The air inside the Hall of Veils was thick—not with incense, nor ash, nor blood—but with finality. This was not a temple. It was not a battlefield.
This was where death reigned.
Zion stood alone before thirteen thrones, each carved from stone no mortal could name. Around him, the gods who governed death across the pantheons emerged one by one—some cloaked in silence, others dripping with soul-ichor and memories, each bearing the weight of eternity.
Ayizan stood beside Baron Samedi, her gaze unreadable. Maman Brigitte leaned against her husband's throne with arms crossed, skull-faced and watchful. From distant stars and forgotten religions, others appeared—Hel of the Northern Mists, Mictlantecuhtli of the Aztecs, Anubis cloaked in eternal judgment, and Yama with his burning eyes.
Zion bowed—but not in submission.
"Thank you for coming," he said, his voice steady. "I have a request. One that may challenge the natural order."
The gods said nothing, but the cold in the chamber deepened. Some leaned forward. Some vanished and reappeared in an instant, testing his resolve.
Zion did not falter.
"I wish to speak with the greatest war tacticians your realms have ever claimed," he continued. "Not to resurrect. Not to command. But to learn. Those whose names still haunt the minds of their enemies. The ones history dared not forget."
Brigitte narrowed her gaze. "And why, child of Ginen, do you seek ghosts?"
Zion stepped forward. "Because what comes for us will not be stopped by passion, faith, or even power. The Hive is not just a force—it is a mind. And to fight it, I need minds as sharp and cold as death."
The silence cracked like ancient stone. One of the gods chuckled—dry and hollow.
Anubis finally spoke. "You ask to stand in the presence of generals who defied gods. Men and women who made monsters of their armies."
"I do," Zion said. "And I offer nothing in return but the truth: if I fail, death will not remain sovereign. The Hive will consume even your thrones."
The chamber rumbled. The thrones pulsed with memories.
Then, slowly, from beyond the veil, shadows emerged. Not ghosts—legends.
Names lost to history. Eyes that once saw through the fog of war as if it were clear sky.
One by one, they stepped forward:
General Sekeletu the Flayer of Empires
Lady Nari of the Endless Siege
Commander Baruun, Tactician of the 10,000 Traps
Olivar Rex, the Living Checkmate
Each wore no armor, no crown. Only scars and silence.
Zion did not kneel. He spoke as an equal.
"Teach me how to destroy what cannot be reasoned with."
And in unison, the dead replied:
"Then come walk with us, Zion. Into the dark… where only war remains