We are Legion!

Prologue: Archives of the Wolf Empire Three hundred thousand years before Nightmare Moon was banished to the moon, the world knew only one power. It was known by many names: the Snow Empire, the Northern Legions, the Realm of Romulus and Remus. But they themselves called it simply: the Wolf Empire. Canis Lupus Sapiens —the Sapient Wolves. Their civilization rose from the bones of ancient wars. Their culture mirrored the Roman Empire at its peak: senates, legions, roads that stretched across the permafrost, and a law that punished both chieftains and the lowest digger with equal severity. The Empire knew no gods. The wolves worshipped only two things: Law and Memory. Each generation added new names to the rolls of heroes. Each generation raised its sons in the cult of war. It was a necessity. To the south lay the lands of Grogar—the tyrant who forged armies of monsters. The war against him lasted millennia. It did not flare up and die down; it simply was, like breathing. They called it the Righteous War. And it shaped the Empire: ironclad, disciplined, and utterly merciless to its enemies. But not all in this world were enemies. Dragons—strong, hot-tempered, eternally greedy for gold and gems. The wolves did not war with them. They traded: dragons provided fire and lava for the forges, wolves offered protection from Grogar. Dragon clans were considered "neutral allies," if such a thing could exist. They were not loved, but they were respected. Griffons—mercenaries and merchants. Their homeland lay in the southern mountains. They served the Wolf Empire for coin, but proved unreliable in battle—until the gold ran out. The Empire did not trust them, but used them wisely. Ponies... now, this was interesting. They were called Equestris Equus Familiaris—"Equestrian Pony." Originally, they were small tribes that the wolf legions encountered on the southern plains. They were not enemies. They were too weak to fight, and too valuable to slaughter. The wolves did not conquer them—they took them in. Ponies became companions: shepherds, caretakers, healers. They warmed the camps, carried supplies, and soothed the wounded. They were called the "Children of Light"—for their profound empathy and their gift of gentle magic, which healed wounds faster than any herb. No one knew where this gift came from. But the Empire valued it. Ponies were not slaves. They were part of the household. They were not locked in cages, nor sold in markets. But they were not free, either. The wolves believed that guardianship was the greatest gift one could give to weaker beings. For millennia, the "Children of Light" lived alongside the wolves, knowing no other life. And they did not know that one day, their descendants would call this world their own. And so the epochs passed. Until the time came when even the Righteous War ceased to matter. When Grogar fell, yet the world did not find peace. When the Windigos arrived from the north—spirits of winter that fed on hatred. They sought no conquests. They sought only the end of the Empire. --- The Ice Grave The northern wind howled across the endless plains, carrying with it the scent of approaching death. Not the kind that claims individual creatures—old, natural, expected. No. This was the death of a world. Atop Black Rock, the last stronghold of the Sapient Wolves, stood a priest. His fur, once silver, was now white as ash. The scars across his muzzle told the tale of a hundred battles. But now, his amber eyes, wise and weary, did not look upon enemies. They looked to the sky. There, behind a veil of clouds, the sun was dying. — We have seen the omens, — the priest's voice trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of truth. — The Ice Grave approaches. The Windigos already circle the borders of our lands. They feed on our discord, our hatred, our despair. The hall fell silent. Dozens of wolves in frost-covered armor stood motionless. Their red eyes burned in the dim light. They were the Empire's last legions. Those who had survived the wars against Grogar. Those who had held the north. But against a winter that would never end... there was no weapon. — You suggest we surrender? — the Warlord growled, an old wolf with a scar across his eye. — After all we have endured? — Death does not accept surrender, — the priest said quietly. — It simply arrives. He unrolled a parchment. Ancient, inscribed with runes that remembered the very first wolves. — But there is... another path. Forbidden. A ritual forged by our ancestors in desperate times. The Ark of Souls. A whisper rippled through the hall. Even those who knew not the ancient texts felt the weight of those