Uno

I was immersed in watching my favorite play.

The birth of rebellion.

There were not enough lightsabers and senators for my taste but it would do in a pinch. Quality entertainment was rare in this world and observing the making of an underdog was something that certainly qualified as such. I enjoyed it immensely while - like most people - rooting for the weaker party.

In the end, what I thought about it didn’t matter - this was not a game, but reality. It was for the best, I suppose, otherwise, the rules of cool would apply and the scene would turn violent and bloody. Right now everything was going fine - the soldiers surrounding Charles seemed to be filled with a sense of purpose and burning conviction. There was hope for a new future and excitement that comes only with something new, something precious. It was heartening. And while most of the warriors seemed to convert instantly, I already managed to spot a few bad apples. Curiously, while they seemed to disagree with the commotion as a whole none of them directed their hatred towards the former Blueflame noble.

It was interesting.

So interesting!

“Return to battle stations!” Sergeants yelled as the emotions of the crowd started to stabilize.

“Retreat to the secondary line!”

“Go! Go! Go!”

“Warriors to the front, mages, and archers spread out behind them!”

“Prepare, but do not fire without a command!”

Orders were once more given and slowly the earlier formation had been restored - if only a dozen or so meters in the back. The curious wooden boxes were left up front, their rusty red metal chains giving me a creepy feeling.

While the fire summoned by Charles’ magic was slowly fading away, it was still strong enough to destroy any undead foolish enough to test its mettle.

The mindless thralls tried anyway, their desire to murder the living forcing them to brave impossible odds. Their hungry groans were cut short by the greedy, devouring flame - their bones becoming kindling for its growth.

The crusty old lich appeared again, its ancient words impossible to discern to anyone but me. Its earlier exhaustion seemed to wane as the blue mana once again surrounded the skeletal, withered form.

“Good!” It yelled impotently. “Good! While we are but a figment of Her armies, it would be too easy for our descendants to fall without any resistance. Blood - even thinned - doesn’t lie!”

The lich paused, recomposing itself.

“You’re doomed anyway.” It spoke in a much calmer tone, the volume of words slowly rising higher and higher. “Be it by the endless sea of the dead, by the monsters borne in the four corners of the world, or by the spirits summoned from another dimension - you will fall. All who believe in the Old Gods will be buried under the weight of a new future!” It screamed out its convictions to the wind, yet none responded to the undead’s claims.

The surrounding cold blue energy surged as the lich worked to control itself. A flash of a brief feeling appeared in its empty sockets and was squashed immediately.

“Too bad that the olden tongue has been forgotten by our descendants. Words carry power, a way out - alas without understanding there is no negotiation, only bloodshed.” It mused before staring at the bloodied mud. In the background the horde shifted and waned under its precise control, as the zombies and wights quickly hobbled to their new positions, leaving an empty space in the middle of their army. Humans observed it all with their curious eyes, reacting accordingly, soldiers posed to intercept. After what felt like an eternity the leading undead sighed audibly, coming to some unknown conclusion. “I wanted to spare you this humiliation. To fight not only in the ruins of our last redoubt but also against the people who we once swore to protect.”

The lich turned its head back, glaring at the incoming reinforcements. A small caravan of rotten wood and flesh slowly trudged towards the frontline. It was comprised of the undead horses half-dragging, half-pulling the badly decomposed carriages, while zombie drivers stared emptily at the road ahead.

Both humans and the dead observed the procession. It was clear that these new forces were somehow a game-changer, a hidden card used to break the stalemate between the Silver Oasis forces and those of the undead horde.

Charles’ soldiers were murmuring with unease, while the lich’s army stilled under a silent command.

As everyone focused on this new threat there was something else that slipped their attention - a sole rider clad in iron and wearing a black, ragged cloak that appeared on the nearby hill and - after a second of confusion - immediately turned back, disappearing into the wastelands.

His garb bore a familiar symbol.

A small chuckle escaped my mouth. The story was getting even more complicated. Nice!

In the meantime, the blue-eyed lich waited impatiently as the undead caravan trundled closer, and all eight wagons spread in a fan formation. The unsettling rattle stopped and only heavy silence remained.

“It is time for you to rise, old friend. The cursed bones of heroes will walk these hills once again. It is a sorrowful existence, I know… alas, there is no other way. Our Goddess demands sacrifice, and we give it! Willingly, or not. Pour your essence into this vessel! Exert your authority! Rally your long-forgotten servants! Quell your thirst for revenge, spilling the blood of those who wronged you and their descendants!”

