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The city of Kloa was a small, poor settlement in the Siran region's large igneous region. Like multiple urban developments and neighborhoods nestled in the tall traps, it too was secluded in the volcanic walls. The place was, honestly, packed. Humans breed out of control like rats here. They worship the holy heifer, Surasira. An idle goddess, whose servants are cooks and dancers, whom champions pacifist ideals. She's not coming to their aid. They are under the thumb of the Metropolitan Standard Forces, Chemical Immortals organized by the Great World Kingdom to police its lands.
And the Wei are stretched thin in this region, near constantly assigning many officers on patrol to the volcanic traps in search of signs of corruption. The region is a hotbed for sympathies they disdain to grow. It's a place where anyone can hide, if they apply a modicum of carefulness. It's full of the Damned. It's why the Devil chose Kloa today. It was the perfect target, one he'd been saving just for this chance. Waiting a long time for the right circumstances.
First, the drunkard struck in Siegesia, wreaking havoc to the Great Mother's city. Then, it is felt across the world. The universe. A god wave. The impact of such energies could have only meant one thing - That an extraordinary member of a decaying pantheon had been beaten.
This was how he knew it was time to strike.
It was planned for a while. The Chief Torturer laid out a decisive strategy. First, they'd fill the metro lines with their Warriors. Enter the streets, the men on foot would kill from there. It would send the Wei into disarray. The key was to seize the streets and have this urban "shitter" in utter chaos as fast as possible. Then, they could begin shuffling in more of their followers, call them in from among the traps. The Chosen One was brought before their infernal council.
<span class="mu-i">"I... wanh the fat ones."</span> He says to them.
So they put him in charge of the Inebriates. Rotgut will fill the streets, the air, everything. They'll drop like flies.
The killing has began. The Cultists of Death, the Warriors of the Khanate and the Imps are here.
>The Chosen One takes the field. He orders them to gather the fresh impurity that came with every body they dropped in the first shots. Their bodies an be compiled. They can help us open esoteric gates to inflamed apertures by creating the Daemasses to ferry our rot right into their fold.
>The Chosen One's sickly left thumb and rotted pinky searches for his radio in pocket. He lifts it up to a gummy mouth and speaks through the cloth capirote, "C-Commensh". Outside, these engines roared to life. Smashing right through what little traffic goes on intercontinental highways. The crashes will be worthy sacrifices to scatter these great tanks of rot on the outside. We'll melt a moat. None will escape. But none will come back in.
