The Hunt Begins

Commander Gale adjusted the straps on his armor, scanning the dark treeline ahead. His scouts—twenty elite warriors—moved silently through the misty forest, their hands tightening around their weapons.

They were trained for this.

For years, Blackridge had sent its best beyond the walls to survey undead movements.

But something felt different tonight.

Gale didn’t like it.

"Stay sharp," he murmured, voice low. "We move quiet. No torches. No unnecessary noise."

The men nodded, disciplined and professional.

The undead were usually slow, predictable.

Tonight, the silence itself felt wrong.

Gale’s gut told him something was watching.

Waiting.

And then—

A snap.

A whisper of movement too fast to see.

And one of his men disappeared.

---

Gale heard the wet crunch before the scream.

He turned just in time to see Luka—a soldier with six years of experience—being dragged into the underbrush.

A rotting hand clamped over his mouth.

Another sank claws into his stomach, pulling him down.

Luka thrashed—then choked.

A second later, he was gone.

Gale’s hand shot up in a fist.

The entire squad froze.

His heart hammered.

This wasn’t a normal undead attack.

They were being hunted.

"Form up!" he snapped.

The men drew their weapons, forming a tight circle.

Then—

They came.

---

Like Animals in the Wild

The first undead hit them like a shadow.

Gale barely had time to parry the strike, his sword flashing as it cut through decayed flesh.

The creature shrieked, but it didn’t stop.

They weren’t supposed to move like this.

They weren’t supposed to be fast.

Another scout screamed as he was tackled from behind.

Then another.

Bodies hit the dirt, dragged away into the blackness.

Gale cursed, swinging his blade wildly, severing a rotting arm.

The soldier beside him—**Joran, one of his best men—**tried to reload his rifle.

He never got the chance.

A set of rotting jaws clamped onto his throat.

His rifle clattered to the ground.

His choking gurgles were lost in the chaos.

Then—

They stopped.

The undead suddenly stopped.

A pause.

A moment of unnatural stillness.

Gale froze.

The remaining scouts—now barely ten—looked around in confusion.

And then—

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A figure stepped forward.

---

Gufran Enters the Battle

The moonlight revealed him first.

A tall figure, barely human, his form wrapped in shadows.

His eyes glowed faintly.

Gale knew instantly that this was no ordinary undead.

The creatures around him twitched—like they were waiting for his command.

And then, he spoke.

"You’re out of time."

Gale moved first.

He lunged, his sword flashing.

Gufran sidestepped.

Fast. Too fast.

Gale barely registered the movement before a clawed hand slammed into his chest.

Pain.

The breath ripped from his lungs.

He hit the ground hard, rolling onto his back.

When he tried to rise—

Gufran was already standing over him.

"You fought well," the undead murmured.

Then—

He struck.

Gufran’s hand pierced his chest.

Straight through bone, muscle, and heart.

Gale gasped—his vision blurring.

Blood pooled from his lips.

A lifetime of training—gone in an instant.

His fingers twitched uselessly.

And then, Gufran tightened his grip.

With a final twist—

He crushed his heart.

And Gale was no more.

The remaining scouts screamed.

The undead descended upon them.

Flesh tore. Bones snapped. Blood painted the forest floor.

One by one, they were devoured.

Some tried to fight.

Some tried to run.

None survived.

Gufran stood among the carnage.

And then—

He joined in.

Each bite, each stolen piece of flesh, sent fire through his veins.

Memories flickered.

Faces of men who no longer existed.

Their final moments.

Their fear.

Their weakness.

It was his now.

And he wanted more.

---

Not all of them were dead.

Two still breathed.

Trembling. Broken.

One was older, a veteran.

The other—a terrified young soldier, barely past twenty.

Gufran crouched before them.

"You shouldn’t exist," the young one whimpered.

Gufran tilted his head.

"And yet, I do."

He grabbed the older man’s wrist—and twisted.

CRACK.

A howl of agony.

"How many are coming?" Gufran asked.

The man clenched his teeth.

Gufran gripped a finger.

Then—

Slowly peeled the nail away.

The scream shattered the night.

"I don't know, but what I do know is."

"If we don't make it back."

"They will be here soon!" the man sobbed. "And there will be hundreds of them"

Gufran froze.

Hundreds

Too many.

Too soon.

Too fast.

His fingers twitched.

Then—

He crushed the man’s throat.

The body crumpled.

He turned to the young soldier.

"You can run."

The boy didn’t hesitate.

He ran.

Then a undead out of nowhere killed him.

It was as if Gufran was toying with the living.

Too cruel

---

As the last screams faded into the distance, Gufran felt it.

Regret.

Letting the survivors from Kasian escape had been a mistake.

Now, the humans were coming for him.

And he wasn't ready yet.

Then once again he felt a very strong pull coming from the mountains in the north.

And once again he decided to trust his instincts and rush to that place as soon as possible, it was his only hope.

---

After travelling north for another day

They could see the silhouette of a fortress on top of a mountain that was their destination.

As the undead continued to walk.

They were ambushed by the warriors from the Blackridge, heavily armoured -- but just ten?

Another scouting group?

Gufran looked at them from afar.

And then he commanded the undead to act dumb like usual zombies.

One of the warriors charged, smashing one of the undead into a pulp, killing it instantly.

Then the warrior laughed to himself remarking "these undead are nothing but dumb fucks."

Then suddenly the warrior who said that was killed in an instant by a quick and skinny zombie

He went for his throat when he was busy making fun of the undead

The Blackridge warriors stood frozen, their laughter cut short by the gurgling death of their comrade.

The undead who had lunged from the darkness, a thin, wiry corpse with inhuman speed, now stood over the fallen soldier’s twitching body.

His throat ripped open.

His armor useless against the precise, surgical strike.

The remaining nine warriors snapped into a defensive stance.

This was not normal.

Zombies didn’t do that.

They were supposed to moan, stumble, and charge blindly.

These ones had acted dumb—until they didn’t.

A heavy silence hung in the air.

Then—

Gufran lowered his hand.

The signal.

And his undead moved.

---

The warriors, still in shock, barely had time to react.

The undead launched forward, no longer pretending.

One warrior, a broad-shouldered man with a battle axe, swung wide, his blade slicing through one of the corpses.

But it didn’t stop.

It **took the hit—kept moving—**and tore into his side before he could recover.

His scream was drowned in the sounds of flesh being torn apart.

Another warrior, quicker than the rest, tried to run.

He barely made it three steps.

A clawed hand shot out from the mist, grabbing his ankle.

He fell face-first into the dirt.

Then—

A sharp crack.

His neck snapped before he could even cry out.

---

Gufran didn’t move.

He watched.

He had no need to interfere.

His undead were learning.

They were getting influenced.

Adapting.

Using tricks instead of raw force.

This was how a true army should fight.

And one by one, the heavily armored warriors fell.

It was over in less than a minute.

No survivors.

No mercy.

No mistakes.

---

The last body hit the dirt.

The undead did not feast this time.

They simply stood, waiting for Gufran’s next command.

Showing how much control he had over this group on undead.

He waved his hand giving them the permission to feast and also asked the tanks to put on the armour of the dead warriors.

Suddenly a tall skinny zombie came to him with a heart in his hand.

This surprised Gufran.

"This is new...."

But he accepted the gift without hesitation.

---

Then he looked past them.

His gaze locked on the silhouette of the fortress, towering on the mountains ahead.

That was where they were going.

That was what had been calling him.

And now, with nothing left in their way—at least, for now.

They would soon reach that place.