Sven was dangerously sleepy. At any moment, he was in danger of losing his grip on his torch and collapsing to the ground to catch up on well-deserved slumber.

For a whole week, he had been assigned to keep watch at night, in addition to his daily drills, and it was beginning to take an excessive toll on his body. But such was the way of a young candidate to the City Watch. For all the sleepless nights, all the sores that he suffered through for days after training, and all the severe reprimanding that his superiors called instruction, all it meant was another step closer to his dream: to be a fully qualified member of the City Watch. It was a prestigious position that would secure him and his family a way out of their life of destitution within the city’s wretched slums. If it meant getting closer to that achievement, Sven could hardly complain about another night of watch duty.

In fact, nights like these were one of the more relaxing parts of his daily life. Most nights were merely a battle to stave off boredom.

The young guard walked along the wall, eyeing the wooden buildings by the path. In front of him would be the usual check-in with the guards of the Eastern Gate, for all the “trouble” it entailed: a quick hasty examination, some light banter with acquaintances, a few drinks slipped into the job, and bored gossiping of the day’s happenings.

“Hey, how’s it going here?” Sven called out as he neared the Eastern Gate. But, to his confusion, no one called back his usual greeting.

“Hello? What’s up here?” Once he got closer, Sven saw a sight he had never seen in all the months before: the gate left open and abandoned by its guards. Not a guard was in sight. Both the inner wooden gate and the metal portcullis on the outer side were left open to the wilderness. “What the hell? Where are they? What are these guys doing?”

He stomped out through the gate and examined the immediate area outside, irritated at the guards’ absence. Perhaps, they were up to something outside the city walls. But it made no sense to the young Sven. These guards he knew weren’t the type to fool around and abandon their posts like this. As he scanned around him, a feeling of unease settled in his stomach. The most plausible explanation for the guards’ absence was that something had gone wrong.

“Huh?” Then, Sven saw it. He saw something that amplified the anxiousness he was harboring. Figures shrouded in darkness, all around, encompassing his whole field of view. Though they looked humanoid, the way they stumbled awkwardly and twistedly was telling off something else. Every single one of them was drawing nearer and getting closer to the city. “W-What are those things… Undead?”

Without even getting a good look at those things, the young guard’s instincts immediately kicked in, and he ran back through the gate and into the city. Despite the situation, he assured himself that there was nothing to worry about; the city’s fortifications would hold against even that many undead. He would never have to fight those things. Never.

Sven began pulling the open large wooden gate from its place. But no matter how strenuously he pulled it wouldn’t budge an inch.

“Agh!” He tried again, and again, and again, until his face was flushed and sweaty and his arms were sore, but it still hadn’t budged an inch. All the while, he nervously eyed the undead which had become more visible from the distance. “Shit! What the hell is goin’ on!” he yelled.

His eyes wandered down to the ground, and then he saw why. The wooden gate was fused to the earth. His heart beat frantically in his chest as the gears of thought whirred in his head. With the unnatural growth of the earth, the young guard realized that this had been a mage’s work. Someone had done this, had wanted this very situation, whatever that situation might be.

But the young guard remained as calm as he could be. The outer portcullis! If he could close the portcullis, it would undoubtedly still be enough to stop the undead, or at least long enough to find the time to rush for help and close the inner gate. Sven rushed hurriedly away and through a door into a chamber within the city wall.

He ran, the flickering light of his torch lighting up the dark, abandoned chamber — again, another unusuality, as at least one person would be here — and reached the chained winch acting as the portcullis’ mechanism. In his panic, he dropped the torch, but, in his determination, he carried on and pushed against the winch’s lever. With a strong push, the lever… did not move. It could not move.

“No. No, no, no!” Sven put all his weight into moving the lever, and all for naught. It was stuck in its place. “Bloody hell, what in the Goddess’s name is happening! It can’t be!” the young man cried as his arms fell limp to his side.

Sven picked up his torch through severe breaths. Help. He needed help. Help closing the gate. Help figuring out what had happened. And help warning the city before tragedy descended upon all of them. As he made to exit the chamber, he noticed something – no, someone – in the hallway. A hooded figure, shrouded in shadows, stood in his way.

“You! You did this!” He unsheathed his sword and charged at the figure, but his blade only found empty air. Seemingly from nowhere, a fist shot out at him, hitting him from under the chin. The world around Sven blurred as he stumbled and collapsed against the wall.

***

“Huh?” The first thing that Sven noticed upon awakening was his parched throat. The second was the shackle that tightly pinned his left hand to the wall. He was in the chamber with the gate’s mechanism, as dark and abandoned as it was before, though through the silence were uneasy noises: low groans, scratching at the walls, heavy steps. Panic built up as the hole he had been thrown into. How much time had passed? Had those things made it within the city walls? And who was that figure?