words. — Speak, — demanded the Leader. His voice was weary. Fifty years of rule in an age of twilight had left their mark. — We cannot save the bodies, — the priest continued. — The ice claims all. But souls... souls can be preserved. Transferred. Into a single vessel. A single being. — One? — someone echoed from the back ranks. — There are thousands of us! — Precisely, — the priest nodded. — Three thousand souls in one body. One bearer. One... Legion. The silence became absolute. — This is madness, — the Leader said. — Who could bear such a burden? — One pure. Young. One whose soul has not yet been broken by war or despair. — The priest looked toward the hall's door. — We have such a one. --- The Little Whelp He was twelve winters old. Old enough to remember the world before the cold. Old enough to hope. He sat in the library—the very one that would later become a crypt. The scrolls around him smelled of dust and knowledge. He read of stars that would one day fade. Of civilizations that vanished without a trace. Of heroes who died forgotten. — Why are you here? — the Librarian's voice came from the darkness. The whelp flinched. He hadn't heard him enter. — I... am studying, teacher. I want to know more. The Librarian stepped closer. His fur was gray, his muzzle scarred. One eye was missing—a loss in a battle against one of Grogar's dragons. — Knowledge will not save us from the ice, my boy. — But they will save memory, — the whelp countered. — If we forget who we are... then we truly die. The old wolf chuckled. In that chuckle was pride. And pain. — You speak like a priest. You should speak like a warrior. — I will be both, — the whelp promised. — If it is required. The Librarian placed a paw on his head. A heavy, warm paw of a warrior. — It may require more than you think, little wolf. He did not know then that it was a farewell. --- The Night of the Ritual They gathered in an ancient temple carved into the heart of the mountain. The walls were covered in runes—spells that remembered the birth of the world. In the center of the hall stood a circle of black stone. Crystals embedded in its facets pulsed with a dim light. The priests sang. Their voices merged into a single chorus that rose to the ceiling and vanished into the sky. This was no prayer. It was an oath. An oath not to die completely. — Are you ready? — asked the High Priest. The whelp stood in the center of the circle. He trembled. Not from fear. From foreboding. His body knew—after this night, he would cease to be himself. He would become something... greater. Or terrible. — I am ready, — he said. His voice did not waver. The priest nodded. Raised his paws. Began to chant. The words were in a dead tongue. A language forgotten even before Grogar. Each word cut the air like a blade. Each word left a scar upon reality. The crystals flared. First came the pain. Not physical. Deeper. As if someone were turning his soul inside out. The whelp cried out. But the scream was cut short—thousands of voices drowned it out. He saw them. All of them. His brothers. Sisters. Father. Mother. Friends. Enemies. Heroes. Cowards. Sages. Fools. They all flowed toward him. Like a river. Like an avalanche. Like death itself. — I cannot bear it! — he howled. — You will bear it, — a voice spoke within. — We believe in you. One by one, the souls entered him. Not destroyed. Not erased. Merging. Becoming part of a whole. He felt their memories. Their pain. Their joy. Their love. Their hatred. He was the warrior who fell in battle. He was the priest who prayed until his last breath. He was the mother who lost her children. He was the child who never saw spring. He was everyone. And he was no one. Because "he" no longer existed. There was only... Legion. --- The Crypt When the ritual ended, silence filled the hall. Not the blessed quiet that follows a storm. The silence of a grave. The priests lay upon the floor. Dead. Their souls had passed into the Ark. Their bodies were empty shells. In the center of the circle stood He. Not a whelp. Not a creature. Something between flesh and energy. His fur had turned ash-gray. His eyes burned with red light—not one, but thousands. Blue patterns pulsed across his body—the marks of soul magic. He opened his maw. From it came a sound. Not a voice. A chorus. — We... live. We have survived. He took a step. The movement was clumsy. The body was unaccustomed to such a burden. To such an amount of... itself. He looked at his paws. They were scarred. Not his scars. Memories of battles he never fought. Of wounds he never bore. — This is too much... — he whispered. — Too much... — You will grow accustomed, — one of the voices said. — We