The rift tore open in the middle of the broad street, a wound in stone breathing cold wind.

Night Frost and her two stood at the mouth, listening to bootfalls like drums rolling down a tunnel, watching black shapes raise their heads.

Not the pursuing Fallen One, but undead shackled by the Abyss, a black tide with a limping, one-armed Fallen One standing at its tail.

She tore off an undead’s arm and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing like gravel.

Then she ripped the other, shredding it to scraps, licked her lips, and turned to the next.

The mindless dead don’t resist; the Fallen One is their queen, a black crown in the Abyss, ruling their lives, motions, everything.

Abyssal Aura coiled around her like smoke.

As she devoured the dead, her charred stump crawled back to life.

A new arm would soon sprout, her strength rising like a dusk tide.

Night Frost ached to stop her, but the street was packed wall to wall with undead, a hedge of bodies closing paths.

Some were Magic Maidens, some cyborgs; their strength sharp as winter iron; if they linked up, none of the trio could handle them alone.

After the earlier battle Formation, this fight would be a grindstone.

Undead lined both sides like a dense forest.

Night Frost’s trio were ringed tight, the noose pulling.

To stop the Fallen One’s recovery, they had to punch through that thicket.

Dawnlight’s evening dress flared like a pale flame.

Her golden scepter slammed into concrete, and holy light ran along cracks.

It gathered into thick, dawn-gold chains around her.

The chains swept wide, batting a swath of dead aside.

A Holy Lance fell from the sky; its surging light couldn’t fully stop the mindless march.

Night Frost’s Spear spun, flinging fireballs like meteors.

Each smashed an undead skull.

The tide kept coming, a sea with no shore.

Their purpose was clear: drain the trio’s Mana; even knowing it, the sheer number was a mountain pressing down.

Illusory Glass’s time Mana worked, but only a thin slice could be frozen.

What could kill in bulk?

There was a way, a spark in smoke.

Night Frost hauled diesel and gasoline from a small box.

Loot from that gas station, leftovers after torching the mall.

Douse their heads, then give them fire.

The fuel was limited, a brief dam against this wave; she hated to spend it, yet now was the perfect hour.

Night Frost tossed two cans, metal fish arcing through smoke.

Illusory Glass hurled condensed Mana and smashed the plastic midair.

Night Frost’s fingertip Crimson Gold Flame kissed the spray, and it blossomed.

Burning fuel turned into a rain of fire, spattering skulls.

A heavy gasoline stench drowned the street.

Then came the reek of socks roasting.

The stench clawed the throat; the trio pinched their noses.

Night Frost dove into a side alley like a swallow.

Dawnlight unfurled platinum wings over the howling dead.

Illusory Glass stood within Night Frost’s Formation, backed by the slowly closing Abyssal Rift.

This Formation blocked the choking smoke nearby, a shield so Illusory Glass could work long inside the black haze.

“Beep— hey, hey, is that Miss Dawnlight? We’re about to drop a signal emitter, loaded with Magic Tools and some supplies. Should help you.”

Before Night Frost and Dawnlight peeled away, Illusory Glass grabbed Dawnlight’s comm.

Their future selves received supplies too, footprints laid ahead.

Not enough to flip the war, but helpful like rain on drought.

Illusory Glass stayed to receive the drop, a sentinel in smoke.

“Ah, sorry, I’m not Miss Dawnlight, but you can drop here. Please hurry.”

As her voice left the device, Moon Owl answered, voice edged with displeasure.

Illusory Glass braced for a lecture afterward, the kind she secretly loved.

“I’ll be right back. Sorry, Moon Owl sis~”

Illusory Glass ended the call and cleared a landing space.

Mana pooled beneath her feet into a heavy time dial.

Pages in her hand flared silver-white.

The front rank froze, like thick walls standing in flame.

Zombies behind slammed into the “walls”; they only knew forward.

Fire crawled onto their backs like a hungry vine.

Night Frost reached the Fallen One first, a shadow cutting through embers.

Devouring had filled her with Abyssal Aura.

A new arm sprouted from the stump, old-looking, wrinkled, dried like bark.

Night Frost drew her Spear from Crimson Gold Flame and thrust for the Fallen One’s chest.

