The dungeon was pulsing with dark energy, its bone-white walls glowing faintly under the flickering torches. The air thickened as mana swirled like an invisible fog, crackling with power. From deep within, the ground shook and echoed with the sound of bones clattering together as more and more skeletons poured out in waves. They lurched out, their empty eye sockets glowing faintly with a cold, blue light.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
All across the surrounding fields, bones that had once lain undisturbed began to twitch. From shallow graves, forgotten battlefields, and the remnants of skirmishes, grotesque creations began to form. Limbs snapped into place where they didn’t belong, jagged teeth emerged from skulls, and beasts made of fused bones began to stagger forward. Frankenstein’s monsters. These abominations weren't part of the slow, gradual dungeon breaks the Fort Bone Empire had prepared for. No, this was a full-blown dungeon horde, and it was ready to wreck everything in its path.
The endless stream of undead surged like a flood, their numbers seemingly limitless. And at the forefront of it all was a particularly massive skeleton. Its size alone commanded attention, but it wasn’t just the bulk of it that struck fear—it was the way it moved with purpose, as if it remembered battle tactics long forgotten. Mounted on top of a mutated steed, its skeletal frame bristled with ancient, rusted armor that glowed faintly with the same mana infusing the horde.
The general of the undead had come to lead its army to wreak havoc across the Fort Bone Empire. And to boost ratings for the show.
The ground trembled one last time as the skeleton dungeon caved in on itself. The once ominous, gaping entrance shrank back into a pile of bones, deceptively still. But just beneath that layer, the dungeon heart continued to pulse slowly, like a dark heartbeat muffled under layers of skeletal protection. Each pulse rippled through the bones, which were stacked with eerie precision, and with every beat, more skeletons clawed their way to the surface, rejoining the unholy legion.
At the head of this bone tide, the skeletal general rode tall, gripping a lance sharpened to a deadly point. Its hollow eyes scanned the land with cold indifference, leading its ever-growing army outward. At first glance, there seemed to be no clear direction to their march—just an aimless wave of destruction waiting to annihlate whatever it encountered.
But had Atlas been there, he would’ve seen it for what it truly was. The horde was moving with purpose. The general's sights were locked on Fort Bone, the beating heart of the Empire, and the place with the highest concentration of mana on the entire continent. A beacon to the undead.
The general knew exactly where to lead his army.
***
POV : WASTELAND
As the adventurers drew closer, Nadir’s grip tightened on his scimitar. His heart beat heavily in his chest, the weight of his decisions pressing down on him. Once, he had ruled with righteousness and order; now, he commanded a band of raiders who traded in violence and fear. ‘Is this what I’ve become?‘ he wondered. The question lingered like a bitter fruit in his mouth, but there was no time for reflection.
"Let's move. Get into position," he ordered, his voice firm despite the doubts swirling in his mind. His men responded with a ragged chorus of obedience, moving with less discipline than they had under his earlier reign but still dangerous in their zealotry.
The bandits shifted into their ambush spots, eyes glinting with anticipation. They craved the thrill of a fight, and the spoils that would come afterward. Nadir scanned the horizon, the dust kicking up as the adventurers approached. ‘They look better equipped than the last ones,‘ he thought grimly.
"Ready yourselves," Nadir muttered, low enough for only the closest men to hear. His heart quickened as he weighed their chances. They had the element of surprise, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough against a group like this.
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“Who do you think these new captives will be? I hope there will be more women.” one of his men whispered, barely containing his excitement.
Nadir didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what he hoped for anymore—riches, redemption, or a return to his former glory. All he knew was that whatever came next, he had to be ready.
‘The Prophet will guide me... or punish me,‘ Nadir thought, his grip on his faith was his hold over his dwindling army.
The first of the adventurers crossed into the kill zone, unaware of the fate waiting for them.