have time. --- The Final Days of the Empire Legion stood atop Black Rock. The wind tore at his cloak—heavy, black, later to be known as the "Black Shroud." Below, in the valleys, ice was already spreading. Not ordinary ice. Black. Cursed. Windigo ice. — How much time do we have? — he asked the Librarian, who remained the last. The old wolf who had refused to partake in the ritual—so that someone could guide Legion through these final days. — Days, — the teacher answered. — Perhaps weeks. The ice moves swiftly. Legion nodded. His mind was divided. Part of him strategized. Part philosophized. Part studied science. Part admired the beauty of the sunset. It was maddening. But he was growing used to it. — I must enter stasis, — he said. — Now. Before the ice reaches the temple. — Are you certain? — The Librarian looked at him. Sadness lingered in his eyes. — If you sleep now... you may never wake. The magic is not perfect. — We have no choice, — Legion said, turning to him. He descended into the crypt. Deep beneath the mountain, where stone retained the earth's warmth. There stood a sarcophagus. Carved from a blue alloy—the very same that would later become his armor. Inside, crystals pulsed in the rhythm of sleep. Legion lay down. The stone's cold was comforting. Like a mother's embrace. — Any final wish? — asked the Librarian, standing at the entrance. Legion pondered. Among thousands of voices, thousands of desires, thousands of memories... he found one. His own. Personal. — When I wake... — he began slowly, — ...I hope the world will be better. I hope someone will remember us. Not as monsters. Not as heroes. Simply... as those who lived. — I will remember, little wolf. I swear it. — Thank you, father. Those were the last words he spoke before sleep claimed him. The crystals flared. Ice began to envelop the sarcophagus. It forged a cryogenic prison that would last twenty thousand years. Legion's consciousness began to fade. But the voices did not fall silent. Even in stasis, they whispered. Like advisors surrounding an empty throne. — We will survive, — said the Warlord. — We will wait, — said the Scholar. — We will remember, — said the Philosopher. — We will dream, — said the Creator. And Legion fell asleep. Outside, in the camp, the Children of Light still waited. They did not know that their future masters slept in stone. They did not know that they themselves would one day become the masters of this world. But the wind that swept across the plains already carried their song—a song of a day when the sun would rise upon another world. And those who were servants would become rulers. Chapter 1 Awakening Darkness. Cold. Silence, stretching into eternity. For an ordinary creature, it would have been death. But for the Legion, it was merely a pause. Three hundred thousand years. A number a mortal mind cannot comprehend. But for one who carries the souls of an entire people within himself, it was but a moment between a breath in and a breath out. The ice cracked. The sound was like thunder, tearing through the sleeping valley. A deep fissure raced across the ancient glacier that had encased the figure in bluish armor. Inside the cryogenic prison, a light flared—not bright and blinding like the sun, but heavy, saturated, as if thousands of tiny stars had ignited within the ice. Voices. They never fell silent. Even in stasis, they whispered in the back of his consciousness, like advisors surrounding an empty throne. — We live, — growled the Warlord, and the fury of battle flared in the Legion’s veins. — Time to see if there’s still blood in our enemies’ veins. — Hold, — interjected the Scholar, cold and calculating. — Three hundred thousand years… The geography has shifted. The magical background… it’s distorted. This is not our world. — Does it matter? — drawled the Philosopher, his voice like the creak of ancient parchment. — We are alone regardless. The graves of our brothers are covered by the ice we are now breaking. — Look at the fracture patterns, — whispered the Creator, in awe. — What fragile beauty… Let us shatter it. The Legion exhaled. Steam, escaping from beneath the hounsgugel helmet with its conical visor, instantly melted the surrounding frost. The red bat wings adorning the helmet twitched, shaking off centuries of dust. He raised a hand. The heavy gauntlet of an unknown blue alloy clenched the air. Claws, sharp as razors, slit the ice as if it were butter. CRACK. The ice wall collapsed outward, crashing down in an avalanche of shards. The Legion stepped forward, his claws biting into the rocky mountain face. He had emerged from his tomb. The world lay open before him. But this was