(Blackridge Army’s Perspective – The Calm Before the Storm)
---
The mountains loomed high above them, their jagged peaks piercing the sky like the teeth of an ancient beast. The wind was sharp, carrying the cold bite of approaching winter, but the men of Blackridge marched on, their armor clinking with each steady step.
General Aldric Voss rode at the front, his dark gaze sweeping across the narrow path of the Broken Pass. Behind him, two hundred men followed in disciplined formations—hardened warriors, veteran mercenaries, and a handful of officers who had survived worse than this.
They were marching toward Kasian, a village that no longer existed.
Voss had seen countless undead outbreaks in his time. He had burned cities to the ground, crushed rotting armies beneath his boots, and purged entire villages that had been infected.
But this time, something gnawed at him.
A feeling.
He despised feelings.
“Sir,” Captain Erwin rode beside him, adjusting his grip on the reins. “The men are uneasy.”
Voss grunted. “They always are.”
“This is different.” Erwin’s voice lowered. “They’ve heard what the survivors said.”
Voss exhaled sharply. “Men always talk before a battle. You know that.”
“But the scouts—”
“That's why we are here.” Voss cut him off. “Maybe they got lost in the terrain. Hopefully.”
"Or maybe they were dead."
"Neither answer changed the mission."
---
Further down the line, the soldiers whispered among themselves.
“This is madness,” a younger recruit muttered, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Zombies don’t command armies.”
“Then why hasn’t anyone come back from Kasian?” another snapped. “Why did the first scouts never return?”
“Because they were weak,” an older soldier sneered. “Because they panicked.”
"What about the second party of Experienced warriors?" Another soldier said.
This made everyone silent, gripping their weapons tighter as the shadows of the mountains stretched long across the path.
One of the crossbowmen tightened the straps on his leather armor, his hands trembling slightly. “They say the zombies let some survivors go on purpose.”
A nearby sergeant scoffed. “Zombies don’t let people go. They kill. They feast. End of story.”
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Even though no one refuted him.
Deep down, they all felt it.
Something wasn't right.
---
The village of Kasian.
General Aldric Voss pulled on his horse’s reins as they approached what should have been a settlement of nearly five hundred people. Instead, all that remained were smoldering ruins and the ghost of a massacre.
The Blackridge army—two hundred strong—stood still at the village’s edge, staring at the wreckage.
Even the most hardened warriors among them shifted uneasily.
Voss dismounted, his boots crunching against debris and broken wood.
No lingering undead?
That was the first thing he noticed.
In every undead outbreak he had ever witnessed, there would always be some lingering zombies who will stick around for a long time.
But here—not even one.
Only death and silence.
It was as if something took them.
Captain Erwin approached, his jaw clenched as he scanned the destruction. “This isn’t right.”
“No,” Voss agreed. “It isn’t.”
---
The soldiers spread out, searching for clues.
They found signs of struggle—collapsed homes, broken barricades, deep claw marks on stone walls.
The streets were filled with death and decay.
A lot of blood. Many bodies. As if it was the end of the world.
Sergeant Kale knelt beside a pile of rubble. His gloved fingers traced over deep footprints in the dirt covered with blood.
“Something came through here,” he muttered.
Erwin frowned, kneeling beside him. “Not just something.” He gestured toward the ground. “Many.”
The tracks were messy but unmistakable—dozens, maybe hundreds of figures had moved through Kasian.
Heading north.
Voss exhaled sharply.
“They didn’t just kill the villagers to feed on them” he murmured.
"It was as if they were having fun."
"The wounds on most of the bodies we found, weren't normal."
"Most had their hearts stolen, it seems as if they were specifically harvesting the hearts."
"Very odd behaviour."
A cold silence followed his words.
---
The army moved swiftly, following the bloody trail of footprints leading away from Kasian.
Hours passed. The sun began to sink, casting long shadows across the rocky terrain.
Then—they found them.
The missing scouts and warriors.
At the very front, Commander Gale hung impaled—completely stripped of his armor, his body defiled.
Impaled on wooden stakes through their asses.
Their armor stripped. Their weapons gone.
And smeared across the rocks, written in their own blood—one chilling word.
"WELCOME."
---
Captain Erwin clenched his fists. “They are taunting us.”
Sergeant Kale swallowed hard. His voice was tight with unease. “Sir… these weren’t just mindless zombies.”
Voss already knew that.
The air was thick with whispers—some astonished, some angry, some confused. But mostly, they were afraid.
Mindless undead don’t leave messages.
Mindless undead don’t strip the dead of their armor and wield their weapons.
Voss stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across his men. Fear clung to them like a sickness, threatening to break them before the battle had even begun. He would not allow it.
His voice thundered through the ranks.
“Do you see what they’ve done to our brother-in-arms?”
Silence.
“Do you see how they humiliated your commander?”
A murmur of rage rippled through the soldiers.
“Is this acceptable?”
"NOOOOOO!" Two hundred voices roared back, anger swallowing their fear.
Voss pressed on, his presence commanding, his tone unwavering.
“If you are afraid, turn back now. There is no place for cowards among the Blackridge.” His gaze burned into them, daring anyone to step away. No one moved.
“But if you would avenge your fallen brothers…” He drew his blade, the steel glinting under the dying sun. “Then follow me.”
A beat of silence. Then, a roar.
The army, once shaken, now surged with fury and purpose.
"Let’s kill those bastards!" they bellowed, their fear replaced with the fire of vengeance.
Voss had done more than rally them—he had given them a reason to fight.
---
Erwin hesitated. “Sir, we still don’t know what we’re facing—”
“Whatever it is, it has to die.” Voss’s voice was calm, yet unyielding. "If it’s trying to scare us away, then it fears us. And if it fears us—this is our chance to end it."
Erwin swallowed, then gave a stiff nod, his unease still lingering.
They marched on in silence.
And just before nightfall—
They found something.
Something that should not exist.
---
The landscape changed as they climbed further north.
The trees thinned, giving way to rocky cliffs and steep ridges. The air was thin, the winds sharper.
And there—
At the bottom of a narrow pass, surrounded by the horde—
They saw him.
---
The First Glimpse of Gufran
At first, he was nothing more than a shadow in the mist.
A lone figure, standing motionless, his back turned toward them.
Then—he moved.
Not with the sluggish, mindless lurch of the undead. No. This was different.
Deliberate. Controlled.
As if he had felt their gaze.
Slowly, he turned.
The setting sun caught his eyes.
They glowed. Faintly. Unnaturally.
And then—
He smiled.
A slow, knowing grin.
Erwin’s breath hitched. “Sir… is that a—”
“Quiet.”
Voss’s grip tightened on his sword.
Undead weren’t supposed to be like this.
They weren’t supposed to watch. To wait. To smile.
And yet—this one did.
Not attacking.
Just staring.
Mocking them.
Like a predator toying with its prey.
And for the first time in his life—
Voss felt it.
Fear.
---
Voss took a step forward, sword raised.
The figure did not move.
He simply watched.
Then—he raised a single hand.
And the undead stopped.
Voss’s grip tightened.
This wasn’t just another outbreak.
This was a war.