the Defense Line – A New Dawn of War}

Alison didn't look back again.

There was nothing left to save.

Only the promise of vengeance, and the bitter memory of everything they'd lost.

---

Several dozen minutes later...

Henry Moore brought his blade down with a brutal roar, cleaving the festering, plague-ridden beast in front of him into twitching chunks of rotted meat. Steam hissed from its torn flesh as blood boiled under the cursed energy lingering in the air. Guts splattered across the battlefield like grotesque garlands, and a low growl rumbled from his throat—not of satisfaction, but of grim determination.

Behind him, in the dim glow of the teleportation circle, Alison and the last of her surviving soldiers vanished one by one, their figures swallowed by light. Only then did the suffocating pressure in Henry's chest ease, if only slightly.

They were safe. For now.

He had expected resistance. Interception. A last-minute ambush by the plague's master. Some nightmarish abomination crashing down to slaughter the retreating survivors.

But nothing had come.

Nothing.

Neither the architect of this biological hell nor the endless tide of abyssal demons nor even the plague-spawned horrors made any attempt to halt the escape. They were too busy tearing each other apart like rabid dogs on a blood-soaked leash.

It was a maddening sight.

Demons lunged at plague-beasts. Plague-beasts turned on demons. Poison mists and voidfire spells filled the air in overlapping waves of carnage, choking the skies with smoke and gore. Limbs were severed. Heads were crushed beneath claw and fang. Screams of agony drowned under the roar of destruction.

"They don't care who they kill…" Henry muttered, standing in the midst of the chaos, his armor drenched in blood both alien and his own. "Just so long as they kill something."

From the remains of the command tower, Henry activated the last of the magical surveillance arrays. Faint, flickering illusions painted the interior of the battlefield before him. In the broken alleys and crumbling strongholds of the defense line, survivors still fought desperately, blades clashing with claws, spellfire blasting through twisted bone and sinew.

But it was hopeless.

They were outnumbered. Outpowered. Surrounded by a tidal wave of madness and violence. Brave resistance meant little when your skull was caved in by a twenty-foot abyss-beast moments later.

Without the barrier's power, they were doomed.

Henry's gaze drifted to the horizon.

A black tide of demons still surged forward from the skyline, an endless, churning flood of hatred and hunger. His jaw clenched. The weight of guilt pressed down on his soul like iron chains.

"…Then let me die with a shred of honor left," he whispered, eyes burning. "Let my corpse stand as the last shield."

Unlike Alison and her company, he had no right to escape. He was the commander of this stronghold, the keeper of the line. Its failure was his burden to carry, and he would carry it into death. It was the only apology he could offer the tens of thousands who had trusted him—and were now being butchered in the ruins.

But he wasn't done yet.

Behind him, ancient magical formations long buried beneath the stone began to stir. Dozens of hidden runic seals awakened in sequence, glowing like veins of molten gold across the scarred earth.

With a sharp command, he triggered the final contingency.

Annihilation.

A pure white light erupted from Henry's body, engulfing the defense line in a growing sphere of divine energy. The very air trembled as reality itself seemed to buckle.

The ground split.

The clouds roared.

The sky turned to fire.

The demons, sensing the incoming cataclysm, screeched in panic. Dozens, then hundreds turned tail and fled—but the wave of light moved faster. Much faster.

Those too slow to escape were caught mid-scream, bodies shredded atom by atom, limbs vaporized, wings torn apart in blazing winds. Even their souls were scoured clean from existence.

Dex's creation—his hideous plague beasts—were equally consumed, melted into black sludge that hissed and sizzled on the ground before evaporating entirely.

From the shadows, one figure watched it all with unblinking eyes.

Dex.

The real Dex, or rather, the avatar he had sent to the frontlines, stood calmly amidst the white inferno. His smile widened as the energy closed in.

"This is what I've been waiting for," he whispered with childlike wonder. "A truly beautiful funeral."

He did not run.

He did not resist.

As the light swallowed him, breaking his shell into glimmering fragments, he spread his arms and let out a breathless laugh, as if embracing an old friend.

"Fascinating... absolutely fascinating..."

Then he was gone.

When the light finally faded, the defense line was no more.

In its place was a smoking crater, a blackened gash in the world stretching miles wide and impossibly deep. Not a single building remained. No towers. No barracks. Not even rubble.

Just silence.

The cost was staggering.

Millions dead in an instant. Demons, plague-beasts, defenders, and civilians alike. Anything not protected by divine rank strength had been obliterated or severely injured. For the Abyssal invaders, it was a blow that shattered their momentum—buying time for the nations behind the line to regroup, rearm, and prepare for the next wave.

The sacrifice had not been in vain.

---

Far away, deep beneath the contaminated lands…

Dex's true body stirred.

His crimson eyes opened slowly, glowing with a dangerous light. The wings on his back unfolded and cracked the earth above him as they moved. Dust and soil exploded upward.