not the world he remembered. There were no endless snow wastes where only the strongest survived. No oppressive gray sky weighing down on his shoulders. Below, where permafrost once lay, a green forest now rustled. The air was uncharacteristically warm and sweet, saturated with magic. But of a strange kind… Soft. Devoid of fang and claw. The Legion drew himself up to his full height. His figure, clad in armor bearing two wolf skulls on the chest, towered over the cliff. The “Black Shroud” cloak, heavy and timeless, stirred in a wind that wasn’t there. His eyes, hidden behind a dark visor, flared with red light. A telepathic sense stretched forward, scanning the terrain. He felt life. Much life. Ponies. Dragons. Griffons. Creatures that did not exist in his era. Within his mind, the debate boiled once more. — They are weak, — said the Warlord. — They are interesting, — countered the Scholar. — They are mortal, as we once were, — sighed the Philosopher. — They will make fine material, — smirked the Creator. The Legion raised his head to the sky, where clouds drifted lazily. He felt his metabolism recalibrating, adapting to the new air. A hunger, ancient and insatiable, awoke in his gut. But first, he had to announce himself. This new world needed to know who had returned from oblivion. He drove his claws into the stone beneath his feet, carving deep grooves into the granite. But after descending only a few meters, Legion froze. He saw a puddle. Meltwater gathered in a rocky depression, where the ice had just thawed beneath his feet. The surface was smooth, almost mirror-like. And he looked into it. At first, the reflection was clear. Bluish armor, covered in age-old dust but untouched by rust—a metal forged from magic, impervious to time. The helmet with its conical visor, adorned on the temples by two red bat wings—they seemed alive, ready to unfurl at any moment. Beneath the visor, two red fires burned—his eyes, glowing in the dark. On his chest, across the massive breastplate, two wolf skulls were embossed—Romulus and Remus. The Founders. Symbols of an Empire that no longer existed. He looked at himself. The Emperor. The Last. Then the reflection twitched. As if someone had cut a strip of film and spliced in another frame. For a moment—just a fraction of a second—instead of his own face within the helmet, he saw another. A red, furious skull with horns curved like fangs, and two blue tails writhing with a life of their own. The eye sockets were empty, but orange dots seeped from them, like distant signal flares. — Attack, — a voice whispered. Legion blinked. The reflection returned. But now it distorted again. Instead of the skulls on his chest—a face. Bald, beige, dotted with a scattering of black eyes that moved independently of one another. The maw was stretched in a grin, revealing perfect, white teeth—the only flawless thing in that mutating body. — Probability of error: zero. We will lose if we stay here. Legion felt his breath catch. He tried to look away, but couldn’t. The puddle held him like claws. Third splice. Instead of his bluish armor—a body covered in silt and moss. Gray fur growing from wounds where dandelions had taken root. Eyes covered by a black eyepatch. But he felt the gaze. Heavy as earth. Alive. A walking corpse that had crawled out of a swamp. — Why did we wake up? To suffer again? Fourth. The fastest. White-pink fur, warm, almost glowing. A muzzle with a smile. Too wide. Too long. It was held in place by thin leather straps pulled tight behind the head. Bulging, dry eyes staring in different directions. A perfect body, feminine, fur smooth and radiant, hair black, soft, and wavy. — What a beautiful crack in your consciousness, puppy... Legion jerked backward sharply. The puddle remained behind him. He stood on the rock, fists clenched. His body trembled. Not from cold. From realization. “I am not alone.” He knew it. He had always known. But to see them—glimpsed in a reflection, like phantoms living inside his own skin—was something else entirely. “We are Legion.” And in that name lay both a curse and a power. He did not look into the puddle again. He simply continued his path downward. — For we are many… — he whispered. — …yet united as one, — the chorus of voices answered. The red glow in the helmet’s eyes brightened. Somewhere far away, in Canterlot, Princess Celestia shuddered, dropping her wine goblet. In the Crystal Empire, Cadance felt a wave of ancient, cold magic that made her blood run cold. In the Everfree Forest, timber wolves bowed their heads, sensing the return of their forgotten King. The Legion lowered his gaze to his paw. The blue alloy of his armor