In a realm where time curled in on itself like ash drawn into a storm, Zion sat beneath a sky of still lightning. Around him stood the warlords of legend—not illusions or echoes, but eternal minds pulled from the void by the gods of death themselves.
Each one a butcher of armies. Each one a sculptor of slaughter.
The first to speak was General Sekeletu the Flayer of Empires, his face marked by cuts that had never healed, each wound a lesson in blood.
"The Hive is not a horde—it is a thought, multiplied and weaponized. Every time you kill it, it learns. You must teach it to fear learning."
He drew a map in the dust using the broken bone of a forgotten god.
"Decentralize your command. Rotate your signals. Create false leaders and let them be consumed. Let the Hive think it feeds, when in truth, it chokes on bait."
Then came Lady Nari of the Endless Siege, eyes hollowed by centuries of watching kingdoms crumble.
"You speak of fortresses. I will teach you of patience. Of digging trenches into the soul. The Hive cannot be overwhelmed—but it can be bled. Slowly. Purposely."
She knelt and showed him siege spirals that spiraled inward, not outward—methods to collapse enemy minds, not just bodies.
Baruun, Tactician of the 10,000 Traps, emerged next. Cloaked in shifting shadows and whispers, he did not speak. Instead, he showed—through illusions that flickered across the battlefield of the mind. Hives lured into mines. Gods mimicked by forgeries. Strategic retreats that led to total slaughter.
"Your enemy believes you incapable of deception. That is your weapon," whispered a voice in Zion's ear. "Learn to be what you are not."
Zion's breath grew shallow. The burden of knowledge was a weight far heavier than the sword.
Then Olivar Rex approached, the Living Checkmate, known across a hundred ages as the man who ended wars before they began. He laid down no weapon, only a question:
"You ask to win. But what does victory mean to you, Zion? To kill them all? To save your people? Or… to change the rules of war itself?"
Zion didn't answer. Not yet. Because in that moment, he realized something chilling.
These were not mentors. They were mirrors. Reflections of what he might become if he sacrificed too much in the name of survival.
And the path ahead was not just war—it was transformation.
One of the ghosts finally said:
"To defeat the Hive… you must become the one they can never consume."
And with that, Zion rose. Changed. Hardened.
He didn't thank them. Not out of pride, but reverence. You don't thank the dead for their pain. You carry it.