In the wake of Queen 117's death, the Hive declared its first formal decree in millennia.
It was called The Culling Storm.
A campaign of ruthless vengeance.
A purge not just of resistance—but of hope.
Across the Hive's star-sunken dominion, eggs split open with acidic steam and clawed birth. From their cocoons emerged a new class of devourers—sinewy, silent, and bearing a single mark in their mind:
Kill Zion.
They were not mindless beasts. These were Eclipsed Brood-Lords, carved from marrow memories of fallen gods and demons the Hive had consumed over epochs. Each bore mimicry of divine technique, a stolen shadow of celestial power warped into weaponized rage. Their eyes held no soul, only calculation.
And so the Hive sent them—toward the edge of the galaxy, toward Bassoon's frontlines.
But Zion was already waiting.
In the forward-most sector of the galaxy's war-torn edge, a flat, desolate plane once used to birth stars had become the staging ground. There stood the bait.
Zion.
He stood alone in the open at first glance, calm as the eye of a cosmic storm. His coat moved faintly in the ever-thickening air, and the weight of godhood and mortality fused in his presence.
His eyes watched the void with quiet patience.
But he was not alone.
Behind the veil of reality, disguised as men carved by dust and grit, stood three powers veiled in mortal flesh.
Papa Legba, barefoot and laughing softly under his breath, leaned against an invisible gate post only he could see.
Ogou Feray, his arms crossed, hands scarred from battle and blacksmithing alike, tapped his foot in a war rhythm passed down since the dawn of man.
Baka La Kwa, dressed as a wandering farmer, held a rusted cane. His eyes shimmered once, flashing through a thousand faces he'd worn through time.
Each waited in silence—guardians of crossroads and chaos alike.
Zion spoke softly, but his voice rolled like thunder.
"It must be a Lord Marshal. No less."
Not a scout. Not a devourer.
The Hive wanted blood.
Zion would give them a war.
And in doing so, he would pull a Lord Marshal from the shadows of the Culling Storm—and end them.
The bait was set. The gods disguised. The battlefield chosen.
All that remained…
…was the arrival of the prey