(Gufran’s POV)

The sky was bleeding.

Or maybe it was just the sunset, its dying embers stretching across the horizon, staining the world in shades of crimson and gold. The last remnants of daylight clung to the jagged peaks of the mountains, flickering like candlelight before the storm swallowed them whole.

Gufran ran.

Not out of fear. Not out of weakness.

But because something called to him. A whisper in the wind, a pulse beneath his feet, a force stronger than hunger, stronger than the primal instincts that had guided him since the moment he had awoken in his new, cursed existence.

The fortress loomed in the distance. A black silhouette against the sky, ancient and unmoving, a relic of forgotten wars. Its stone walls, cracked by time yet unbroken, stood like a final challenge.

It was close. So close he could almost feel its weight pressing against his mind.

But so was the enemy.

Behind him, the earth trembled. Hoofbeats rolled like distant thunder, growing louder with each passing moment. The air shuddered with the clash of metal, the bark of orders, the furious cries of men who had sworn to exterminate his kind.

The Blackridge army had come.

Faster than expected.

Stronger than expected.

Their warhorses carved through the mist, their banners snapping in the wind. They had found him before he could reach the fortress.

And now—there was no choice but to fight.

Gufran slowed his pace. The horde continued to march at their own rhythm, guttural growls vibrating through the night. He turned, his sight cutting through the darkness, past the jagged ridges and broken cliffs.

The last light of the sun fell upon his face, igniting his eyes with a crimson glow.

And then he saw him.

At the forefront of the charging army, astride a monstrous warhorse clad in steel, was Commander Voss.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, the battlefield fell silent.

Gufran didn't know why, but excitement bloomed within him instead of fear.

He smiled.

A slow, deliberate grin.

The air shifted.

The soldiers faltered. He could feel their hesitation, their unease. Their hands tightened around their weapons, but not in preparation for battle. It was something else.

They had never seen an undead like him.

He was different.

He was special.

And Voss—he was afraid.

---

Gufran turned sharply on his heel, his cloak whipping around him like a shadow unfurling in the wind. With a single motion, he raised his hand.

The horde obeyed.

A sudden, eerie stillness fell over the battlefield. The undead—over a hundred of them—ceased their relentless march, their rotting bodies freezing mid-motion, their hollow eyes locking onto their master. The only sound was the whisper of the wind through the craggy peaks and the distant, uneasy snorts of warhorses.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Gufran turned his gaze toward the man at the forefront again.

Commander Voss.

The human sat atop his massive warhorse, his silver-plated armor glinting in the dying sunlight. His face, hardened by countless battles, remained still—but his grip on the reins had tightened.

Gufran smiled again.

A slow, taunting grin. A challenge.

The mocking curve of his lips sent a ripple through the Blackridge soldiers, a moment of hesitation, a breath of doubt. They had fought undead before—mindless, rabid creatures with no thought beyond hunger.

But this… this was different.

Gufran was different.

Then—he clenched his fist.

The horde moved.

A guttural, inhuman roar ripped through the silence as the undead surged forward like a tidal wave of death.

Voss rorared and charged into the battle before any of his soldiers could react.

And then the Blackridge army followed suit and crashed into them like an iron hammer.

Steel met bone.

Flesh met blade.

The battlefield exploded into chaos.

Swords carved through decayed bodies, severed limbs flew through the air, and the ground turned slick with a mixture of human and undead blood. The air filled with screams—of dying men, of snarling corpses, of warhorses rearing and kicking in blind panic.

A soldier cleaved through an undead’s skull, only for two more to drag him from his saddle, their teeth sinking into his throat. Another warrior impaled one of the creatures through the chest, but it didn’t die—it kept moving, clawing at his face until it ripped his eyes from their sockets.

It was a slaughter

And yet in the middle of it all--Voss charged.

His warhorse, a beast of iron and fury, barreled through the undead ranks, trampling rotted bodies beneath its thundering hooves. The sound of breaking bones and snapping limbs filled the air as he cut his way forward, his blade a silver streak in the dying light.

One swing—an undead’s head flew from its shoulders, tumbling into the dirt. Another strike—his sword cleaved through a torso, splitting it in half before the body even realized it was dead.

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But Gufran was no mindless corpse.

He moved like a shadow, slipping through the carnage, his body a blur of unnatural speed. He didn’t fight with brute strength alone—he flowed, weaving between lunging swords and desperate strikes, cutting down armored soldiers as if they were nothing more than dry leaves in the wind.

His claws, black and jagged, tore through steel like parchment. A soldier raised his shield, but Gufran’s hand speared through it—through him—ripping flesh and armor apart in one merciless motion.

Screams echoed. Blood sprayed.

And then—gunfire.

A deafening roar.

The air cracked as musket shots and rifle rounds tore through the battlefield.

Undead jerked and fell, their decayed bodies shredded by lead. Some collapsed instantly, their skulls bursting open from well-placed shots. Others, slower to die, twitched and writhed on the ground as their bodies struggled to obey commands they could no longer hear.

Gufran twisted—too late.

A bullet seared across his shoulder, cutting through flesh and bone. A sudden, sharp burn—hot, raw, real.

Pain.

His steps faltered.

For a moment, the battlefield faded, and only that sensation remained. A dull throbbing, followed by the slow, aching realization:

It had been a long time since he had felt pain.

He hissed, his eyes narrowing, his claws flexing.

The Blackridge soldiers weren’t just holding their ground.

They were adapting.

This wasn’t a slaughter anymore.

This was war.

And for the first time since becoming a zombie—

Gufran was struggling.

---

Through the bloodshed, through the chaos, through the endless screams of the dying—

They found each other.

Voss, his armor slick with gore, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, locked eyes with the monster.

