In truth, this was the fundamental reason Clown had lost to Alexander.

The War Golem was his avatar; its sea of consciousness was his home turf. To be defeated there could only mean one thing: Clown was not yet a true demigod. His understanding of divine power, of cosmic rules and the strength of will, was simply not as profound as Alexander's. It was Alexander's only advantage, and it had been the decisive one.

"A nuisance, nothing more," the Deputy Commander's voice was like stone, firm and unyielding. "It just means he'll be harder to kill. Every time he shows his face, we'll put him down."

What about the others? Alexander's thoughts were faint, on the verge of fading into sleep.

"Arthas and the blademasters detonated their will projections. They went dormant before you did. The other three Pontiffs from the Cult of Four were eliminated, as were the two Archbishops."

Eliminated, in this case, meant the destruction of their demigod phantoms. It wasn't a true death, but it was a devastating blow. Even with the Cult of Four's vast reserves of faith, they wouldn't be able to threaten the Champions Alliance again for a long time.

But the war was far from over. Knowing Clown's temperament, suffering such a massive loss in the Silverwood Realm meant he would inevitably return, and he would bring more, and stronger, forces with him. This world had just become the primary front in a much larger conflict.

And the Witch?

"Hulk took care of her."

Hulk? The name echoed in Alexander's consciousness, tinged with genuine surprise.

"Yes. It seems he had some kind of breakthrough and acquired a demigod-level avatar. He arrived as reinforcements, entered The Dais of Judgment, and finished her."

Arthas always did have a sharp eye for talent, Alexander thought, a wave of admiration washing through his exhaustion. He tried to warn me about Clown, you know. Subtly. The thought trailed off into a sigh heavy with regret.

"I'll stand guard here. Rest," Edward said. "Hulk's on the scene now. Let him handle the clean-up."

And with that, the top floor of the Black Tower fell into a deep, watchful silence.

***

The South, Staghelm City.

In the days that followed, with the Demigod of the Moonwell personally overseeing the reconstruction, the city's ruined structures were quickly replaced. With the help of the treant defenders, new, stronger buildings, woven from living wood and stone, began to take shape.

Meanwhile, the bond between Orion and Isilra deepened. With her mother tactfully giving them space and subtly playing matchmaker, their relationship grew closer by the day. The initial shyness Isilra felt when they were alone was replaced by a comfortable, easy intimacy.

"The Deputy Commander just messaged me. I'm in command of the next phase of the operation," Orion said. They stood together on the newly-formed ramparts, having just finished clearing out the last pocket of demonic monsters near the city. The remaining clean-up could be left to the main Alliance forces.

"We're continuing south to claim more territory," Orion stated. It was a plan, but it was also an invitation.

After the devastating attack from the Cult of Four's Black Tower, Staghelm City's forces were decimated. They had enough strength to defend their walls, but going on the offensive was out of the question. With Isilra soon to be his wife, and with the tacit approval of his brothers-in-arms, Orion was more than willing to share the spoils of war. It was a more sincere and valuable gesture than any traditional dowry.

"I can go with you," Isilra said, shaking her head gently. "But Staghelm City… we don't have the strength, and my mother has no desire to expand." She accepted his offer for herself, but politely declined on behalf of her people.

Orion nodded. It was the answer the Deputy Commander had predicted. This was just confirmation.

"Then come with me," he said, his voice a little softer. "It's time you met my people."

At the phrase my people, a faint blush crept up Isilra's cheeks, and she gave a small, assenting nod.

***

North of Staghelm City, The Alliance Front Line.

The land was a blighted wasteland. Trampled by the legions of Plague-thralls, undead, and demonic monsters, the earth was scarred and barren. Flowers and grass had been choked out, the wildlife long since annihilated or fled to the relative peace of the Forest of Nature.

As a lord of countless Plague-thralls, Tangere kept to the rear of the main engagement. His dark robes fluttered in the foul wind as he held his staff aloft, eyes closed, chanting. He was in his element, piously reveling in the thick, plague-infested atmosphere of the battlefield.

He was stronger now than when he had first arrived. A network of blue-black veins pulsed across his face—not tattoos, but a living plague he was cultivating within his own body. When it finally matured, that would be the moment he ascended to archlord.

Unfortunately, he still lacked both the faith and the territory required to forge a body of faith. But he wasn't worried. An opportunity to seize both was laid out before him.

Tangere believed that if he was dedicated enough, loyal enough, and proved himself valuable enough, he would catch the eye of the heavy hitters. He'd realized this the moment the Champions Alliance's esteemed patrons had descended. He knew they were Survivors, just like him, but they wielded a power so immense they could crush him like an insect.

Tangere knew his place. There was no room for jealousy. As a plaguemage who had scraped and clawed his way to Legendary level, he knew his only job was to prove his worth. He suspected that was precisely why Orion had sent him to the front line in the first place.

I wonder how Hulk is doing… how the battle between the top dogs ended up. It's killing me not to know. If I were an archlord, maybe I'd have a seat at that table.

Like any man, he yearned for that kind of power—to wipe out entire armies with a wave of his hand, to personally take the head of a mighty foe.

As he mused, he directed his Plague-thralls forward. They surged over a group of demonic monsters, their rotting arms grabbing and tearing, overwhelming the demons with sheer numbers and dismembering them. Just as the last one fell, a wave of immense pressure washed over the battlefield from the sky above.

It passed in an instant, without any hostile intent. Tangere knew what it was. One of ours. One of the Alliance's esteemed patrons. He tilted his head back, his eyes scanning the heavens.

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