The night was alive with screams.

The survivors fought with desperate fury, their torches casting erratic shadows over the ruined village. Steel flashed, gunfire cracked through the air, and the scent of fresh blood thickened. The zombies lunged without hesitation, driven only by hunger, mindless in their assault.

Gufran watched.

The instinct to kill raged within him, an undeniable force urging him forward, commanding him to tear, to feed. His fingers flexed, itching to carve into warm flesh. His mouth watered at the thought of fresh magic surging through his body.

And yet.

He did not move.

Instead, he observed.

He watched how the humans fought-not like warriors, but like survivors. Their eyes were wide with terror, their movements erratic, untrained. They struck wildly, fueled by panic rather than precision.

A woman screamed as a zombie tackled her, its teeth sinking into her shoulder. Another man swung an axe, splitting a rotting skull in two. But for every zombie that fell, three more surged forward.

They were losing.

Gufran's dead heart did not stir at their suffering. No pity, no remorse.

But something else did.

A thought. A realization.

This was wasteful.

The zombies attacked in chaos, without strategy. They swarmed blindly, their attacks predictable. And because of that, the humans still stood. They should have been overwhelmed by now.

They should have fallen.

But mindless hunger was weak.

Gufran turned his gaze to the nearest zombie. It was a pitiful creature, half-decayed, its jaw barely hanging onto its face, its movements sluggish and jerky. It lunged at the humans with no thought, no plan. It was just another corpse, destined to be cut down.

And that was unacceptable.

Gufran reached out.

Not with his hands.

With his will.

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The moment his thoughts touched the creature, he felt it-something raw, something deep. A thread of existence, a presence as hollow as the body it inhabited.

It was like gripping a chain submerged in thick mud. Heavy. Clumsy. But it was there.

Gufran pulled.

The zombie halted mid-step.

Its dull, lifeless eyes flickered. It stood straighter. More alert.

Not thinking. Not aware.

But listening.

Obeying.

Gufran's fingers twitched, and the creature moved. Not in the aimless shamble of its kind, but with purpose. It turned toward the nearest survivor-a man frantically reloading his rifle, his hands trembling.

The controlled zombie did not lunge wildly. It waited.

It watched.

And then, at the exact moment the man's fingers slipped on his ammunition.

It struck.

A clawed hand tore through his throat. Blood sprayed into the night. The man barely had time to gurgle before he collapsed, his rifle falling uselessly beside him.

The other zombies continued their senseless assault.

But this one?

It had killed efficiently.

And that sent a shiver of something dark through Gufran's decayed spine.

He could control them.

He could guide them.

And if he could guide one.

His gaze swept over the battlefield.

How many more could he take?

---

The humans fought valiantly, but the tide had already turned.

At first, they had been cutting through the undead with desperate energy, their weapons carving a path of survival.

But then, something changed.

The zombies were no longer attacking recklessly.

They were coordinating.

They were waiting.

A survivor swung his sword, expecting a wild counterattack-but none came. Instead, three zombies surrounded him at once, cutting off every escape. He barely had time to scream before they tore him apart.

Another man, wielding a torch, tried to hold them back with fire. He expected them to flinch, to hesitate.

They did not.

Instead, one zombie tackled him from behind, slamming his face into the dirt. The torch fell from his hands. He reached for it, fingers trembling.

A foot crushed his wrist.

He barely had time to look up before teeth closed around his throat.

The survivors were no longer fighting zombies.

They were being hunted.

And as the last man standing looked around at his fallen comrades-his chest heaving, his torch flickering-he finally saw it.

The figure standing amidst the dead.

Gufran.

His hollow silver eyes gleamed in the firelight, unblinking, unshaken. He was no frenzied beast. No mindless monster.

He was something else.

The man trembled. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Only terror.

And then, he did the only thing left.

He ran.

Gufran did not chase him.

He had no reason to.

The battle was already won.

The dead had not simply risen tonight.

They had conquered.

And for the first time, Gufran felt something beyond hunger.

He felt power.

---

The battle was over. The village, already ruined, was now a graveyard.

Gufran stood at the center, surveying the aftermath.

The other zombies-those not under his control-continued their mindless feasting. He had no need for them. They were weak. Unshaped. Nothing more than tools.

But the ones he had touched?

(Sorry this sounds so bad lol)

They stood apart.

Their heads did not loll, their bodies did not twitch erratically. They remained still, waiting.

They were his.

Gufran flexed his fingers, feeling the threads of control pulsing between them.

This power was raw. Unrefined. It strained against him, resisting. He could not hold them forever. Not yet.

But in time?

He would master it.

And when he did.

The world would kneel.

A dry wind howled through the wreckage, carrying the distant sound of footsteps. The lone survivor, fleeing into the night, his torchlight bobbing in the distance.

Gufran let him go.

Let the humans hear of what had happened here.

Let them fear.

Because tonight was only the beginning.

And soon, the curse of humanity would spread.