Gufran grinned.

A sharp, taunting thing. A predator’s smile.

“You’re better than I expected.” His voice was low, almost amused, as if this was nothing more than a game.

Voss didn’t answer.

He just attacked.

Steel clashed against claw in an explosion of sparks.

Voss struck first—his sword a blur of silver, cutting through the air with the force of a man who had fought monsters before. Who had killed monsters before.

But Gufran was not like the others.

His claws raked against the blade, the screech of metal splitting the battlefield, and then he was inside Voss’s guard, his fingers curling like a vice toward the commander’s throat—

Voss twisted away, fast, but not fast enough.

Gufran’s strike grazed his shoulder, shredding cloth, drawing blood.

Voss didn’t flinch.

He lunged, his sword flashing again, and this time—he struck true.

The blade sank deep into undead flesh.

Gufran’s grin widened.

He didn't feel pain the way humans did.

But the force, the sheer power behind the strike—it thrilled him.

They moved like two storms colliding—brutal, raw, unrelenting.

Gufran’s attacks were wild, fast, like a predator testing his prey, looking for an opening, a weakness, a moment of hesitation.

Voss was different.

Precise. Controlled. Every swing, every block, every counter measured with deadly efficiency.

A hunter who had spent his life killing things that should not exist.

But neither of them could finish the other.

Slash. Dodge. Strike. Counter.

Faster. Harder. Again and again.

They were both too strong.

Too stubborn.

And all around them—

Their armies were dying.

---

Gufran felt it first.

The shift. The slow, inevitable collapse.

His horde was crumbling.

The Blackridge soldiers were falling fast—but they fought like demons, refusing to break, refusing to die easily.

His undead weren’t infinite.

His strength wasn’t infinite.

And if this continued—

He wouldn’t make it to the fortress.

Voss saw it too.

His army was winning, but barely.

Their numbers were bleeding out, their formations beginning to thin, their once-solid line breaking apart under the relentless assault.

Another twenty minutes—and there would be nothing left of either side.

The battle would end in ashes.

Gufran smirked.

A small, knowing grin.

"This was fun," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper—just loud enough for Voss to hear over the carnage.

Then—

He ran.

Straight for the fortress.

Like a shadow breaking away from the fire.

Like a ghost slipping through the cracks of war.

And before Voss could react—before any command could leave his lips—

Gufran was already gone.

---

The undead threw themselves at the Blackridge soldiers, becoming a wall of flesh and bone.

A barrier.

A sacrifice.

Cannon fodder.

That’s all they were now.

Gufran didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

A handful of his strongest followed, their movements swift, purposeful. The rest? Left behind to die.

They would buy him time.

That was their only purpose now.

The Blackridge soldiers tried to chase—but they were exhausted, bloody, barely standing.

Some ran after him on instinct, blades raised, desperate to stop the nightmare from escaping—

"STOP!"

Voss’s voice cut through the battlefield like the crack of a whip.

The soldiers froze, their hesitation thick in the air.

They wanted to pursue.

They should pursue.

But Voss just watched.

He watched as Gufran vanished into the mist, swallowed by the fortress’s looming shadow.

He clenched his jaw. He could chase him.

He should chase him.

But if he did—

He’d just lose more men.

And once he’s inside the fortress…

We won’t be able to take him down.

Not with our current manpower.

---

Just before vanishing into the fortress, Gufran turned back.

The battlefield was a graveyard of bodies, human and undead alike. The air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and smoke.

And there, standing amidst the ruin, was Voss.

Still standing. Still breathing.

Gufran raised a hand.

Not in defiance.

Not in anger.

But in acknowledgment.

A slow, casual wave.

As if this had all been some grand game.

As if the hundreds who had died meant nothing.

A cocky, arrogant grin spread across his face.

"This was fun, General."

His voice carried over the silence, sharp as a blade.

Then—

He was gone.

---

The battlefield was silent.

Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that came after carnage.

The moans of dying soldiers.

The crackling of fire, devouring the remnants of war.

The thick, suffocating stench of death.

Voss sat atop his horse, motionless, his grip tightening around the reins. His gaze remained fixed on the last place Gufran had stood.

A ghost. A nightmare. A monster.

Gone.

Erwin limped to his side, his armor dented, his face smeared with blood—his own, or someone else's, Voss wasn’t sure.

“Orders, sir?” His voice was hoarse, tired.

Voss didn’t answer immediately.

His eyes stayed on the fortress.

On the darkness waiting inside.

On the thing they had let escape.

He exhaled slowly.

"We go back."

Erwin stiffened. "What?"

"Let him go."

Voss’s voice was steady, but his expression was unreadable.

"We’re not chasing him into whatever that is." He nodded toward the looming fortress, its silhouette swallowing the sky. "Not when we are this weak."

Erwin followed his gaze.

At the dead.

At the men they’d never get back.

At the price they had already paid.

He didn’t argue.

There was nothing left to say.

There was nothing left to do

If they followed him inside, they would almost certainly die.

Because they didn't know what awaited them inside.

Traps?

More zombies?

Witches?

---

Inside the fortress, Gufran stopped running.

The silence was heavy.

His breath was ragged. His body ached. The wound in his shoulder throbbed, a slow, dull burn. His strength was waning, his horde reduced to barely a handful of survivors.

But he was alive.

And that was enough.

The doors behind him groaned, their rusted hinges screaming in protest as they began to close.

A slow, deliberate creak.

The last sliver of moonlight vanished.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Then—

A whisper.

Low. Ancient.

It slithered into his mind like smoke, curling through his thoughts, filling the empty spaces where fear should have been.

Something had been waiting for him.

Something old.

Something hungry.

And now—

He had arrived.