I was getting really bad vibes from this speech, my amusement quickly dissipating, replaced by a feeling of nameless dread. While not clear to the humans, to me, the intent of conquest and subterfuge was easily discernable behind the lich’s words. And, as far as I was concerned, the undead mage just suggested that ownership of these grounds was about to change.

That was unacceptable.

These halls, these humans, and creatures - they were mine. Mine alone. Anyone who threatened this ownership was an enemy.

And enemies had to be eliminated.

I sent a dungeon-wide alert to my creatures and started to rouse every available battle force. I even went as far as to draw from the horde of experimental, untested creations - Dragoons, their lizard scales hidden under crudely grafted armor, ever-curious Butchers melded with their spider-like mechanical limbs… even War Puppets were included.

These last ones were something that my rats had concocted, conjoining a Ratling commander with the otherwise useless shell of a soul-burned sentient. Mindless flesh puppets were given purpose and used to make war. Nothing was going to waste, as it should be. Functionally they seemed similar to the Kobold Dragoons but only time would judge their overall usefulness.

Their size remained similar to the lizards (or rather the dwarves they were built upon) but while Dragoons preferred a combination of heavy shields and lances or spears, the War Puppets clearly favored double axes or hammers. This made them perfect soldiers to form assault squads from - hard to kill and easily dishing out massive amounts of damage.

Such was the theory anyway as they had to yet taste battle.

While I was marveling over the dungeon’s newest inhabitants, the time above ground didn’t stop in the slightest. The cargo hidden in the eight wagons had been uncovered and tireless zombies placed it before the lich. Dozens upon dozens of bones had been unceremoniously dumped on the ground, creating a small white hill.

It was a grotesque sight.

On the other side of the battlefield, the human forces shifted, their ranks swelling with fear and confusion. One of the nervous officers sprinted to Master Vincent’s position, his pale countenance glistening with sweat. The robed mage seemed completely unconcerned with the situation, his grey eyes taking the surroundings in with practiced ease.

Inadvertently I stopped to listen, my curiosity getting the better of me, even though time was certainly not on my side.

“Sir! We are ready to rain death on the undead bastard and kick him down a peg!” The officer yelled while saluting.

“Keep your men ready, but do not attack.” A calm answer came back.

“Forgive me for asking, sir, but… why? Isn’t it the best time to interrupt the spellcasting?”

Master Vincent sighed. “How often do you think our Kingdom’s forces meet with this exact situation?”

“Pardon?”

“The undead are beings of habit. They repeat their thoughts, tactics, and emotions. So, I ask you, captain - how often do you think the enemy commanders summon a monster or two to their aid?”

“Ummm… I don’t know.”

“Often enough that we have thousands of documented cases. So, believe me when I say that we’ll be ready to intercept… when the time is right.”

“Sir! Thank you for the explanation, sir!”

“It’s nothing. Go back to your men, captain. Reaffirm them and stand tall. We need them to be ready to strike at the moment’s notice.”

“Yes, sir!”

The soldier in question saluted and jogged back, his face less pale than before. This situation repeated itself along the defensive line as warriors and archers relaxed their grip on the weapons.

On the other side, the undead mage stared at the dirtied remains without as much as a murmur, it wasn’t quiet though, as the lich’s bony fingers rapped an uneven rhythm on its staff. This persisted for a long while before the undead straightened up. A whirl of cold, dead mana started to appear around its feet, the concentrating circles spreading further and further away from the caster - like eerie ocean waves. Then, with a sudden flourish, the undead tossed a rusted piece of metal right into the middle of the white pile.

Contrary to my expectations it didn’t bounce, but instead instantly sunk - like the surrounding bones were made from goo, not dead, calcinated matter.

Not waiting for the effect of its actions the lich lifted its gnarled staff, an audible buzzing spreading from the azure core encased within. The sound grew louder and louder, motes of cold energy dancing around the undead caster as it chanted some nonsensical words in a low tone.

Then, with its withered finger, the lich pointed at the nearby bones and screamed out its favorite phrase.

“ARISE!”

