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Amid this chaotic spectacle, a piercing cry suddenly sliced through the atmosphere. “Commander! Commander! Fire… Fire!” A junior officer’s voice quivered with sheer terror. The urgent alert snapped Commander Lister out of his daze. He quickly glanced out of the command post window and saw a horrifying scene along the coastline: the sea was ablaze, and flames shot up into the sky. An unsettling spectral green color started to emanate from the flames, cascading like a waterfall and quickly filling his entire field of vision.

The eerie flames gyrated wildly in all directions, wielding a force so intimidating that it seemed to penetrate to the depths of one’s soul. Commander Lister involuntarily took a step back. Almost immediately, his gaze shifted to a gas lamp hanging on the wall nearby. Its typically harmless flame now bore a tinge of that same unsettling green hue.

In the distance, a deep, thunderous noise resonated, causing the entire city to shake. This was accompanied by a harsh, grating sound as if something immense was being torn asunder. A powerful, deafening roar reverberated throughout the command center, rendering everyone temporarily deaf from its sheer intensity.

A spectator watching the events unfold towards the city-state saw that the distorted and mirrored buildings, which seemed to have enveloped the city, were now crumbling, fracturing into pieces. From these splintered gaps, flames of even greater magnitude erupted. Engulfed in the sprawling green fire were countless chunks of black material, which were systematically consumed and annihilated.

Near the city’s harbor defense zone, a soldier cowered behind a decaying shelter. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the distant twisted buildings crack open, unleashing hundreds of grotesque, deformed creatures. As these creatures scampered away from the flames, they disintegrated into black ash.

In the city’s central area, at the base of a mountain, the defending forces were locked in intense combat against an invasion of monstrous doppelgängers. Suddenly, an army materialized from distorted beams of light and shadows. These soldiers wore uniforms reminiscent of the Queen’s Guard from half a century ago. They flooded the city streets, shouting the name of the Frost Queen as they fought valiantly against grotesque invaders that seemed to tear the very fabric of reality itself.

At the last line of defense in front of the Silent Cathedral, a senior priest galvanized his fellow clergy members to hold their ground against an onslaught of monstrous creatures flooding the square. Steam walkers operated by the defenders shot pressurized flames while death priests conjured ethereal, ghostly fires. Together, these two forms of fire wove into a fragile defensive barrier, barely holding back the nightmarish wave of grotesque creatures and their oozing, toxic sludge.

“Hold them back!” the senior priest roared, his voice filled with strain and on the verge of breaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an eerie phenomenon: fine, pale ashes began to descend from the towering heights of the Silent Cathedral. These ashes floated gracefully, almost as if they were the first snowflakes of winter. “Barricade the cathedral door! Barric—”

His directive was abruptly cut off by a deafening roar accompanied by a seismic tremor so intense that it seemed capable of splitting mountains asunder. The senior priest wobbled, nearly losing his balance from the jarring force of the upheaval. Suddenly, a thorn-like projection crafted from mud lunged toward him, its aura emanating a deadly menace. It pierced through their shaky defenses and aimed directly at him.

Just as he was about to be impaled, a mysterious, spectral green flame materialized out of nowhere, incinerating the mud-crafted thorn and reducing it to a heap of inert ash.

Still reeling from the near miss, the priest looked up and saw a figure slowly materializing in front of him. She was dressed in tattered black robes, reminiscent of the garb worn by ascetics or hermits. Cracks marred her body, each one acting like a channel for streams of fire as if she were a living conduit for a perpetual flow of molten lava or blood.

“Gatekeeper Agatha…?” he stammered, his face a canvas of mixed emotions—shock and recognition battling for dominance. The figure before him seemed both known and unknown. As he spoke her name, more figures began to materialize around her, all of them enveloped in that same mystical, green flame.

“I’ve returned,” Agatha announced, turning her hollow eyes toward him. These eyes were illuminated by twin sparks of incandescent fire. “Either retreat with the survivors or find a safe place to make your final stand.”

“Make a stand?” The senior priest looked bewildered, his face a picture of incomprehension as he tried to digest her words. “And why are you… why have you transformed?”

Agatha offered no response. Instead, she shifted her gaze toward the sea that lay beyond the city’s borders. A thick, suffocating cloud of smoke was rising from the ocean’s surface, and the sky was blanketed with ominous, low-hanging clouds. The sea itself seemed to mirror this gathering darkness, its surface turning into an inky black abyss. Emerging from these fathomless depths was an indescribable, monstrous entity, slowly beginning its ascent.

Two enormous orbs of luminescent green light, radiant as twin celestial bodies, started to rise through the dense plumes of smoke and ominous cloud cover. A shape defying human comprehension began to materialize within this murky environment; it was as if the sea and the atmosphere were conspiring to birth an unimaginable monstrosity. The spectacle was so overpowering that even Agatha, who had long been beyond the need for breath, felt a newfound sensation akin to choking—a suffocation that seemed to target her very soul.