“Argh! Gagh!” The young guard struggled and tried to slip his left hand out of the shackle. As he pulled with all his might, he cursed himself, he cursed the figure that he encountered, he cursed the very currents of fate. It was as if he was being tortured for the amusement of a higher being watching over him. Much like the wooden gate and much like the winch’s lever, his hand wouldn’t budge no matter how he moved. “Damn it! Damn it! Damn i–”

“Grghh…”

He was brought to silence when he heard it. The door slamming open, the long drawn out steps across the stone floor, the guttural growl resounding through the hallway. Once he realized it, he couldn’t stop himself from breathing frantically. Time seemed to slow. An eternity of fearful anticipation stretched on as he struggled to get himself out while hearing the steps get closer to him.

But the eternity came to an end. Through the dim lighting, he saw the shadows of ten figures stumble into the chamber, one-by-one. The heads of the figures snapped right at Sven, their eyes almost glowing like burning coal.

He tried to find his sword, but the sheathe was empty. The sword was on the ground, in the center of the room. It was too far for him to reach, even if he extended his legs out in an attempt to nudge it close. Sven would have nothing but a dagger to fight off the undead, which were drawing closer, all while being binded down.

“No! No! Get away!” The figures did not listen to his pitiful pleas. In fact, their approach seemed to grow more enthusiastic at the man’s cries. Sven’s tearful eyes then turned to the hand trapped by the shackle. He needed to get out. To run. In a moment of despair, he turned to a solution only the hopelessly desperate could consider.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

He drew a long dagger from chest and bit down hard at the cloth of his cloak.

“Ha… ha… ha!” After two quick breaths and a cry, he dug the blade into his wrist. “Aghh! Fuck! Shit!” His teeth ground as he ignored the searing pain, pulled off the dagger, and stabbed again. And again. And again. The sight before his eyes was surreal: a large gash at the edge of his wrist from which warm blood pulsed, torn skin, ripped muscle, revealed bone. He turned his grip on the dagger in his hand and began hacking at the gash, all while his arm away. His blade began to get caught in the bone, but his efforts remained unrelenting. They needed to be unrelenting. Else, the undead would be upon him before he could even try to run away.

“Agh! Rgh!” With one last pull, the job was done. He ripped away his arm, tearing the last strands of muscles and tissue connecting the wrist to his hand. Sven only eyed the bloody hand remaining in the shackle for a moment before he crawled forwards and picked up the sword on the ground. His heart sank as he saw the number of undead that had made it in the chamber. There was no path for escape. To fight, or to accept death, those were his only two choices. “Die, you monsters!” he cried.

The young man rushed forwards and, with one quick cleave, beheaded the undead nearest him, but the headless figure remained moving and tackled him down to the ground. A long, chilling cry escaped Sven as a sea of undead swarmed and surrounded him, nothing in sight but bloody, decaying hands.

***

“Metis, no time to waste.” I stood and took one last look at the dead old man, his remains covered with a bloody cloth.

“What were you doing here, though?” Metis asked, stepping beside me.

“The gates of this city have been broken open. I’m here to drive off these beasts and protect this city,” I responded, my hand clenching into a tight fist.

“You planned to do this yourself?” she asked, eyebrows slightly raised.

I nodded silently.

“So, where are you headed?” she said, not showing a sign of reprimand or doubt.

“First thing first, my plan was to close the city’s gates from which these things are pouring in. I’ll see you.”

A whirlwind of air flowed around me and lifted me up into the air, and I landed up on the rooftops. My eyes stared blankly at the corpses dotting the streets, and a heavy, weary sigh escaped my lips. The moments of peace after driving off the undead ravaging the old man came with a sinking feeling of fatigue, one unlike I’ve felt before.

I wasn’t a stranger to exhaustion. My days with the Weaponmaster Paladin was a constant battle against physical exhaustion, and my fight against the masked Phoebus was a desperate struggle against the exhaustion of my mana reservoir. But right now, I felt an unshakable fatigue of incomparable depths, one that had been building up the whole day, one that made even keeping my eyes open a battle to itself — and one that struck to my very soul.

Another heavy sigh escaped from my lungs, still staring at the corpses. Right. There was no time to rest.

I began running along the rooftops, still headed eastwards. But another figure appeared beside me. They kept up with my quick pace, which was hastened using magical enhancement of my leg muscles.

“And you plan to go without my help?” the figure said, her voice blending in with the wind rushing past my ears.