At the same time, my senses were overwhelmed as something descended upon the world. The wind stopped and grains of the air-dancing sand fell to the ground like a terrified animal. Both humans and the dead were trying to turn invisible, to avoid the attention of… of… whatever it was. The being ignored the public as it pushed atrocious amounts of mana into the white hill, only to dissipate after a second like it never appeared.

The only thing that remained for a swift second afterward was the feeling of a lopsided smile directed at me. The magic felt manical and chaotic, just like the twin goddess I knew.

There was a loud crack, and suddenly the core of the lich’s staff broke in half, the rest of the crystal it was comprised slowly crumbling and turning into dust. I could feel sorrow at its demise but scoffed at the sensation. The sense of loss remained for a long while, but it was an unexplainable thing.

As the eerie presence vanished I noticed how one after another the gathered bones started to vibrate, the background buzzing growing stronger with each passing moment.

The next few minutes were filled with tension as the sound grew even louder before an ear-shattering noise exploded and a large, thick-boned skeleton appeared from the deathly pile. Unlike the mindless undead, it moved with grace and precision, like a dancer or assassin. Soon it slowed down, and - despite its aggressive appearance - appeared to be hesitating about something. It waited, longingly extending its hand in the air.

With a wailing sound, a sword made of bone coalesced in the air, floating into its grasp. It was a large, unwieldy thing, more similar to a blunt piece of metal than a greatsword it was supposed to be. Yet the undead lifted it with startling ease and familiarity, clacking its teeth in relief.

Slowly the bones around its legs liquified, flowing upward and forming a plate armor and helmet over its “naked” body. The white color dulled into a more grey hue, dirtying the overall presentation. On the skeleton’s back armor, a symbol slowly appeared - a black kite shield on a white-ish background - the inverse and mockery of Geinard Kingdom’s heraldry.

As the forming process finished there was a spark of recognition and then dread appearing in the skeletal eye-flames. The cold blue glow started turning green, one color fighting another in a merciless battle for control.

If given time I was sure that the intelligence within would destroy the azure yoke that held it captive.

Alas, the other undead knew it too.

“You will not!” Screamed the lich, its power once more suppressing the skeleton, verdant will losing to the icy embrace of death.

The summoned one kneeled, before raising its head and bellowing its anger to the world. A scream of defiance and fury echoed through the very souls of both the living and dead, forcing them to cower. The lich included. The source of the sound attack slowly, ever so slowly climbed to its feet, swaying like a drunk man, its hands clenched on the greatsword like one would on a cane.

As the battle of wills continued the humans shook off the effects of the summoning and started to react. Messengers zipped to and fro with scary intensity, their shouts filling the air.

“Prepare for backlash!”

“Gather your mana! Raise your weapons!”

“Shoot only on direct order!”

“Aim for the mage!”

Ignoring the opposing army the large skeleton turned its gaze full of pain and hatred towards the undead caster. It glanced towards its weapon, the oversized sword barely budging even after a few tries.

Seeing this the summoned undead seemingly resigned itself. It started to chant, and at least this time the flowery words used were recognizable - if a bit skewed. Like my automatic translation could barely follow the intent behind them.

“My name is… Henrik Waltzer. By the power that binds, by the noble oath, by the covenant of old. My soul as a payment, my will as a promise, my death as a curse. I beg you, oh, Goddess of Magic, queen of my ancestors. Heed my call! Tear me out from this defiled vessel, or tear me apart!”

As these words finished the world stilled, and another power descended on the Silver Oasis. Unlike what happened earlier the mana behind it was slow and smothering, like an encompassing blanket. Powerful yet somehow uncertain in its purpose. It lacked the personality that the being summoned by the lich oozed. Somehow it also felt familiar, like a smell half-remembered. It reminded me of Mirabelle and Brighton, the pair of gods that dropped me on this accursed rock.

Ignoring my mute wonder the energy swirled, coalescing into an ornate dagger fitting snuggly into the skeleton's hand. With a solemn motion, the green-eyed undead lifted the newly created weapon to its chest, preparing for a stab.

The lich reacted immediately, bellowing in an angry voice.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“It will be not allowed, old friend! Return to me!”

Its mana swirled, ready to repeat the earlier suppression.

This time however Silver Oasis forces weren’t willing to become silent spectators.

“Fire!”

“Fire!”

“Fire!”

The voices of officers layered on the top of each other, as human warriors let loose their strongest attacks, iron arrows and colorful magic bouncing off the undead’s shield.