‘‘‘
As the adventurers strolled along, completely unaware of the danger ahead, a tall, lanky man with a crossbow slung over his shoulder squinted into the distance.
“Hey, you guys hear that?” he asked, his voice casual.
“Nah, probably just the wind,” his stocky companion grunted, adjusting the heavy axe strapped to his back. “Relax, we’re miles away from anything serious.”
Before anyone else could chime in, the ground exploded in front of them. THUNK! A bolt shot out of the brush, narrowly missing the crossbow man's head.
“Whoa! That was way too close!” he yelped, diving for cover behind a nearby rock.
“Ambush!” the axe-wielder shouted, his voice booming as he unsheathed his weapon. His muscles tensed like a coiled spring, eyes darting in every direction.
THWIP! THWIP! More bolts rained down, the bandits bursting from their hiding spots with wild grins plastered on their faces.
“Of course it’s a freaking ambush,” muttered a smaller adventurer with daggers at the ready, her eyes rolling in annoyance. “It’s always an ambush.”
Battle erupted as the adventurers scrambled to respond. The crossbowman reloaded frantically, then fired back blindly, yelling, “Is now a good time to panic? Asking for a friend!”
“Stop talking and start swinging!” the axe-wielder barked, swinging his weapon with a powerful arc that sent one of the charging bandits flying back into the dust.
The dagger-wielder just sighed. “You think we could not get jumped for five minutes?”
Meanwhile, Nadir watched the scene unfold, his stomach turning. His men were sloppy, charging in like hungry wolves rather than the precise force they used to be. Still, they had numbers, and the adventurers were on the back foot.
But something about the way these newcomers fought—it wasn’t just desperation. It was experience.
POV : WASTELAND OUTSIDE OF FORT BONE
The next morning, the sun rose over the wasteland, but it wasn't a bright cheery sun. It looked dim, almost as if it were mourning the death that would come today. Atlas felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he gathered his men, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. They were preparing to hunt for the dungeon again, but dread filled the air, thick and oppressive. And that's when he saw them. The wasteland was never peaceful; it was never a place for a leisurely stroll. But now, there was an army—no, a horde of undead rolling toward his army.
“Get ready to fight!” Atlas yelled, his voice echoing with urgency, cutting through the gathering storm of fear. He could see the anxiety etched on the faces of his men, their eyes wide with disbelief. Alexander, spotting the massive horde, screamed instructions, putting all the units into place. “Shield bearers, to the front! Be steady and get ready to engage! Crossbowmen, set yourselves behind ’em—steady now! Swordsmen, have your crossbows ready to loose a few bolts before them skeletons close the gap! We’ll give ’em a taste before it’s steel on bone!”
As Atlas pulled his twin swords from his waist sheaths, a surge of determination coursed through him, battling against the creeping dread.
His movements were graceful and composed, like a true gentleman waltzing with a lady of high regard. But this dance was with death itself, and its skeletal minions.
He rushed into action, heart pounding, adrenaline surging. The wall of shields slammed into the skeletons, and it was an unruly battle. The clash of metal against bone resonated with a harsh finality, a reminder of the stakes they faced. Bones shattered under the force,
CRACK!
but the undead pressed on, unyielding in their advance, a relentless tide that threatened to consume everything in its path.
Atlas moved with purpose, his swords dancing through the air, each strike fueled by a mix of fear and resolve. He felt the weight of every life depending on him—friends, comrades, the very future of the Fort Bone Empire. The melee around him blurred into a whirlwind of violence and desperation. For every skeleton that fell, it seemed two more took its place, their hollow eye sockets glowing with malice.
The realization that this horde sought to destroy everything he held dear sent a rush of anger through him. He fought harder, striking down one skeleton after another, his breath coming in sharp gasps. This battle was not just for survival; it was a fight to protect his home, his people, and the life he cherished. The fear of loss sharpened his resolve, turning each swing of his swords into a promise that he would not let them fall without a fight.
Not today. Not ever.