Deep within a network of hidden tunnels miles away from Blackstone Gully, the remnants of Ironhide Garo's forces huddled in the oppressive darkness. The air was thick with the stench of fear, sweat, and stale blood. They were not warriors anymore; they were prey, survivors of a massacre orchestrated by a single white-robed nightmare.

"Gone... Garo is gone," a grizzled man with a missing arm sobbed, rocking back and forth. "Just... gone. That kid... Little Crab... he just pointed his staff..."

"It wasn't just the staff!" another cultivator, his face pale and eyes wide with terror, interrupted. "It was the chant! I saw it! When the people in the outpost started chanting... the power flowed into him! He needed it! That's why he paused! He was drawing strength from their belief!"

"So... the Crab God is real?" a younger recruit whispered, his voice trembling. "The chanting... it gives them power?"

"Of course, it's real, you idiot!" the first man snapped, his fear momentarily replaced by anger. "Did you not see what happened? Garo was a Second Level Soul Formation expert! He could crush mountains! And that kid... that child... he dazed him with a shout! He needed the chant to finish the job! That's how their cult works!"

The conversation devolved into panicked whispers, each man trying to make sense of the incomprehensible power they had witnessed. The story twisted and grew darker with each retelling.

"I heard..." a scout, who had escaped the earlier rout at Talon's Peak Pass spoke up, his voice barely audible. "...about the other one. Vespertine. The Venom Lord."

All eyes turned to him. Vespertine was a legend among their ranks, a boogeyman whose poisons were feared even by Soul Formation commanders.

"They say..." the scout continued, swallowing hard, "...that Little Crab didn't just kill him. He played with him. Like a cat with a mouse."

The others leaned in, morbidly fascinated.

"They say Little Crab was completely immune to his poisons. Vespertine hit him with everything he had, even the Void-Wraith's Kiss and the kid just laughed. Laughed! Then he stripped Vespertine naked, broke his limbs and started feeding him his own poisons, vial by vial. Kept him alive, just barely, asking him questions about his techniques, mocking him."

A collective shudder went through the group.

"Vespertine... he couldn't take it. After the third day, he started begging for death. Begging! But Little Crab just smiled and said the Crab God only accepts offerings at the 'correct time,' when the 'stars align with the deepest trenches.' So he kept Vespertine alive, hovering between life and death, feeding him poisons and pain for three days and three nights. Finally, when Vespertine was just a hollowed-out husk, barely breathing, then Little Crab granted him the 'sweet release of death.' Blasted his head clean off with that black staff."

The scout finished his tale, his face slick with sweat. Whether the story was true or not didn't matter. It was believable from what they had seen and heard elsewhere. It fit the narrative of power, terrifying cruelty and bizarre religious fanaticism that was rapidly coalescing around the Abyssal Crab Cult.

"Three days... feeding him his own poison..." the young recruit whispered, looking like he was about to vomit. "Ancestors protect us..."

Miles away, in a temporary command camp hidden in the foothills near the besieged city of Aethelgard, a different kind of fear held sway. The camp belonged to a coalition of Beast Faction and demonic cultivator forces, tasked with maintaining pressure on the lynchpin city. But the pressure had vanished. The siege was broken and now an unnerving silence emanated from Aethelgard.

"Any movement?" barked Commander Vrak, a hulking Beast Faction warrior whose arms ended in massive, crab-like pincers – a cruel irony he was only just beginning to appreciate.

"Nothing, Commander," replied a scout, nervously wringing his hands. "It's been two weeks since... since the Duke and the others were dealt with. No patrols have left the city. No major troop movements within. Just... silence."

"It's him," hissed a demonic cultivator, his eyes glowing with a faint red light from beneath his hood. "The Prophet. Khaos. He sits in the city like a spider in its web. Waiting."

The mood in the command tent was thick with dread. Ever since the arrival of the Abyssal Crab Cult and the subsequent annihilation of their top commanders, Aethelgard had become a black hole on the tactical map.

"The assassination attempt was a disaster," Vrak growled, slamming a pincer onto the table, cracking the wood. "Fifteen of our best Shadow Stalkers. Peak Core Formation, masters of stealth and concealment. They slipped through the outer wall during the shift change, flawless infiltration."

"And?" the demonic cultivator prompted, though he already knew the answer.

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"And they froze," Vrak spat. "The moment they crossed the inner perimeter array, they just... stopped. Mid-stride. Like statues. Then he appeared. Khaos. Floated right out of the central spire. Didn't even look surprised. He just sneered and said, 'The Crab God smells rats in his holy city.'"

The scout shivered. "I saw it from my observation post. He didn't kill them right away. He used some kind of void power... lifted them all high into the sky, hundreds of meters up. Just left them there, frozen, unable to move or speak, for hours. Waiting."

"Waiting for what?" the demonic cultivator asked, a note of unease in his voice.

"Waiting for noon," the scout whispered. "When the sun was highest in the sky. Then, in front of the entire city garrison, who had gathered on the walls to watch, he just... snapped his fingers. And they all exploded. Turned to black dust. He called it a 'midday sacrifice to cleanse the city.'"

