The black tide descended: a probe out of control

Forty-eight hours after Blackiron Canyon's completion, Castian stood at the newly built remount station on the ridge.

The vantage point was excellent. Below lay the canyon passage, forcibly narrowed by construction; to the left stretched the dead ground of the flooded western lowlands.

Farther off, he could also see the wasteland beyond the gray fog and, behind him, Blackpine Fief, its sacred flame faintly glowing.

Castian hoped a wave of monsters would arrive soon to test the mettle of this defense line.

He did not have to wait long. The ground beneath his feet suddenly shifted.

It began with the faintest tremor. Then wave after wave of vibrations rolled in from the horizon.

They came faster and struck harder, until even the fingernail-sized pebbles along the ridge began to jump, rattling against the rock.

Castian's gray-blue eyes narrowed slightly.

Something's wrong.

He took half a step forward, braced a hand against the stone edge of the shelter, and looked out beyond the gray fog.

Three or four broad, dense black tides were pushing through the fog from different directions, converging outside Blackpine Fief.

As they advanced, they seemed to flatten every rise and dip in the terrain.

Dead trees, loose stones, low slopes—everything in their path vanished beneath their relentless advance.

The gray fog churned and tore before them, only to be shoved aside again by the heavier tide pressing from behind.

Too fast. Too many.

A few glances were enough for Castian to make out the structure of this black tide.

Ghouls, crawling demons, bone-armored mutants, even scattered remnants that had lost their commanders—all were being driven forward by werewolves at their backs.

Masses of werewolves were using these low-tier monsters as ready-made cannon fodder to test the way, charging toward the newly built defense line.

Castian's heart sank,