Logout Error: My NPCs Now Worship Me

Inside the Great Hall of Khaz'Modan, the scene was one of grim despair. The hall, usually filled with the sounds of boasting, hammering, and drunken song, was silent save for the whimpers of the wounded and the low, panicked murmurings of the dwarven council. King Thrain Ironhand, his magnificent, iron-grey beard singed and his royal armor dented, sat on his granite throne, his face a mask of exhausted fury.

The second 'knock' from the outside had been devastating. It had sent a shockwave through the citadel that had collapsed three minor tunnels and caused their most revered ancestral statues to crack. The power behind that single blow was incomprehensible.

"They're still out there," a grizzled old Thane growled, clutching his notched axe. "Surface-dwellers. And powerful ones. I say we ignore them. Our fight is here, below!"

"Our fight is lost, old friend," countered the Master Runesmith, his hands stained with both soot and blood. "The 'Crawlers' have already overrun the Mithril Deeps and the Adamantine Lode. We've lost our two most valuable sectors. The lower third of the citadel is gone. We are merely delaying our own extinction."

"The Queen of the Deep has hatched a new brood," a scout captain reported, his voice trembling. "They are faster, stronger. They adapt. Our best warriors, the Ironbreakers, held them at the Chasm Bridge for a week. Yesterday... the bridge fell. There were no survivors."

A collective groan of despair went through the assembled dwarves. The Ironbreakers were their finest warriors, clad in the thickest gromril armor. If they had fallen, no one could stand against the tide.

It was into this atmosphere of utter hopelessness that Queen Lilliana's ultimatum had echoed, her magically amplified voice penetrating the very stone. An offer of salvation, at a price.

"A surface queen!" the old Thane spat. "Offering aid from her 'Silent Sovereign'! It's a trick! A demon's bargain! They likely led the Crawlers to us!"

"Don't be a fool, Borin," King Thrain's voice boomed, silencing the hall. "The Crawlers are a curse of the deep places, an ancient evil. They have nothing to do with the surface dwellers." He stroked his beard, his mind, for all its pride, a sharp and calculating thing. "This 'Queen' knew my name. She spoke of honor and trade. And the power that struck our gate... it was a demonstration, not an attack. They could have broken it. They chose not to."

"So what do we do, my King?" the Runesmith asked. "Her hour is almost up."

King Thrain looked at the faces of his council, at the fear in the eyes of his people. He had two choices: a slow, certain, agonizing death from the unending horde below, or a pact with the unknown, terrifying power waiting outside. The choice was no choice at all. Pride was a luxury for those who were not on the verge of extinction.

"Master Runesmith," the King commanded, his voice heavy with the weight of his decision. "Prepare to open the Great Gate."

The Runesmith's eyes widened. "My King... are you sure?"

"I am sure that my people will not die cowering in the dark while a sliver of hope exists, no matter how terrifying that hope may be," Thrain declared. "Open the gate. Let us see what price this 'Sovereign' asks for the lives of my people."

Outside the Great Gate…

Lilliana stood with perfect patience, her arms crossed. Her internal clock told her the hour was nearly up. Sir Kaelan shifted nervously beside her, his hand never leaving his sword. Force remained as still as the mountain itself.

And then, they heard it. A deep, grinding groan from within the mountain. The sound of colossal locking mechanisms, untouched for what was likely centuries, slowly being withdrawn. Dust, undisturbed for ages, poured from the cracks around the gate.

With a shudder that shook the ground, the Great Gate of Khaz'Modan, which had been sealed against a world-ending threat, began to open. It moved only a crack, a ten-foot gap, just enough to allow passage but not enough to welcome an army.

In the gloom beyond stood a phalanx of heavily armored dwarven warriors, their faces grim, their axes ready. And before them stood King Thrain Ironhand, his royal presence undeniable even in his battered state. His sharp, dark eyes fixed on Lilliana, then moved to Force, widening slightly as he recognized the sheer power contained in the monk's unassuming form.

"I am Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain," the dwarf lord's voice was like grinding stones. "You are the Queen of the new 'Dominion'. You offer aid. On what terms?" He was a king, even in desperation. He would not beg.

Lilliana met his gaze with her own cool confidence. "Our terms are simple, King Thrain. My Lord, the Sovereign Kaelus, will enter your halls. He and his personal host will descend into your 'Deep Roads', and they will annihilate the 'Crawlers' and their Queen. They will cleanse your entire mountain of this infestation."

