One hooded disciple falls to the floor with eyes rolled in his head and drooling from the mouth. Soon, two others suffer the same and end up unconscious. Arrax grits his teeth when he feels how the Dungeon Core absorbs a gigantic quantity of ether. The wizard's mind falters for an instant, and only by sheer force of will does he manage to stay awake and focused.

"You, supplement them!" Arrax commands the disciple who opened the Imp's cage. She nods and, with a certain nervousness that is reflected in the awkwardness of her steps and gestures, pulls one of her lying companions to position inside the ritual circle. As soon as she manifests her ether, the woman feels how the crystal pulls hard on her magical power, almost making her fall face first to the floor.

King Marc and his entourage gaze up at the high vaulted ceiling of the core room, though their attention and imagination go much higher. All tense with uncertainty. Hilda for a moment is tempted to send some of her soldiers to check, but abandons the idea believing that splitting her forces would be a fatal mistake.

Outside the castle, Lynel falls sits to the floor with a twitching face, breaking out in a cold sweat, clutching what's left of his left arm: A bleeding stump below the elbow. Near the third captain's legs, his staff is still attached to his arm. Under the threshold of the inner wall entrance, a dark elf with half shaved hair gives him a sadistic smile as she points a long sword.

"I like older men. Surrender and I will keep you as my pet” the elf offers.

Although the proposition is an offense to Lynel, the man maintains a temperate character and throws a spit on the side of the cobblestone road, then plants his one hand and makes an effort to get up.

"A true warrior always looks for a chance to die standing up” Lynel assures him between gasps of pain and exhaustion.

"Maybe I should cut your hamstrings... But our orders were to sweep with speed and brutality” says the elf and takes a step forward, ready to skewer Lynel with a thrust.

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The captain's legs are unresponsive, the same with his remaining arm, his body is beyond the limit. He closes the eyes to wait for the final blow. In his mind, apologizes to the kingdoms for not being strong enough, and to his granddaughter for not being able to see her grow up. He also apologizes to his comrades, who he bets continue to fight until their last breath.

He will die fighting. That is his consolation.

"Hm?" Lynel is surprised when seconds pass and the blow still doesn't come. Opening one eye, he sees an arm and a leg sticking out of the stone. The limbs lose any trace of tension and go flaccid, fingers loosening the plenilunium blade.

Lynel, dumbfounded, slowly looks up without finding an end to the wall.

An aquamarine and then white glow takes hold on the three walls. For a while the walls seem to be made of malleable energy, changing and growing. Rustic stone, as old as the world, devours the watchtowers and the threshold arches, the same happens with the gigantic exterior reliefs that honor history with the sculpted forms of the previous kings, figures that end up replaced by wide and unadorned rock, like the faces of the ancient cliffs.

The walls grow so high that their shadows seem to turn day into night, and the Cyclops find it impossible to overcome the height with the throws of their projectiles, barely touching the top.

The horsemen's faces change from fierce enjoyment to fright. What a second ago was a hole, is now black and sharp rock, solid like a mountain. Those leading the march pull on the bicorns' reins and try to slow down, but the momentum of the beasts is impossible to change in such a short period of time.

The bicorns hit the wall, some with such force that their heads dislocate or explode. The riders suffer a similar fate, and the dozen or so elves who manage to survive the crash thanks to their plenilunium armor are soon crushed by the riders coming up behind. The roar of the horses' hooves turns into the crunching of metal and the tearing of flesh, also into cries of warning and desperate rectification. Finally it turns into a splash where the curses and sobs of the badly wounded reign.

More than 50 horsemen died and about 70 were too wounded to continue. Those at the tail of the onslaught were too dismayed and confused about what happened, and chose to retreat.

Moonsong looks at the scene through her spyglass, shock and horror dominating her beautiful face.

From above, an unseen spectator lets out a victorious laugh that no one can hear.