reflected the new world. Alien. Uncharted. — What will we do, Emperor? — asked the Scholar. The Legion took his first step down, leaving the mountain that had been both his cradle and his tomb. — We will live, — he answered aloud, and the four voices in his head echoed the words, merging into a single chorus. — For the Legion knows no death. The Legion knows only war… and victory. He vanished into the shadows of the trees, leaving behind only a melting trail in the snow and a heavy premonition of coming change. The age of ponies had just collided with the age of the Wolf. And history began anew. Chapter 2: Shadow at the Foot of the Mountain Legion stood on a rocky ledge, his bluish armor gleaming in the rays of the setting sun. Below, majestically spread across the mountain slopes, rose a city of white stone and golden spires. Magical barriers shimmered in the air, creating a faint haze around the towers. Canterlot. The name itself surfaced in his consciousness, as if carried by the wind from the depths of millennia. The Scholar was already at work, analyzing what they saw: — The city is built on high ground. Strategically advantageous. But the walls… too decorative. They’ve never seen a real siege. — Look at the architecture, — the Creator interjected with admiration. — Those lines, those proportions… They value beauty. Perhaps, even too much. — The magical background is unstable, — the Scholar continued, ignoring the enthusiasm. — Power sources are concentrated in two points of the city. Likely, the rulers’ residences. Legion inhaled slowly. The air was indeed filled with magic, but of a different kind… Not the raw power of the ancient priests of his era, not the chaotic energy of the Windigos. This magic was soft, orderly, almost… civilized. — They’ve tamed magic, — the Philosopher stated. — Or they think they have. I wonder what price they’ll pay for this illusion of control? — The price doesn’t matter! — the Warlord growled. — What matters is that they’re weak! Their city is open, their defense is merely an illusion. We could seize it in a single night! — Silence, — Legion commanded mentally, and the four voices fell quiet, albeit reluctantly. He squinted, studying the city. His telepathic sense, fine as a spider’s thread, stretched forward, probing. And then he felt THEM. Two sources of power. Ancient. Immensely powerful. Impossibly old. --- Canterlot Throne Room Princess Celestia stood by the tall window, her pastel-toned mane swaying in an unseen magical breeze. She watched the sunset, as she had every evening for millennia. But today, something was off. The air in the hall suddenly grew heavy. Magic, usually obedient and smooth, trembled like a string struck too hard. — Sister… — Luna’s voice came from the shadow of a pillar, where she stood, having watched the moonrise earlier that day. — Did you feel that? Celestia turned slowly. Her purple eyes, usually so calm and wise, were now filled with unease. — Yes. Ancient energy. Very ancient. She took a step forward, her golden hooves softly clicking against the marble floor. — This is not unicorn magic. Not dragon magic. Not even the magic of Grogar’s ancient artifacts. Luna stepped out of the shadows, her dark blue mane flowing like the night sky. She frowned, focusing. — It’s like… an echo. Thousands of voices. Thousands of souls. But all of them… in a single being. Celestia turned sharply to her sister: — Are you sure? — My senses do not lie, sister. I have ruled the night for over a thousand years. I hear the whispers of dreams, the screams of nightmares, the sighs of the sleeping. But this… — Luna shook her head. — This is something else. It’s as if an entire people placed their essence into one warrior. Silence fell over the hall. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang, signaling the changing of the guard. — Where is the source? — Celestia asked, her voice firm, but carrying a note Luna hadn’t heard in a very long time. Fear. — At the foot of the mountain. Closer to the Everfree Forest. — Luna raised her head, her eyes glowing with magical energy. — He is watching the city. Celestia stepped to the window and looked down, where Canterlot’s walls ended and the wild forest began. Her magical sense, sharper than ever, stretched downward, toward the source of this troubling energy. And then she saw him. A tall figure in bluish armor. A helmet resembling a predator’s skull. A cloak as black as the night itself. And the eyes… even from such a distance, she felt that gaze. Ancient. Weary. Dangerous. — Who are you? — Celestia whispered, though she knew he wouldn’t hear. — We must go down to him, — Luna said firmly. Celestia