“Will you be able to help?” I asked Metis as we ran and jumped across a large gap. I landed smoothly, my descent slowed by my wings, while Metis landed quickly but effectively, somersaulting to lessen the impact.

“I will,” she said curtly. Her blank look almost seemed to question me for insinuating that she wouldn’t be able to help. “Your plan is sensible, though your intent on going at it alone is questionable. I shall help you realize your goal.”

“Fine,” I said. “Keep up with me though, I won’t hold back. And help me keep an eye out for any survivors wandering the streets.”

“I have been doing that the whole time.” Suddenly, she stopped and turned her direction sideways. “I will take the other side of the street. Take care.” Metis jumped across the street we ran along, clearing the large gap with ease. Her figure shrouded in shadows followed my lead, only a few steps behind my progress to the Eastern Gate.

“Agh…”

The collective groan cut through the night’s silence. Both Metis and I took note of it and stopped. Wandering down in the streets was a group of undead — though there was something alarming regarding them. All of them wore the same gear: a surcoat over a suit of chainmail, with a kettle helm over the head. In their hands were spears. These things were – or, used to be – city guards.

Had they been turned undead as well? Had the other undead somehow turned them undead as well?

I cursed myself. Try as I may to riffle through the memories of my carefree years back in the village and through the countless books I read, I couldn’t dig up any information of substance regarding undead.

“Luqa!” Metis’s voice drew my attention, as well as that of the undead, who stopped in their tracks and stared at the woman on the rooftops. “These things, they seem to be weak to fire, no?”

“I think so!” I yelled back.

The woman didn’t respond. Instead, she took the bow from her back and aimed it at the undead below. With the other hand, she took a small item from a pack secured to her belt, so small that I couldn’t make anything of it even through magically-enhanced eyes. At the next second, with a subtle glint of magical light from Metis’s fingers, the item transmuted into a long arrow, radiating with such energy that it was almost glowing with a faint red light. She nocked the arrow onto the bow, drew the bowstring back, and fired the arrow down into the undead below. Metis soon followed the one arrow with a myriad and rained down a barrage.

As each arrow found its mark, it combusted into a small fiery explosion. It engulfed the whole of the undead’s body in an intense flame that died as quickly as it started. And, in an instant, all the undead in the streets below had been killed.

I descended down to the street, sword drawn for caution. I heard Metis follow down, her nimble feet quietly touching down on the cobblestone path.

“They’re dead,” I mumbled as I stared at the corpses in armor. “Whatever that arrow you used was, it's… impressive.”

“Arrows that induce the [Combustion] spell, using the target’s life as fuel until their death. As per last time,” she quietly responded, “the compliments should be reserved to the one who was responsible for their creation.”

“That fox girl, hm? Your friend is really impressive. And that spell sounds scary.”

Metis smiled weakly and nodded at my statement. “I would lend them to you as well, if you knew how to use them, and if they also weren’t so cripplingly costly. But, I trust you can take care of yourself?”

“Mhm,” I nodded at her. “Besides, not only can I wield my own flames, but those things have a weak spot. Though, it takes an eye that can see the flow of mana to pinpoint it down. Worse yet, for every undead, the location of their weak spot is different.”

“Good to note… but how truly inconvenient,” she said, sharing my exasperation.

“…I’m still trying to process it,” I said, staring at the corpses. “These things, they… they must’ve been guards who were just turned undead tonight.”

“No doubt regarding that,” she agreed.

“Is that normal for undead?” I asked, staring into Metis’s cool, blank eyes.

“I…” she sighed as she stared back, “If a necromancer is responsible for this mess, then yes. Otherwise, I do not know.”

“You don’t kno–”

Hurried cries resounded through the streets – cries of the living. I turned my head toward its direction, which was east, towards that gate we’ve been nearing the whole time.

“Damn. Let’s go. That’s not too far here!” I shouted.

“I’ll support you with long-range attacks. Be careful, now. You are uncommonly powerful, Luqa, but that may make you a victim of common foolhardiness.”

“Hmph.” I could give no proper response as I watched Metis scale up the building with inhuman speed, and so I began charging down the street, scimitar still in hand.

My mind lingered on the woman’s words: that may make you a victim of common foolhardiness.

Someone certainly could’ve used that advice three centuries ago. The Demon King Malachi, in his carelessness, and with a foolhardiness to the people and world around him, ruined the lives of many. In turn, wouldn’t it only be a fair exchange that Luqa should be as careless with his life for the sake of others as Malachi once was careless with others for his own sake? How much use does Luqa need to wring out of his wretched life before the scale weighs equally on both sides?

I’m sorry, Metis, I apologized in my head as I ran down the street, but I’ll be disregarding your words.