The Fortress of Blackridge
The city of Blackridge stood like a fortress against the chaos beyond its walls. Towering battlements, reinforced with steel plating, loomed over the valley below. Unlike the scavenged settlements that dotted the land, Blackridge had been built before the Fall—a relic of a time when humanity still believed it could tame the wilds.
Even now, its obsidian-black walls were a symbol of order.
Inside, the streets were paved with dark stone, slick from the mist that constantly hung in the air. Smoke curled from the great forges that powered the city, the scent of burning coal and oil thick in the air. Blackridge did not survive on magic. It thrived on steel, discipline, and control.
There was no room for weakness.
No room for faith.
Only preparedness.
And yet, it was not prepared for what was coming.
---
The Arrival of the Survivors
A desperate pounding echoed against the heavy steel gates.
"Open the gates! Please!"
A small group of ragged survivors huddled outside, covered in blood, soot, and dirt. Their breath came in ragged gasps, their eyes wide with terror.
Above them, from a watchtower, a guard peered down. His uniform bore the Imperial Legion’s crest, though his armor was battered from years of war. He narrowed his eyes at the strangers below.
"State your names and origin!" he barked.
The man at the front—clothes torn, dried blood streaking his face—gasped, "Kasian traders! Our village—it's gone! They're all dead!"
The soldier stiffened.
Kasian was fortified. Its walls had held against the undead for years. If it had fallen…
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Something was wrong.
With a reluctant creak, the massive steel gates slowly opened.
The survivors stumbled in. Some collapsed the moment they crossed the threshold, others fell to their knees, sobbing.
The guards did not comfort them.
They had seen broken people before.
Some survived. Some didn’t.
And some… never truly left the horrors behind.
---
Inside the gates, Blackridge continued as if nothing had changed. Soldiers patrolled in perfect formations. The marketplace, though open, was strictly monitored—every vendor required a permit, every purchase recorded.
Here, chaos was not tolerated.
Even magic was distrusted. The world had long since abandoned it, choosing steel, gunpowder, and tactics over arcane forces. Witches were outlaws. Sorcerers were relics of a forgotten past.
And yet, even in this city of reason and discipline, a whisper traveled through the ranks.
Kasian had fallen.
And something about it wasn’t normal.
---
The General’s Chamber
The survivors sat on the cold stone floor, their hands wrapped around cups of steaming broth.
Opposite them stood General Aldric Voss.
The man was scarred, broad-shouldered, and silent. His presence filled the chamber, his sharp gray eyes betraying nothing as he studied the newcomers. He had heard too many stories of the undead. Too many times, they were exaggerations.
Beside him stood Captain Erwin, a veteran with arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes held far less patience.
Voss spoke first. "Kasian has fallen, you say?"
The lead survivor—Orik, a trader by profession—nodded. "We saw it. It started as any other night. The bells rang—an undead breach."
"How many?"
"At first? Less than fifty."
Captain Erwin scoffed. "Nothing your village couldn’t handle."
The survivor shook his head. "That’s what we thought. At first, they were normal. Slow. Mindless. We formed our lines, cut them down—just like always."
A pause.
And then, the survivor’s voice shook.
"And then… he came."
Voss didn’t react. He simply stared. "Who?"
The survivor licked his dry lips, his gaze unfocused.
"A man. Or something that used to be one."
Voss’s expression remained stone.
"Explain."
Orik exhaled sharply. "At first, we didn’t see him. But then… the undead changed."
Captain Erwin narrowed his eyes. "Changed how?"
The woman beside Orik, her arm wrapped in bloodied bandages, shuddered. "They stepped back. They let us think we were winning. And then… they coordinated."
The room grew colder.
Voss exhaled sharply. Then he laughed.
A quiet, humorless sound.
"Zombies don’t coordinate," he said, shaking his head. "You panicked. You think you saw something that wasn’t there."
Orik’s hands slammed on the table.
"I KNOW WHAT I SAW!"
Silence.
"They were disorganized," he continued, his voice shaking. "At first, they were nothing. Just mindless corpses, rushing forward. And then he appeared."
"And then what?" Voss asked, his tone sharpening.
Orik’s voice lowered to a whisper.
"Then they obeyed."
---
Doubt Grows in the General’s Mind
Voss leaned back, expression unreadable.
He had heard dozens of stories about the undead.
None had ever been true.
He turned to the guards. "They’re shaken. Get them some rest, but don’t waste my time with—"
A knock at the door.
A scout stepped in, armor scratched and dirtied. His breath was short.
"Sir," he panted. "I just returned from Kasian."
Voss frowned. "And?"
"Kasian is gone."
The words hung in the air.
Orik shuddered. "I told you," he whispered. "He let us go."
Voss was silent.
No undead outbreak had ever spared witnesses.
"Even if it was just luck, we shouldn't take any chances." Voss thought to himself.
His fingers curled into a fist.
"Captain Erwin."
"Sir?"
"Summon the war council."
The Captain hesitated. "You don’t believe this, do you?"
Voss’s expression was unreadable.
"Let’s hope they’re wrong," he murmured.
"But if they’re right… I don't want to put the lives of people living in this fortress at risk."
And for the first time in years, Blackridge felt cold.