Thrain's eyes narrowed. "A generous offer. Too generous. Nothing is free. What is your price, human Queen?"

"The price," Lilliana said, her voice clear and sharp, "is everything. For saving your kingdom, your people, and your very lives, the Citadel of Khaz'Modan and all its subjects will swear eternal fealty to the Silent Sovereign. You will become his vassals. Your mines, your forges, and your armies will be his to command."

The dwarves behind the king gasped and growled in outrage. To trade their freedom, the one thing they valued above even gold? It was an unthinkable price.

But Thrain was silent. He looked past Lilliana, at the buckled, cracked gate. He could hear, faintly, the distant, chittering screams of the horrors in his lower halls. He knew they were gathering for another assault.

Slavery to a dark god, or annihilation by a mindless swarm.

"And if we refuse?" Thrain asked, his voice a low growl.

"Then we will honor your decision," Lilliana said calmly. "We will turn around, leave you to your fate, and my master will simply take the mountain from the Crawlers after they have finished consuming you. He will get his mines either way. This path merely allows you to live to work them."

The brutal, cold logic of it was undeniable. It was a checkmate.

King Thrain Ironhand let out a long, slow breath, the air whistling through his teeth. He looked at the faces of his warriors, saw their despair. He then looked back at Lilliana.

"My people are not slaves," he said, his voice filled with a final, defiant spark of pride. "We will bend the knee. We will be your vassals. But we will be your allies, not your property. We will forge for you, fight for you, and die for you. But we will do it as the proud dwarves of Khaz'Modan, subjects of Lord Kaelus, not as chattel."

Lilliana considered his counter-offer. It was a matter of semantics, but to the dwarves, it was everything. It would give them the illusion of retaining their dignity, which would in turn ensure their loyalty was true and not just born of fear. A willing, proud servant was far more productive than a resentful slave.

"This is acceptable," Lilliana declared.

Thrain nodded, a great weight seeming to lift from his shoulders. "Then it is done. Let your 'Sovereign' come. Let us see if his power is as great as his envoy's arrogance."

Lilliana gave a small, cold smile. "Oh, I assure you, King Thrain. It is far greater."

She turned her head slightly. "Force. Inform our Lord. The gate is open."

Force closed his eyes for a moment, sending a silent, telepathic message back to the Tomb.

And then, the sky darkened.

King Thrain and his dwarves looked up in shock. A massive, swirling vortex of black and purple energy had opened in the air above the mountain pass. It was a [Gate] of impossible size, a wound in the very fabric of reality.

From it, they descended.

It was not a disorganized rabble. It was a silent, disciplined, terrifying army.

First came the Doom Knights. A legion of one thousand skeletal warriors, each over seven feet tall, clad in jagged black plate armor and wielding massive, soul-sucking greatswords. Their eye sockets burned with a cold, blue fire, and they moved with a perfect, synchronized gait that was utterly unnerving. They formed a perimeter around the gate, a silent wall of death.

Then came the other Guardians. Boom and Blast landed with ground-shaking thuds, their presence a promise of explosive destruction. Gravity floated down, surrounded by her aura of distorted space. Spidy descended on a silken thread, her eight crimson eyes taking in the scene with predatory glee. Flora walked out of the portal, and the ground at her feet sprouted with lush, unnaturally vibrant green moss.

The dwarves, who had faced a horde of monsters for weeks, felt a new kind of terror. The creatures in their deeps were mindless beasts. These... these were generals of a dark god's army. Each one radiated a power that dwarfed their own king.

Finally, he himself emerged.

Kaelus floated from the center of the Gate, his obsidian armor drinking the very light of the sun. He landed silently before the dwarven king, his sheer presence silencing the wind itself.

He looked down at Thrain, then at the dark, gaping maw of the Khaz'Modan gate.

"You have an infestation," Kaelus's voice rumbled, a sound that vibrated in the dwarves' very bones. He then turned to his assembled host, his voice rising to a command that echoed with absolute authority.

"The Tomb is open. The hunt begins." He pointed a single, gauntleted finger into the darkness of the mountain. "Leave nothing of them but dust and memory. Cleanse this mountain."

With a silent, unified surge, the army of Nexus marched forward, a river of darkness pouring into the heart of Khaz'Modan, ready to face the world-ending threat that lurked within. The Dwarves could only stare in horrified awe. They had asked for saviors, and they had gotten an apocalypse.