Father Black stood at the center of the gathering, a temporary table acting as his makeshift pulpit. The room, filled with leaders, representatives, and warriors, was hushed in anticipation. Father Black's stern gaze surveyed the room, and he could feel the weight of responsibility pressing upon his shoulders. This was not just a battle for survival; it was a battle for the very soul of humanity, the last bastion against an unrelenting darkness that sought to consume them all.
"My brothers and sisters," he began, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, "we stand on the precipice of a war like no other. We are not just defending our homes; we are defending the last flicker of humanity's flame in this desolate world. The undead horde approaches, and with it, the echoes of the past that haunt us. We are the guardians of the final sanctuary, the torchbearers of hope in a world drowning in despair."