In this world, execution is mercy. They hang the worst criminals in the public squares of Ironveil, let the crowds watch the necks snap, then drag the souls screaming from whatever hell claims them. The Temple's black-robed priests chant forbidden words over the cooling bodies. A moment later the corpse twitches, eyes snap open, and the condemned stands again—not forgiven, not redeemed, just useful. They call them Heroes. The name is a joke only the state finds funny. These walking dead wear black-iron collars that glow when they try to run, restraints forged in Cinderhold's lava forges that promise a quicker death if they ever desert. They remember every kill, every wound, every time their hearts stopped and started again. Each resurrection carves away another piece of who they used to be—until what's left is mostly rage, numbness, and the dull instinct to keep moving forward. Because the alternative is worse. Beyond the walls, the Demon Blight waits. It doesn't march or scheme; it simply spreads. Soil turns to breathing flesh. Trees grow teeth and hunger. Cities that once stood proud reshape themselves into throbbing, veined citadels that birth monsters from their own streets. When the corruption thickens enough, something worse happens: a Demon Lord rises, crowned in crystal within a ruined body, claiming the land as its warped kingdom. The cycle has no end.