Even if the enemy caster remained unharmed it was not without a price - some of its attention had already shifted towards defense - thus breaking its concentration. A moment or two later Charles added his considerable strength to the assault - his green-speckled flames faring far better against the enemy.

This elicited a shout of anger from the lich, blue mana fluctuating wildly around its form.

“You insignificant insects! How dare you interrupt me?”

Blasts of pure energy, not constrained by any shape met the combined attack of the human forces. Some arrows and spells were struck down producing showers of sparks, others simply vanished under pressure, leaving the way back open and allowing the lich to bombard the outpost’s defensive line with impunity.

Screams of pain and wailing followed.

And yet, ignoring the lich’s counterattack mana-clad visual cacophony continued, fulfilling its purpose. It allowed the undead servant to finish the seppuku ritual it seemed so intent on continuing.

The strands of green energy were still being whisked into the dagger as the skeleton held it high up with the feeling of gravitas, before unhesitatingly plunging it into its chest.

Normally such a weapon would either break or miss the ribs, finding no purchase, yet this magical instrument seemed to work despite the lack of physical flesh to pierce. For a moment the suicidal skeleton glowed fiercely, as the green mana pushed into what looked like a monstrous heart covered in bluish chains. Their color reminded me of the lich’s staff. As the dagger hit its target a high-pitched sound was produced, before the chains surrendered and broke apart. Then the blade sunk into life hidden underneath.

And the effect was immediate.

Mana around the undead coalesced before exploding with deadly force, blasting the nearest undead far away, even as the lich put up a hastily conjured defense. A yell of pain and liberation echoed through the air, as a gigantic skeleton sunk to its knees, the magical dagger simply dissipating into the grains of sand.

The silence followed.

“Curse your foolish pride, old friend!” The lich sputtered, waving its hand in annoyance. “Yet even if the soul is not willing, I can still make use of the body!” It cackled evilly before its laugh sputtered into a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, for this transgression.”

As the lich strengthened its defensive spell humans stopped their assault, not willing to waste any more strength for no gain. A second later a blue circle - smaller than before - appeared under the kneeling skeleton and encompassed its form. The bones glowed with cold energy, adding a unique hue that rose from the ground, seemingly strengthening its legs, torso, arms, and skull. As the process finished the dead warrior rose once again - this time however it felt much less “alive”. The blue flame, similar to the lich’s, dwelled in its eyes.

“Go.” The caster spoke. “Go, and smash through their defenses. Teach them to fear the new Gods!”

The dead warrior roared in response, its chilling energy spreading through the surroundings.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, like in a horror movie, a skeleton hand pierced the dry earth, another and another following in its footsteps. Soon a sizeable undead army was digging its way through the ground, eager to join their compatriots, their skulls clicking with murderous glee. Many still wore pieces of rusted armor and weapons, the faded crest of the Geinard Kingdom visible on shields, armor, and helmets.

The screams of the humans added to the cacophony, as the dead started rising amongst their ranks, their soldiers and mages suddenly busy with fending off a surprise attack. Most of the time the undead were quickly dispatched even before they managed to dig themselves out, their vulnerable position easily exploited. However, some of them managed to scratch and even kill the unlucky individuals.

As the situation was being brought under control the skeleton army coalesced outside the moat. In the meantime, human forces battered down any escapees and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was too soon, however, as the screams now erupted from the backline, where civilians were located. The faces of Silver Oasis’ commanders paled with fright, their soldiers barely keeping discipline. That was a demerit of having people defending their homes and loved ones. They fought like devils when threatened, yet the same strength was their greatest weakness.

Usually, I would just laugh, while continuing to observe the battle.

There was however a tiny problem with that course of action.

The undead weren’t only molesting the living - their grubby hands started to appear underground.

In my dungeon!

It was unacceptable!

Earlier, when my trusted Anima Drones carved their earliest constructions into rock and dirt I constantly encountered desiccated remains of Waltzer’s Castle residents. While most of them were turned into Lebirs or fertilizer, it was obvious that even more of them rested in the thick earth all around us.

I didn’t consider these things a threat.

In retrospect, I was quite wrong.

This was a magical world, and the undead (and necromancers) were already a thing, so it was foolish of me to not notice these pawns lying in wait on my property…

Their overall threat was rather low, as my forces quickly found emerging enemies and slaughtered them, the unlimited energy of unlife countered with the same endless power of my creations. The deeper they appeared, the faster they were dispatched, because, just like in any decent dungeon, the power level of my creatures grew the lower one ventured.

