The flickering tapers along the chapel walls did little to dispel the gloom, merely deepening the shadows that clung to every gargoyle and stained-glass saint. A chill, damp air, smelling of ancient stone and funerary lilies, crept under the heavy oak doors, making the silk of Danica’s gown feel like a shroud. Her hands, encased in frost-white lace, trembled as she stood at the altar, the ceremonial iron circlet pressing cold against her brow. This wasn’t a union; it was a ritual sacrifice, and she, Danica of House Vukovoj, was the lamb. Her groom, Dragoš, stood beside her, a strange, feral grace in his stance, utterly oblivious to the silent screams of the congregation, or perhaps, simply uncaring. He was a man carved from raw defiance, a stranger who had appeared like a wraith from the mist-shrouded depths of Zvergrad, and now, he was her doom.
Then, the world shattered. Not with a whisper, but a roar. The massive, iron-bound sanctuary doors exploded inward, splintering wood and sending ornate hinges skittering across the flagstones. A frigid gust, thick with the stench of brimstone and scorched earth, swept through the nave, extinguishing half the tapers. Through the swirling dust and smoke, hulking figures emerged, their armor forged from obsidian scales, their helms horned and cruel. The Ashen Cohort. Their arrival, heralded by the thunderous clang of their leader’s gauntlet against his chest plate, sent a collective gasp rippling through the terrified nobles.
Danica flinched, her heart a frantic bird in her ribs. This was it. The demonic horde, come to claim the cursed bride, to finally drag Zvergrad into the abyss. She braced herself for the infernal touch, for the pain, for the end. But Dragoš, her supposed groom, merely blinked. He didn't even turn his head. Instead, he angled himself slightly against the altar, mumbled, “Seriously? No cutscene skip button? Fine, gotta try clipping this,” and began performing aggressive jumping jacks. His movements were exaggerated, almost cartoonish, his elbows pumping, knees high, as if trying to phase through the ancient stone like a ghost through a wall. Danica stared, aghast. The assembled nobles, frozen in terror, watched him with wide, incredulous eyes. The iron-clad commander, a towering behemoth named Kaelo, its obsidian helm shaped like a snarling wolf’s maw, stomped forward, its voice a gravelly rumble that shook the very foundations of the apse. “You… you dare disrespect the arrival of the Ashen Cohort with such… *antics*? Mortal, do you not comprehend the doom that stands before you?”
Dragoš ignored him, grunting with effort. “Come on, just a little further. I can feel the collision mesh here. This has to be a hidden geometry skip.” He paused, frowning at the altar. “Okay, maybe I need better jump stats. Or… ah!” He reached into thin air, his hand vanishing for a moment before reappearing, clutching a steaming, lumpy bowl. The aroma was startlingly mundane: boiled root vegetables and tough meat. A 'Basic Stamina Stew,' the blue text above it declared, visible only to him.
[Basic Stamina Stew consumed. +20 Stamina for 30 minutes.]
He didn’t consume it. Instead, Dragoš whirled, shoving the bowl directly into the face of Father Lazlo, the cursed High Priest, who had been muttering panicked incantations beside them, his eyes wide with fear. The priest, gaunt and frail from years of the Oplenac blight, choked on the stew. His eyes rolled back. His body stiffened, then began to glow. A soft, golden luminescence at first, then a blinding, ethereal pillar of light erupted from his form, tearing through the chapel ceiling. The cursed priest, screaming not in pain but in ecstatic, guttural triumph, ascended in a slow, majestic spiral of pure, holy energy, leaving behind only the lingering scent of lilies and the scorched outline of a man on the altar stones. The light, radiating with purifying force, struck the invaders. Their scaled armor hissed, smoke rising from their forms as they recoiled, their demonic eyes searing shut.
Dragoš merely sighed, rubbing his temples. “Ugh, another unskippable cutscene. Seriously, developers, give us options.” He then turned, flashing a strangely glitched, exaggerated gesture towards the vaulted ceiling, his arms spread wide, his back arching in a bizarre, almost broken pose. It was a pose the Silent Zmey, the elite assassins who lurked in the rafters, knew well. It was their god’s blessing, a distorted echo of an ancient prayer. From the shadows above, a dozen black-clad figures dropped, silent as snowfall, landing in perfect, kneeling formation around Dragoš, their faces rapt with a terrifying religious ecstasy. They were the apex predators of Zvergrad, now reduced to trembling devotees, ready to tear apart anyone who dared touch their 'Divine Exploit'.
Kaelo, the warlord, roared, its sight returning, its rage boiling over at the humiliation. “You will pay for this, mortal! For the blasphemy, for the insult, for turning our glorious conquest into a mockery!” It raised its enormous, spiked axe, scales shifting with its furious charge. Dragoš yawned, a wide, unconcerned stretch. He pointed a finger, not at Kaelo, but at a shimmering blue box that hung in the air only he could perceive. “Sorry man, server maintenance in 29 days, gotta speedrun this.” He reached into thin air again, pulling out a crude, knotty wooden club, splintered and stained with what looked suspiciously like pixelated mud. The starting weapon.