A heavy silence descended on the tent. Assassination was off the table.

"And the lure?" Vrak asked, his voice tight.

"Worse," the demonic cultivator replied. "Three hundred volunteers from the Human Faction. Brave, perhaps, but foolish. They marched up to the eastern gate last week, hurling insults, trying to draw out the city's defenders, maybe even Khaos himself."

"Did it work?"

"Oh, it worked," the demonic cultivator said grimly. "They shouted obscenities about the city leaders, about Grand Elder Theron… but Khaos didn't even stir. But then... one of them made a mistake. A fatal one. He shouted something crude about the Crab God. Called it a 'bottom-feeder deity.'"

Vrak winced. "Ancestors..."

"Instantaneous," the demonic cultivator confirmed. "Khaos appeared above them. Didn't say a word. Just raised his hand. A wave of black void energy washed over them. And... they were gone. All three hundred. Not killed, Commander. Erased. Like they never existed. The ground where they stood was just... empty."

He leaned forward, his red eyes burning. "We cannot approach that city. We cannot send assassins. We cannot even speak ill of their ridiculous god without risking annihilation. Khaos doesn't patrol. He doesn't sortie. He just sits there. And dares us to provoke him. The city is untouchable."

Vrak slumped back in his chair, his pincers clicking nervously. "So what are our orders?"

"Maintain the perimeter," the demonic cultivator said. "Observe. Do not engage. And pray to whatever dark masters you serve that Khaos remains content within those walls."

Meanwhile, far to the east, in the Echoing Chasm, the sounds were anything but silent. Explosions echoed off the canyon walls, mingled with the clash of steel, the roars of beasts, and the near-constant, maniacal chanting and singing of one man.

"PRAISE THE GOD CRAB, HIS MIGHTY CLAW!" Boom! "HIS BOUNDLESS VOID ARE OUR LAWS!" Slice! "THE CRAB GOD'S MIGHT WILL NEVER WANE!!" Crash! "THROUGH SHELL AND CLAW HIS RULE SHALL REIGN!!" Slash!

Jian Xuan was having the time of his life. He never felt more free. An open battleground for him to fight however he wanted, as much as he wanted and he would be rewarded for it all.

In a hidden encampment carved into the chasm wall, a motley group of mercenaries huddled together, listening to the distant sounds of slaughter. They weren't aligned with any faction; they had been hired by a Human Faction commander weeks ago to harass supply lines, promised good pay and easy pickings. It had been easy. Until he arrived.

"He's still going," a wiry man with nervous eyes muttered, taking a shaky sip from a waterskin. "Been at it for three days straight. Doesn't he ever sleep?"

"Sleep?" scoffed a heavily scarred woman sharpening her dagger. "Lunatics don't need sleep. They run on pure crazy."

"He lives up to his name, the Loud One," the wiry man continued. "You can hear him coming from miles away. Always shouting, always chanting. Always charging headfirst into the thickest fighting like he's afraid someone won't notice him."

"Don't mistake the crazy for weakness," the woman warned, her eyes dark. "I saw what he did to Commander Borlag's detachment. Borlag had two hundred men, veterans, dug in tight. Jian Xuan just... charged them. Singing. Cut through them like a knife through tofu. Never stopped moving, never stopped chanting.. no singing. It was... unnatural."

"But he's just one man!" the wiry man protested. "He's Soul Formation, yes, but there are thousands of us in this chasm!"

"He's not just Soul Formation," the woman corrected grimly. "He's Abyssal Crab Cult Soul Formation. There's a difference. They fight like they're possessed. Like they don't care if they live or die, only about offering kills to their god."

A younger mercenary spoke up, his voice trembling. "I heard... I heard they collect the blood. That Jian Xuan carries special gourds, drains the lifeblood of his strongest enemies."

The wiry man went pale. "Collect blood? For what?"

"To summon him," the boy whispered, eyes wide with terror. "To summon the Crab God. They say if they spill enough blood, offer enough sacrifices, their god will manifest. And if their god is as crazy as they are..."

The implication hung heavy in the air. A god as powerful and unhinged as its followers, brought physically into this world through blood sacrifice.

"I'm out," the wiry man declared, standing up abruptly. "I signed up to raid supply lines, maybe fight some garrison troops. I didn't sign up to fight lunatics trying to summon some abyssal horror. I'm taking my pay and leaving. Heading north. Far north."

"Me too," the scarred woman said, sheathing her dagger. "This whole southern war is turning into a madhouse. First the prophecies of the Beast God, then the whispers of the Human Sovereign, now this... Crab Cult. Let the fanatics kill each other. I'm going somewhere quiet."

Several others nodded in agreement. The arrival of the Abyssal Crab Cult, with their overwhelming power and terrifying fanaticism, had fundamentally changed the equation. This was no longer a war for territory or resources; it felt like the prelude to something far darker, a clash of mad gods and their even madder followers.

And for those who were just trying to make a living through violence, it was time to get out. The risk was no longer worth the reward. They didn't want to be caught in the crossfire when the Crab God finally answered his followers' bloody prayers.