"I'm heading to the battlefield tomorrow," Onyx said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet of the night. "I'm not coming back until I've become a lord."

It was his vow, his unbreakable will. It didn't matter where the battle was or who the enemy was. His mind was set.

After a long silence, Rockwell followed his mentor's gaze toward the distant horizon. "We'll be waiting for you, Prophet," he replied softly.

That night, in the countless corners of the city, some reveled, some polished their armor, some sharpened their blades, and others shared a final meal with their families.

Silverwood Realm, Augurath Sanctuary.

Under the Deputy Commander's tireless efforts, the Black Tower's self-repair functions had finally reactivated. The gaping, light-spewing hole in the tower's roof, a scar left by Orion, was now seamlessly sealed, leaving no trace of the damage.

One day, as Orion stood beside the Deputy Commander, trying to learn what he could about the magical formation, a demigod phantom materialized next to him without a sound, making him jump.

"Alexander! Can you please not do that? You nearly gave me a heart attack."

Alexander glanced at the Flame of Will that had already sprung into Orion's hand and remained utterly unfazed.

"Is there news?" the Deputy Commander asked, not looking up from his work. He knew Alexander better than Orion did; he wouldn't show up without a reason.

"The other Black Tower to the south is on the move," Alexander said, his voice cold. "They're driving a massive horde of demonic monsters north." He paused. "Judging by their pace, they're coming for us."

A palpable killing intent emanated from the phantom.

"The clown has arrived."

That explained the murderous aura. The news made both the Deputy Commander and Orion narrow their eyes.

"However," Alexander added, after another dramatic beat, "it's just an avatar."

The tension that had seized Orion and the Deputy Commander instantly dissipated.

"Bro, would you stop talking in cliffhangers?" Orion snapped, feeling the urge to punch something. The emotional whiplash was infuriating. He decided against it. He probably couldn't beat Alexander anyway. "And where did you get this intel?"

"I recorded the signature of that particular avatar a long time ago."

"If the clown's avatar is here, the Witch's has likely descended as well," the Deputy Commander muttered, his head still bowed over the magical formation as if he hadn't heard Alexander's explanation. "They know we've arrived."

Orion, however, fell into thought. Alexander's words made one thing clear: the clown was smart. And judging by the demigods' reactions, he was a threat they took very seriously.

"They're coming for us," Alexander continued, ignoring the others as he voiced his own assessment. "They either want to kill us, or they want information from us. Otherwise, the clown wouldn't risk deploying such a powerful avatar. It's bait."

"Bait?" Orion finally looked up. "Bro, do we look like fish to you?"

"I don't. You do," Alexander stated flatly.

The deadpan humor actually made Orion let out a short, awkward laugh.

"So they're fishing," the Deputy Commander mused, his focus still on his work. Magic gathered at his fingertips, a tool of pure energy scribing complex runes in the air. The glowing symbols dove into the ground like a school of fish. "Who are they trying to catch? Hulk? Leonidas? Arthas? You and me? Or perhaps the commander himself?"

A final torrent of power flooded from his hand into the stone slabs at his feet. The magical formation blazed, and a holographic sphere of pure magic coalesced in the air above it, shining with unbearable light. When the light subsided, the formation went dormant.

At the four cardinal points of the chamber, four figures now stood in silent vigil. They were towering, obsidian-skinned Demons, high-tier arch lords radiating an aura of ancient malice. Their presence was even more potent than the guardians of the tower that had once imprisoned the Deathly Soul-Reaper.

"The guardian formation is repaired," the Deputy Commander announced, finally straightening up to face Orion and Alexander. "We need to pick up the pace." The message was clear: it was time to mobilize the troops.

Alexander nodded and Orion gave his assent. Just as the two phantoms were about to depart for the top of the tower to rest, Orion stopped them.

"Deputy Commander, Alexander, I want to recommend a new member for the Champions Alliance."

They paused.

"His name is Tangere, a plague lord. He's committing two hundred thousand Plague-thralls to my command for this war. If it's possible, I'd like you to have him vetted in secret."

Orion had been thinking about it for a while. Tangere seemed like a good fit for their group. He was still in his probationary period, but Orion wanted to give them a heads-up. Besides, having the demigods run a background check would give him greater peace of mind.

"Understood," the Deputy Commander said.

"I'll arrange it," Alexander added.

With that, their phantoms dissipated and reappeared on the top floor, where a focusing array would help conserve their divine power.

Recommending Tangere was a carefully considered decision. Of the Survivors Orion knew, Caesar, Tangere, and Scarecrow were the most suitable. Caesar had the best character by far; he was a genuinely good person. But his righteousness made him a poor fit for the Champions Alliance. Orion liked and trusted Caesar as a friend, but bringing him into their fold would be a disservice, making his path far more difficult.

The Alliance operated on a chaotic neutral axis. Caesar's innate goodness would become a liability, a fatal weakness that others could exploit. In Orion's mind, Caesar was the perfect ally for crusades against chaotic evil factions and demonic planes. But ask him to invade a lawful good world for the sake of resources? A man like that would hesitate. And in their line of work, hesitation was a death sentence. Everyone loves a hero, but in this business, heroes get themselves and their friends killed. Both Aerin and Caesar shared that compassionate flaw.

Orion rubbed his temples, shaking off the thoughts. He walked to the window, gazing down at the skeletons in the plaza below, already digging trenches and building fortifications. The Cult of Four wasn't giving them any time to breathe. Augurath Sanctuary would have to be forged in the fires of the coming war.

The teleportation array is repaired, but one undead army is not going to be enough.

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