The unnatural twilight of the subterranean pocket collapsed like pierced parchment, unraveling the warped spatial folds of the mutated Seven-Shard Gate into the crisp night air.
Where endless cavern domes and suffocating purple miasma loomed for grueling days, the open sky of the northern frontier arched above them, painted in vast ribbons of pale starlight.
The sudden scent of damp earth, sweet mountain pine, and fresh alpine wind rushed into their lungs, washing away the foul stench of sulfur and burning void ash.
Across the clearing at the base of the foothills, surviving imperial vanguard soldiers slowly rose from the grass, staring up at the moon with hollow, tear-stained eyes.
Field medics moved quietly between the scattered rows of injured men, applying soothing herbal tinctures, wrapping clean linen over gaping lacerations, and setting broken bones.