Even the few undead who emerged in my hidden core room were instantly entangled and then killed. It was pretty cathartic, watching them being fried alive by the hanging wires. It was the closest thing I could do with my own hands. While it might not have been the true purpose of these wires, a tool’s power often depended on the user's ingenuity.

That was just how electric chairs were made, after all.

The invaders also started appearing on the first floor, but my response up there was limited. This level was the one where my instincts got the worst of me. Not to mention the countless humans that blocked me from spawning any more monsters.

Or, should I say, that it was controlled by humans.

The skeletons seemed to have a real grudge against defenseless people who used to keep my halls quiet and docile. Their affiliation to the Geinard Kingdom seemed to be enough to incite a quiet fury, brightening their icy-cold eye sockets. Still, even surprised, the inexperienced civilians were more often than not able to smash down their attackers before any real damage was done.

What was the real problem stemmed however from how the stream of the dead seemed to be effectively endless. I was sure that there was a limit somewhere - either to the lich’s magic or the supply of skeletons lodged in my walls. In the short run, it didn’t matter, however. Humans were slowly getting overwhelmed, more and more of them panicking and retreating to the surface by the minute. To tell the truth, it was just fine. As they left these halls would start spawning my creatures again… as soon as enemy skeletons stopped appearing.

Yes, that was a bit of a problem.

Surprisingly there were two main points of resistance - both centered around my creations. One was the “training” room or “Trial of Single Combat” as the humans called it, containing two Lebir Spar-Masters who were currently busy culling ever-approaching skeletal tide. Some of the novice warriors from up above and a few civilians were either helping them or trembling in the corner. Neither changed much.

I could feel elation in the minds of Spar-Masters, as they effortlessly shattered skulls and broke bones with their maces. The ground was already littered with smashed remains of their enemies, making the continued battle that much harder.

They relished this challenge.

Another point of contention was the workshop of the Golem-Smith. Or Idiot-Smith as I preferred to call him. It was smaller when compared to the Spar-Masters' abode and easier to defend, yet instead of human warriors, it was scholars and crafters who sought shelter inside. These were the most dedicated ones too. There were five of them in the room, four men and one woman, their eyes wide with fear, as they observed the raging form of Idiot-Smith.

It was a bit funny, too, as I watched the mass of skeletons trying to get into the room being continuously smashed into pieces by its blacksmithing hammer. There was no finesse, no tactical plan, just pure, unaltered strength. Were the Smith human he would already run out of juice long ago. Alas, as an undead - an abomination - there was endless energy inside his body and an endless amount of things to smash.

As my consciousness left the room I confirmed that the first floor was currently filled with undead. Or should I say - enemy undead. The situation seemed stable if not particularly pleasant. I loathed seeing invaders on my floors, and while humans kinda grew on me (the way that pets, no matter how ugly kinda do), these new bony annoyances were anything but acceptable.

I focused on one of the invading skeletons and a familiar window appeared.

Waltzer Castle Returned Skeleton

While no soul currently inhabits this husk it was once a part of one of humanity’s greatest armies, led by Henrik Waltzer. These forces were formed to stop the invasion of northern beasts but had failed in this task and were annihilated due to a betrayal. It was returned to the unlife by the call of its former liege.

This undead is not intelligent and will move according to instinct - killing living beings while prioritizing Geinard Kingdom residents. It has the basic ability to use tools and as undead is an untiring abomination, destroyed on sight by most sentient races. It has been enhanced by the call of its lord and is faster and stronger than before.

Due to accumulated damage, its threat rating has been lowered.

Threat level: D--

The situation above ground changed just as I mused about sending an expeditionary force to the first floor, and maybe even further, just to prove my point that these halls were my property, not anyone else's.

The wall of fire made by Charles’ magic started to die down under the constant barrage of lich’s ice-cold magic. The fire resisted, devouring large chunks of incoming icicles like a surrounded beast, yet the number of attacks thrown its way seemed simply too much to ignore. To add to this conundrum the desperate tries of a few flame-attuned mages were only making matters worse, the green-speckled magic lashing out at the lesser mana instead of welcoming its help.

Soon the fire faded and the way through stood clear.