turned around: — It’s too dangerous. We don’t know who he is or what he wants. If he’s an enemy… — If he’s an enemy, then he’s already here, sister! — Luna stepped forward. — He stands at our gates, and we hide in a tower like frightened fillies! You feel the same antiquity I do. This warrior… he’s from an era before Equestria. Before our rule. Perhaps from Grogar’s time, or even earlier. Celestia was silent, weighing her sister’s words. — And one more thing, — Luna continued softly. — There is no evil in him. Not in the usual sense. There is… weight. A burden. Pain that has been gathering for millennia. Celestia nodded slowly: — Then we will meet him. Together. As sisters. As rulers of Equestria. She spread her wings, and her horn flared with golden light: — But first, I must warn the Guard. And, perhaps… — she hesitated, — …we will need Twilight’s help. She knows more about ancient history than anyone else. Luna smiled faintly: — Your student always finds a way out of impossible situations. — That is exactly why she is my student, — Celestia replied with a slight smile, but anxiety still lingered in her eyes. --- At the Foot of the Mountain Legion felt several magical senses brush against him, like invisible tendrils. He did not stir, allowing them to probe him. — They fear us, — the Warlord said with satisfaction. — They are cautious, — the Scholar corrected. — Wise. A stranger with ancient power at a city’s gates is cause for alarm. — They sense us, — the Creator whispered. — Two sisters. Sun and Moon. I wonder… do they too bear the burden of rule? — All rulers bear a burden, — the Philosopher said. — The only question is whether they break under it or grow stronger. Legion slowly raised his head, looking toward the mountain peak where the city stood. — We will come to you, — he spoke softly, and the wind caught his words, carrying them upward toward Canterlot. — But not as conquerors. Not as enemies. He paused, and the four voices in his mind fell silent, listening. — We will come as the last of a fallen world. And we will bring with us the truth that has slept for three hundred thousand years. Legion turned and slowly walked toward the edge of the forest, his cloak billowing behind him. He would wait. He had plenty of time—an entire eternity in an icy grave had taught him patience. And for now… for now he would observe this new world. The ponies who had tamed magic. The princesses who carried light and darkness. And for the one whose name he did not yet know, but whose magic was the most intriguing of all—the Sun’s student, who carried a spark of the most ancient power within her. The Age of Legion had begun. Chapter 3: Dead Brothers The Everfree Forest greeted Legion with silence. Not the blessed quiet that precedes dawn, but a heavy, oppressive stillness—the silence of a graveyard where the dead have forgotten they must lie still. The trees interwove their canopies, blocking out the sunlight. Moss covered the stones like a green burial shroud. The air was thick with magic—wild, untamed, primordial. — Here, — whispered the Scholar, and for the first time, something akin to grief colored his voice. — I feel… echoes. Our old shelters. Those who refused the ritual hid here, deep within the forest. — They chose life, — said the Philosopher. — They chose cowardice, — corrected the Warlord. — While we bore the burden of thousands of souls, they hid in burrows like rats. — Look what they've become, — murmured the Creator, his voice devoid of admiration—only cold disdain. — What irony. They fled from death and found an eternal curse. Legion pressed forward, his claws leaving deep impressions in the soft soil. His armor clinked softly—the only sound in this dead forest. And then he saw them. Creatures emerged from between the trees. Wolves… but not wolves. Their bodies were made of wood and branches, bound together by some dark magic. A green fire burned in their eyes—not intellect, not soul, only primal hunger. Timberwolves. Legion halted. He extended his telepathic sense, touching the nearest creature. Emptiness… No soul. No memories. Not even a survival instinct—only a mechanical urge to destroy and devour. A shell stuffed with foreign magic. A golem that had forgotten it was once alive. — It is not them, — the Scholar stated dispassionately. — These are… remnants. A magical imprint trapped in wood. The Ice Grave did not kill them outright. It twisted them into this. Legion remained silent. He felt no anger. No sorrow. Not even pity. Only a cold void. Those who had refused the ritual had hoped to survive. They thought they could wait out the storm in hiding. But the magic of the Windigos, which