"BOOM!!!"

With a single beat of his wings, he rocketed upward, piercing the crust of the land like a spear. In seconds, he burst into the sky, trailing flames behind him.

His gaze turned toward the rear of the defense line, now nothing but a gap in the earth.

A grin spread across his face, sharper than any blade.

"I'm not done playing yet…"

Then he vanished, a streak of speex across the sky, heading toward his next masterpiece...

---

As the final barricades crumbled and the defense line was reduced to rubble and ash, a heavy silence briefly settled across the kingdoms that lay far behind the front.

But for Alison and her companions—who had just arrived at a secure military outpost nestled within the rear command zone of the Mi Ling world—that silence carried weight far heavier than stone.

A subtle, cold tingle rippled through Alison's fingertips.

The communication artifact clenched tightly in her hand pulsed softly, flickering with weak light. Then, Henry Moore's last message came through.

Clear. Calculated. Unflinchingly methodical—just like the man himself.

It was filled with detailed instructions and contingency protocols, covering everything from fallback resource distribution to field command designations. Not a single word betrayed fear or despair. But that was exactly what told them everything.

They knew.

The old war dog had chosen to stay behind—to die as a soldier, as a commander, and most importantly, as the man who would not let the people he swore to protect fall without a final, glorious firestorm.

A silence swept through the group like a stormfront, a wordless grief heavy with unspoken respect. Even those who had clashed with Henry in countless arguments and strategic debates found their hearts weighed down by a dull ache. In death, the man had earned more than loyalty—he had earned legend.

Alison bowed her head slightly, her expression taut with pain. But she didn't let her sorrow linger long.

Neither did the others.

There was no time for mourning, not when the fire still raged behind them, not when the world itself teetered at the edge of the abyss.

The group scattered, breaking into task groups. Their mission now was twofold.

First, they had to deliver a monumental cache of tactical intelligence to the leaders of the kingdoms around them. Years—decades—of brutal research and battlefield trial had gone into these documents. Inside were the hard-won strategies on how to combat the abyssal tide, ways to identify plague corruption early, and records of known demon hierarchies and formations.

It was knowledge etched in blood—written by those who had died screaming in the dark so others might live.

Delays were unacceptable. Every hour counted. Every fact, every scribbled detail, had the power to stop another massacre.

Second, the group would undergo immediate quarantine.

Though no symptoms had manifested yet, the plague's newest strains were far too insidious, capable of hiding dormant for days, even weeks, before erupting like a hive of locusts. The quarantine facility had been specially constructed—reinforced with divine seals, enchanted filtration barriers, and internal auto-incineration systems in case of outbreak.

Many had scoffed at such extreme measures before.

Now? No one questioned it.

---

Meanwhile, far to the east of the collapsed defense line, dozens of kingdoms simultaneously received the same message:

Another bastion has fallen. The horde is coming.

Panic erupted like wildfire.

Council halls filled with screams. Noblemen shouted, generals threw maps on tables, and priests muttered frantic prayers to gods they had long stopped fearing.

For months, these kingdoms had engaged in petty politics—squabbling over tariffs, undermining each other through trade wars and empty treaties, always assuming they had time. A month. Two, at least.

That illusion shattered like glass.

And when it did, a new performance began.

Within mere hours, fractured alliances were reforged into unbreakable bonds, sealed not just with words, but with rings, embraces, and the intertwining of destinies. Kings who once hurled insults across diplomatic halls now clasped hands over signed treaties, their once-bitter eyes softened by necessity and renewed purpose. Widowed queens found new strength as they stood beside former enemies turned partners, united by shared looming threats. Sons and daughters from once-hostile nations exchanged nights on the same bed beneath moonlit balconies, their youthful faces lit by hope and duty alike. From noble halls to far-flung provinces, a tide of unity surged across the land, driven not by affection—but by the iron logic of survival. Ancient grudges were buried beneath silken veils and golden crowns, all in the name of a fragile but fiercely defended future.

Desperation birthed twisted arrangements: young heirs barely in their adolescence were promised to decrepit rulers thrice their age, not out of love, but as tokens of allegiance. Some smiled through gritted teeth, others wept behind palace walls—but the message was clear. The world had changed, and so had the price of survival.

Propaganda scrolls were distributed across the cities like wildfire:

> "The kingdoms and empires of Mi Ling world are one blood, one flame! We shall rise, or we shall burn together!"

Massive coordination treaties were signed at lightning speed. Elite battalions, previously held in reserve for internal disputes, were deployed to the front. Enchanted siege weapons, magical constructs, and anti-demon fortifications were pulled from vaults older than the kingdoms themselves.

Even the miserly Merchant Guilds—those serpents who rarely parted with a single coin—opened their war chests and began airlifting crates of holy oil, firesteel, and blessed ammunition to the frontlines.

A storm of sacred banners began rising across the horizon.

*****

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