The world had changed.

Gufran could feel it. Not just in the air, thick with the stench of death and burning wood, but in the very fabric of existence. The rules were breaking.

The undead had always been wild things—driven only by hunger, by instinct. But now, here they stood, waiting in silence, their empty eyes fixed upon him.

They did not wander.

They did not turn on each other.

They waited.

For him.

It was no longer enough to be strong. No longer enough to simply survive.

A king without a throne was nothing.

And so, he would make one.

---

The village was useless now.

Burned, emptied. The living would return eventually, searching for answers, for vengeance.

And when they did, they would come stronger, smarter, prepared.

The survivors he had let go—they would bring word of him. They would spread fear, stories, lies, and truths.

And the moment the living understood what he was, they would not hesitate.

They would come to end him.

Gufran knew this.

He was not ready for war.

Not yet.

So he walked, and his horde followed.

At first, it was a slow, awkward march. The undead were not built for order. Their bodies twitched, stumbled, lurched forward in uneven steps.

But step by step, they changed.

They moved with purpose.

Some still resisted. Some still lagged behind, their rotted minds struggling against the pull of his will.

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But Gufran learned.

With every command, with every moment that passed, the connection between them grew stronger.

This was not just an army.

This was his horde.

And it was growing.

---

Two days into the march, they found an old battlefield.

A place where the living had once fought—perhaps decades ago, perhaps longer. Skeletons, shattered weapons, rusted armor littered the ground. And among them…

More of the dead.

Dozens. Maybe more.

But they were not his.

Yet.

Gufran stepped forward, sensing the difference before he saw it. These undead were wild. Feral. They had no master, only the raw hunger that ruled them.

As he approached, they turned.

They did not bow.

They did not obey.

They attacked.

And Gufran smiled.

---

The first of the wild undead lunged toward him—a creature that had once been a man, its skull half-caved in, bones barely holding together.

Gufran didn’t move.

Not until it was too close.

Then—

He struck.

His hand shot forward, fingers curling around the creature’s throat. It thrashed, clawed at him, but it was nothing.

Nothing.

With a single flex of his hand, he crushed its neck, snapping bone and rotted flesh. The body collapsed instantly.

Too easy.

Another charged. Then two more.

Gufran let them come.

He wanted to test something.

One clawed at his chest, another went for his throat. He did not move.

Their teeth sank into his flesh.

And—

Nothing.

The pain was there, but it was dull. Distant. He could feel their teeth break his skin, but they could not rip through him.

His body had changed.

He grabbed one by the wrist and tore the arm clean from its socket. The creature howled, but he silenced it with a sharp kick that shattered its ribs.

The other undead still gnawed at his shoulder, but he barely felt it.

This was not a battle.

This was a lesson.

---

He moved through the battlefield, unhurried, testing.

One enemy grabbed his arm. He let it, then wrenched free, breaking its fingers like dried twigs.

Another tried to gouge his eyes. He caught its arm and ripped it from its body.

He let one sink its rotted teeth into his throat, just to see if it would matter.

It didn’t.

The wounds closed too fast.

The pain wasn’t real.

But the hunger—it was.

And when the first real wave of attackers came, Gufran stopped playing.

He reached forward and grabbed an undead by the face. It struggled, screeched, but his grip was iron.

And then—

He fed.

Not by eating. Not by biting.

But by pulling.

The undead shuddered, its flesh turning black, crumbling to dust in his hands.

And the black mist rushed into him.

He was already learning to get stronger.

---

The Horde vs. the Wild Ones

As the wild undead charged, his horde finally reacted.

But this was not chaos.

This was strategy.

Gufran reached out with his mind, commanding them as a general commands his soldiers.

The larger undead—the brutes, the heavy ones—held the front.

The faster ones—thin, wiry, unburdened by rot—moved to the flanks.

Gufran watched as his horde fought differently now.

They adapted.

They moved as one.

They learned from his commands, executing tactics no undead had ever used before.

A slow, methodical intelligence was growing among them.

And he realized—

He was not just creating soldiers.

He was creating something more.

A new race.

An empire.

And the wild undead did not understand what they were facing.

They had always fought in mindless, chaotic swarms. They had never faced organized undead.

And they fell like a house of cards.

Within minutes, the battlefield belonged to Gufran.

Those who had not been slaughtered stood frozen, their rotted bodies trembling.

Feeling something other than hunger-fear!

And then—they kneeled.

Not all at once.

Not immediately.

But one by one, they submitted.

They recognized him.

And they obeyed.

His horde had doubled.

---

Later that night, as the undead stood in silent ranks, Gufran sat atop a crumbling stone altar, thinking of his next move.

He looked at the moon that looked really beautiful and his eyes glowed with the same glow.

As he was admiring the sky, A thought crossed his mind.

He was a king and a king needs a fortress.

A base. A stronghold. A place to prepare for war.

The living would come.

Not today. Not tomorrow.

But soon.

Soon the survivors will come back and if they do not prepare for what's coming they stand no chance.

His gaze turned northward, toward the distant mountains.

Something was calling him.

Not a voice. Not a whisper.

But a feeling.

A pull, deep in his bones.

As if something waited for him there.

Something meant for him.

He did not understand it. Not yet.

He rose, and without a word, the horde followed.

They marched toward destiny.

Towards where his instincts told him to go.

Towards the first kingdom of the dead.