“God of Death…” Overwhelmed by the almost palpable atmospheric pressure, the high priest faltered once more, struggling to keep himself upright. “What in heaven’s name is that?!”

Agatha slightly tilted her head, her voice tinged with a grim resignation. “I warned you. Find a safe place to make a stand.”

Confused, the high priest could hardly fathom what Agatha was implying. However, as the colossal figure materializing in the clouds started to take a more definitive form, he began to grasp its horror.

What was rising from the seemingly boundless stretch of the ocean was a figure of unimaginable scale, as if born from the ocean’s very essence. Those twin orbs of green fire set within the dark clouds were its eyes. The churning, swirling maelstrom of clouds seemed like its breath. The enormous, shadowy silhouette rising through the smoke was, unbelievably, its arm.

And that arm was now reaching towards the city of Frost.

“Lord!!!” A piercing cry of desperation shattered the hushed atmosphere of the city square.

Yet, although appearing to move at a relaxed pace, the arm outstripped any shout or prayer. It glided over the ocean with astonishing ease, bypassing the Sea Mist fleet, skirting past the engaged ships of the Frost Navy, and evading the monster armada. It crossed the city’s coastal defenses and, with the subtleness of a hand delicately probing a veil of mist, penetrated the heart of the city of Frost itself.

In the next heartbeat, the arm commenced its slow, deliberate ascension. It appeared to be lifting a weight unimaginable in scale, ascending higher and higher into the sky.

As it rose, a mirror image of the city started to disengage from the actual Frost. Every distorted skyscraper, each warped and bloated landscape, the mountains covered in menacing thorns, and all the abhorrent entities that eerily mimicked but horrifically deviated from the real world—these were being extracted from the physical Frost by the gargantuan hand’s irresistible grip.

This mirrored version of Frost, once intrinsically woven into the city’s reality, now dangled at an elevation beyond what its creators could ever have envisioned. And still, it continued to rise, carried by that colossal hand into unfathomable heights.

A deep, hearty laugh of profound delight erupted from Agatha’s lips, resounding through the air like an unexpected melody. The mirrored version of Frost, having been fully disengaged from the physical realm of the city-state, proceeded in its surreal ascent. The scene was reminiscent of an elaborate exorcism ritual, where a titanic arm gently elevated the malevolent spirit towards the layer of thick clouds looming overhead.

Hidden deep within those clouds, the twin orbs of green light—burning like two miniature suns—flickered ever so slightly. A visage that inspired awe and terror, only faintly visible, seemed to peer down from the heavens.

A cacophony of faint, indistinct sounds came from the massive palm clutching the Mirror Frost. Mingling within this symphony were not just physical noises but also the emotional reverberations of the city: the tortured screams encapsulated within its twisted edifices, the stubborn delusions and misconceptions that had long plagued its inhabitants.

Duncan, observing the spectacle from above, perceived the mirrored city as a malformed lump of flesh within his colossal palm. The streets, once cheap imitations of the real world, were regressing into a murky, sludgy chaos. Amid these contorted streets and grotesque landscapes, minuscule thorns twitched, and almost imperceptible sparks flickered erratically. Hundreds of fanatical adherents, caught in the webs of their own unfounded convictions, buzzed like trapped flies. The collective sound was an unsettling blend of fear, rage, reluctance, and pure malevolence.

Were these misguided zealots still clinging to their apocalyptic narratives? Or had they finally begun to seek some form of rational explanation for the horrors they had inadvertently unleashed upon the world?

Duncan turned his gaze downward after pausing to listen to the city’s despairing symphony. “You lack the understanding of large-scale sacrifices,” he announced with solemn gravity.

Under the burden of his scrutinizing gaze, the mirrored city, cradled within his immense palm, spontaneously combusted. Ash and ghostly green flames descended from the sky like a torrential downpour, a hellish rain emanating from the layers of dense clouds above.

Tyrian surveyed the unfolding catastrophe. Beside him stood First Officer Aiden, a robust man with a bald head. His eyes were cast upwards, struggling to make sense of the shadowy behemoth whose form was far too grand for human comprehension. A subtle shiver ran through Aiden’s frame as he pondered the spectacle.

“Your thoughts?” Tyrian asked, turning towards his first officer. His smile was a mysterious blend of emotions, inscrutable and complex.

Aiden fumbled awkwardly, pulling a pipe from his chest pocket. His hands trembled so uncontrollably that lighting the pipe became an insurmountable challenge. Finally, after several failed attempts, he set the unlit pipe down. “The old captain… he wouldn’t hold it against us for opposing him, would he?” His voice was shaky, tinged with uncertainty.

Tyrian responded with a soft, almost indifferent chuckle as he pulled a cigarette from his own pocket. “Father would never waste his time with such petty concerns,” he stated. Yet, even this usually stoic and unflappable man struggled mightily but failed to ignite the flame as if the world itself was denying them even these small comforts.