The red-haired mage sighed before motioning to his commanders, the new units of robed acolytes joining the fray. They filled ranks between melee soldiers and mages, clearly using a slot of middle-range troops. It took me a second to remember that these were the same people cooking up the undead-repelling mixture, the flasks, and bottles filling every space on their person suddenly making more sense.

The earth trembled as my Ogrekin joined the line, their stupid-looking faces squinting at the sight of the enemy undead. This time they were armed with a few large stones each, their sausage-like fingers tracing their edges with mute excitement.

On the other side, the undead knight raised its greatsword to the skies, before roaring in a challenge. The skeletons answered its call, their teeth clattering as weapons and shields were banged on each other, creating an ungodly ruckus. Slowly they started to walk, the wall of bones looking much more intimidating than the dregs I encountered underground.

As the humans tensed in response I noticed that their ranks were a bit thinned out, some of their soldiers clearly sent to the back, to protect civilians. A foolish notion, to weaken their defensive line before an enemy assault, yet I couldn’t fault Charles's logic of keeping the troops' morale high.

Surprisingly the man in question still stood alone ahead of his army, his red hair fluttering in the wind. Two adjutants were stationed on his flanks, their faces pale but determined. Seeing that their defense failed the former noble scratched his unshaven face before turning to his aides.

“Tell the handlers to let loose the Undying.”

“Sir!” In response, the man saluted, his face turning a different shade of fear.

“Is it wise, sir?” The second one whispered, eyes wide.

“We make use of what we can, wasn’t that always our motto?” Charles said while following in the other aide's footsteps. Halfway through a few teams of leather-clad workers passed him, running in the other direction - towards the frontline.

The said men were closing on the wooden boxes covered in rusted chains I noticed earlier. Besides these weird things, there were other mechanisms attached to the wooden boxes, filling the back, sides, and even its upper parts, leaving only the front free. Not counting the wooden board wall, of course.

As soon as their run finished each of the soldiers popped near a winch or rope, ready to begin their work, like parts of a well-oiled machine. With a nod from the man in charge, the work started, and sounds of protesting metal and the splashing of a liquid filled the air.

Not even a minute passed before I could see a reaction, something hidden stirring in the crates.

“Numer seven, ready!”

“Three, ready!”

“Nine, ready to go!”

“Six waiting for command!”

The numbers continued to be counted off until the last worker spoke in a deep voice. “Numer One ready to deploy.” And, after a moment of silence, he added. “May the Gods have mercy on our souls.”

The rest of the troops glanced at the speaker, before pulling out small star-shaped necklaces from underneath their shirts. They were crude, wooden idols, clearly made with haste.

“““Blessed be Brighton, the golden star of hope.””” They all repeated.

I observed this exchange with unease. Folks from Silver Oasis never struck me as overly religious, even when faced with some of my own abominations.

“Deploy!” Shouted the gruff-sounding bald man, right after the prayer finished.

His subordinates started to turn the cranks, competing with each other with who would finish the fastest, sweating all the while. After a moment sounds of warping and cracking wood were added to the noise of their huffing breaths. The work continued uninterrupted… until a soft *clink* had one of the workers staring at the stuck mechanism in horror.

He tried again and again, the metal refusing to budge. This persisted until the muscular leader pushed him out, yelling in anger.

“What are you waiting for? Run, you fool!”

“B-but… t-the coffins!” His subordinate cried out.

The large worker scoffed in response. “Just run. You still have a family to go back to, right?”

“I-I… y-yes. Yes. T-thank you, Tom! Truly, truly, t-thank you!”

“Just… go.” The bald man waved him off before continuing to force the stubborn crank. Metal protested under his efforts, as he nearly broke the mechanism underneath. In the end, it surrendered, a screech accompanying the release.

The box snapped open and a chain wrapped upon its upper part started to unwind. Soon the rest of the coffins followed suit, their lids coming undone. The humans bolted away as soon as they finished their work, fear only adding to their speed.

A grey hand with taut skin emerged from one of them, tightly grasping the wall, its fingers digging deep into the wood with inhuman strength. The material protested and then gave in under pressure, leaving large holes.

The being emerged from its box, and I could see its complete form. It looked like a human if starved and abused. With its grey skin and barely any hair present, it was startlingly similar to how ghouls were depicted in my old world. After the first, the rest also emerged from the coffins, one of them being bigger and meaner-looking than the rest. They all wore baggy pants, iron helmets, and each of them was armed with a sword.