had seeped into this forest, found them. It turned them into puppets of wood and malice. They became what they feared most—the dead who cannot die. A timberwolf stepped forward, its wooden maw creaking open with a dry crackle. The green fire in its eyes flared brighter. The creature had sensed an outsider—alive, real, smelling of flesh and blood. Legion did not speak. He did not deliver grand speeches about fallen brothers. He did not pray for their souls. He simply acted. His arm lashed out with speed invisible to the naked eye. Claws of blue alloy, tempered in the forgotten forges of antiquity, drove into the creature's wooden chest. CRACK. The wood splintered like a dry twig. The green fire in its eyes died out. The body crumbled into splinters and ash. A second wolf lunged from the side. Legion didn't even turn—his heavy, powerful tail struck the creature mid-air, snapping the spine of intertwined branches. The beast fell, and one precise slash of his claws ended its existence. — They are weak, — said the Warlord, without satisfaction. A mere statement of fact. — They were never warriors, — replied the Scholar. — Or they wouldn't have hidden. A third, a fourth, a fifth… They emerged from the thickets, drawn by the scent of living magic emanating from Legion. Timberwolves, guardians of the Everfree Forest, who for centuries had hunted anyone daring to step inside. But today, they met one who remembered them. Legion moved without fanfare, without rage, without even a hint of emotion. This was not a battle. It was a clearance. Sanitation. The eradication of what should not exist. His claws tore through wood. His armor deflected clumsy strikes. The "Black Shroud" cloak remained pristine—the creatures couldn't even scratch it, their magic so primitive compared to the power the Last Emperor carried within him. — Ten, — counted the Scholar. — Twenty. Thirty… They are endless. — The forest remakes them, — explained the Philosopher. — The magic of the Windigos is still here. As long as the forest stands, so will they. — Then we burn the forest, — suggested the Creator with cold cruelty. — No, — Legion spoke aloud for the first time throughout the slaughter. He stopped, his claw gripping the head of the last timberwolf. The green fire in the creature's eyes was fading. — They earned rest. But not through oblivion. Through memory. He released his grip. The dead body fell to the ground. Legion raised his head and looked deep into the forest, to where the old shelters of his people lay hidden among the trees. Places where those who refused the ritual had once hidden. — We cannot save them, — the Scholar said quietly. — We already have, — corrected the Philosopher. — Their souls are not here. They are… somewhere between worlds. Eternal wanderers who accepted neither our fate nor their own. — Then why are we here? — asked the Creator. Legion was silent for a long time. The wind stirred his cloak, and in that rustling lay the whisper of the thousands of souls the Last Emperor carried within him. — To bear witness, — he finally said. — So that someone remembers who they were. Not what they became. But who they were. He turned and walked out of the clearing, leaving behind a pile of wooden debris. The timberwolves did not pursue him—the survival instinct still lingering in these creatures told them: do not touch one who kills without emotion. — Where to now? — asked the Warlord. Legion raised his head. Through the canopy, he saw the mountain peak where Canterlot stood tall. There, in towers of white stone, lived those who had inherited this world. Princesses. Ponies. — To them, — he answered. — They felt us. They are afraid. But they did not attack. That is… worthy of respect. — Or stupidity, — snorted the Warlord. — Or wisdom, — countered the Scholar. — Two ancient beings that rule this world… They do not sense a threat in us. They sense… a kindred spirit. Legion smirked—for the first time. In his mind, among thousands of voices, it was almost imperceptible. But the four Hypostases felt it. — Let us see how wise these princesses truly are, — he said. — Whether they will see a monster in us… or the last reminder of a world that perished before theirs. He strode toward the forest's exit, leaving the Everfree and its dead guardians behind. But somewhere deep within his mind, among the thousands of souls Legion carried, one wept. The one who had once had a brother who refused the ritual. The one who remembered his laughter, his voice, his choice. And now that choice lay as dead wooden ash upon the clearing. Legion carried this pain along with the rest. For that was his curse—to remember everything. Always.