I can’t even remember how long it’s been; how long I’ve been sitting here, trapped in this bunker. They say that it’s not over until the fat lady sings, yet I’m almost certain that several were screaming out tunes of praise in the vain hope that it would save their souls.

The invasion was so brief, so sudden. A day like every other, one where all I could think of was how to train myself in reanimation. Corpses returning to the world of living at my will, prepared to do my bidding. Another day that would be lost in my memories as I grew older, as I slogged through books and classes. If only I could go back to those worries.

I can’t even remember it that well. Just a regular sunny day in the civilisations of Hashvan, the world I know that hasn’t seen battle for more than thirty years. A day that became a nightmare from the moment the shrieks began. The ungodly shrieks; the wails of foreign beings mixed in with the roar of alarms; the cries of fear from those who could not stand against the onslaught; the battle cries of the Lichven that could stand and fight. They all blended together in a painful symphony of trauma and agony, a collection of terrifying songs that are now burned into my head. Even when I sleep, I can hear the screams.

I can still see them too. The creatures, whatever they were.

Mistakes. Beasts. The failed products of the universe. Rejects and mutants, mixed into inconceivable beings. Hideous grey faces constantly shifting into otherworldly deformations, long shapeless and colourless bodies to match. I’ve seen terrible results from my necromancy, seen the most twisted amalgamations of flesh rise up from what was once a Hashvien corpse. Yet their disfigurement was nothing compared to whatever hell had produced these things.

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Unfortunately, they were as tough as they were ugly. The conjured weapons; the uplifted vehicles; the pieces of buildings; the charges of elemental energy. Nothing phased them. Fire burnt away against their bodies; stones exploded against their forms; weapons were crumpled and vehicles smashed. Every mage and caster that faced them was killed within moments as if they were mere paper dolls against a crashing tsunami.

I didn’t dare to stop and fight. I was one of the first in the flood of people that rushed to what we thought was safety. Law-keeping centers, garrison offices, and even Lichven checkpoints near the end. Yet nothing was safe. Everywhere we went, the creatures followed. One by one, my companions were killed around me. Even those that could fight were mercilessly slaughtered and, eventually, I was the only one left.

I don’t know how I survived. I don’t even know why. It seems cruel that they let me run, somehow losing sight of me as I fled from them. Even finding this rotted bunker, a safehouse that I had to descend for nearly half an hour to get to, is starting to feel like a curse. I have no clue, no fathomable way of knowing, how many of my people still remain alive. For all I could know and hope, the invaders have gone. Or, more likely, everyone is dead.

Maybe the Likaven is alive. Likaven Enocavian DurukBlad. He always managed to figure out how to escape sticky situations. I guess as a Likaven, always contested by challengers to that metaphorical throne, he would have to be. Maybe his Lichven were able to escape as well. Maybe they’re still alive. So many maybe’s, yet I doubt a single one of them is true. Even Enoch, almighty Enoch, wouldn’t be able to survive this onslaught.

Yet, despite all this madness, I think it might be an idea to see the surface. I can always hide back underground after all. Seems like these creatures can’t manage to pierce javiklen steel - if only there was more of it. But I can’t sit here and complain, hide as I have for the past three days. I at least have to see what’s up here. Maybe I can even resurrect a few of my people and see what they have to say. I learned that at the academy, at least.