It took me only a second to recognize these - after all Blood Sword and Helmet of Hunger were things that Charles’ soldiers frenziedly were “grinding” for in my depths. They amassed quite a collection. I couldn’t then understand why they were doing so, as both items, while enchanted, reduced their wearer to either regenerating berserker or hungering beast.

Or both.

Oh.

Ooooh!

Clever!

I threw a quick [Analyze] at them and it bounced back immediately without producing any result. They were still considered humans, then.

Their helmets had been modified, similarly to how horse blinders worked - they could only look straight ahead, and poorly at that. Their upper torso was bathed in red, slick liquid. It looked like blood, but I wasn’t totally sure. Around their necks was an iron collar with a thick, metal chain attached - the other end of the same one that kept unwinding from the tops of their coffins. It was a simple way to keep them anchored. Considering that decapitation was the only real way to stop them it also doubled as an armor piece.

Most of the ghouls were wide-eyed and wild, their human features distorted with rage and hunger. The only one different was their leader, the largest member of the pack. It stood straight up, not like his hunched peers, and gazed with cold fury at the incoming skeletons.

Despite the inhuman changes I recognized him. He was once called Knut, the rogue that delved into my depths with a band of his companions. In the end, he was forced to wield the cursed items recovered from the Greed Hallway, and - while he managed to survive - it was not without committing some unthinkable acts.

His demeanor changed from that time. The always-afraid criminal was no more, instead, in his place a blood-starved beast remained. So… an improvement? It was a dangerous world, after all.

As the frontline of skeletons arrived at their location they were naturally noticed by the Undying, as the Silver Oasis forces called them. The ghouls roared in the challenge but surprisingly didn’t charge.

At least not until Knut lifted his sword while screaming.

“The feast comes to our doorsteps, oh cursed! The promise of blood, flesh, and bone beckons!” He laughed hysterically. “Drink the sweet blood nectar!” His gray, withered tongue extended, partaking in liquid I was now pretty sure was blood. “Let the Hunger guide you!”

“Raaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Graaaaaaaaaah!”

“Devooooooooor!”

His followers howled in excitement, their words barely understandable, some even not forming any at all, letting their bestial nature take the lead. There were no more than twenty of them, against hundreds of the dead… yet somehow I couldn’t imagine them losing.

Like hounds let free from their leash they charged at the enemy, lithe bodies smashing into a thick line of the dead like bowling balls. Bone clubs and spears bent and broke under the assault, their owners soon following suit as the ghouls used both their inseparable swords and uncannily white teeth.

The few of them even managed to break through the first line of attack, dining on zombies shambling behind, their wide mouths happily tearing and swallowing rotten flesh.

In the middle of all this chaos, Knut walked slowly, smashing bones and carving skulls, his sword working not on instinct but instead led by trained reflexes. While not the best weapon to cut bone, his cursed sword easily tore through the enemy, the first wave, biting deep into secondary forces.

The skeletons were mostly decimated in a few minutes, the Undying instead focused on zombie meatshields and advanced undead. Large abominations, human-like wights, and delicate ghosts joined the battle and for the first time, ghouls started to bleed.

They fought with ferocity, trading wound for wound. For a while it seemed like it would be not enough, some of them falling on their knees, countless weapons lodged in their flesh. One of the ghouls was swallowed whole, the grinning abomination smacking its stomach with relish. Another screamed as a cadre of ghosts flayed the skin from his flesh.

I could hear chanting in the distance, but ignored it, intently observing the slaughter. The battling dead and never-dead ignored it too.

This persisted for a while until… the flow changed.

Until the same devoured ghoul emerged from its enemy's insides like an oversized chestburster.

Until the Undying pierced by weapons roared in indignation, sending them back to their owners.

Until the cut-off limbs and arms regenerated, crushed eyeballs regained clarity, and broken teeth regrew, only to get broken again and again. The pain-relishing army followed its leader, Knut, who they now call the Cursed as he carved a bloody path towards the enemy caster, the lich observing him with clinical curiosity.

Its cold mana started to peak once again, preparing to intercept. In the background, its summon still rallied skeletons from the depths of the wasteland. Everything was going well…

Until fucking Charles not-Blueflame sent a Gods-damned meteor down in the middle of this chaotic battlefield.

And everything went to hell.