Drunk on joy, the Fallen One snapped her eyes open and raised both hands.

The building shuddered like a caged beast.

From the earth, brown-black pines punched up and shattered the tower.

The pine trunks exploded like rotten drums.

Thick Abyssal Aura flooded out.

Plants in nearby beds surged by her will and spread.

Twisted growths drilled from soil, alive like serpents, lunging at Night Frost.

Night Frost found a foothold midair and landed on another tower.

As she touched down, new pines tore up beneath it.

She leapt back again and again until nearby buildings lay ruined by summoned pines.

The air’s Abyssal Aura grew absurdly thick.

A black film seeped into the sky.

The undead fell silent, bathing in that heavy miasma.

They shed their thin shells; Abyssal Aura became new bodies; they grew stronger, a touch more aware, yet still ruled by the Abyss.

They stopped mindless charges and moved like clockwork, following Formation orders.

They ringed the tower below, and the armed ones swarmed the roof.

Night Frost saw it and pre-melted the iron door’s edges to the roof, buying a slice of time.

The Fallen One strolled over, lazy as a cat.

In her eyes, Night Frost saw the gleam of victory.

“Inferno, burn!”

As she closed in, both auras climbed to a peak.

The Fallen One felt stronger than before, pressing Night Frost down like storm weight.

The Spear drove clean through her chest; Crimson Gold Flame roared.

At her feet, deep-green twisted plants erupted.

They climbed the tower fast, swallowing it whole like a rising sea.

Night Frost had met these grasses before and knew what curled within; she wouldn’t take it head-on.

She summoned the last killing Spear early, dropping it, then kicked up on flames underfoot and vaulted high.

The Fallen One guessed it; even skewered, she called more Abyssal Aura; vines on the walls sharpened into long, killing blades.

The moment she thought it flawless, a golden Holy Lance detonated behind her.

Rich divine light blew apart the Abyssal Aura in her palms.

The rampant vines stalled, then drooped into air.

Dawnlight had flanked, a gleam knifing from the sun’s rim.

The sudden pines slowed her for a heartbeat, like wading through thorns, yet she made it.

She forged a hard Holy Lance with dense Mana, a star hammered from light.

She hurled it at the Fallen One, whose focus was locked on Night Frost.

Boom!

Night Frost’s finishing Spear and Dawnlight’s Holy Lance exploded together.

A dark figure was tossed by the blast.

The sound stunned the undead for seconds.

Night Frost seized the chance and broke the encirclement.

The Fallen One lay sunk in the ground, like a stone in mud.

Borrowing Abyssal Aura, she climbed back up like a weed through cracks.

Her coat was torn, flashing skin, but otherwise she looked untouched.

Rage darkened her face, yet she didn’t rush Dawnlight or Night Frost.

The holy light had scattered much of her inner Abyssal Aura.

A killing move had backfired into her viscera.

She seemed uninjured outside, but inside her Aura churned like stormwater under ice.

She coughed twice, waded into nearby undead, kicked off a head, and devoured it raw.

Her Aura swelled again, thick like smoke.

The Abyss gives its strength to the dead, like a river feeding a marsh.

The Fallen One eats the dead and takes a slice of the Abyss.

The more she slaughters, the stronger she grows, though there is a ceiling.

She shed her old elegance; black Blood smeared her face; her presence poured forward like a collapsing wave, smothering Night Frost and Dawnlight’s edge.

She raised a hand; massive vegetation braided together into high walls; wild, black, turbulent Abyssal Aura condensed there.

The Abyss itself answered; the ground cracked like dry lips, exhaling more of its Aura.

The dim sun was veiled by heavy black; day flipped into night in a breath; behind Illusory Glass, the Abyssal Rift kept closing.

“It’s time. Hurry.”

Illusory Glass spoke to the team beyond the phone, her voice a thread in static.

The busy shuffle beyond the line paused, like a heartbeat catching at a cliff.

“Stop the tuning. Fire now.”

Blade, seated at the console, gave the order; the red launch button waited until clearance, then Blade slammed it.

A rounded shell, carved with complex patterns, slid from the barrel on a thunderclap; golden tracery pulled in surrounding Mana and clung to the shell.

The closing rift’s surface was blasted open by the golden Magic Cannon.