Galisk's brows furrowed. His golden mech bristled behind him, forming new armaments, new shields, reacting instinctively to the shift.
"Death of purpose…" he echoed, almost to himself.
Around them, Union officers staggered—some dropping to their knees, clutching their heads, others standing still in the middle of battle, rifles hanging limp in their grasp. Their eyes became unfocused, as if some invisible weight pressed down on their very will.
"You feel it, don't you?" the horned woman whispered, raising one hand.
The shadows rippled outward in waves—waves of nihilism, seeping into hearts and minds.
"Why fight?" her voice echoed in their heads. "Why bleed, why resist, when all your strength is just a delay? When everything you build cracks and burns in the end?"
A Union officer screamed and fired blindly into the air, breaking under the pressure. Another simply collapsed, sobbing as he tore off his helmet.
