The battlefield ahead was pure chaos—zombies shrieking and roaring, the clash of combat brutal and unrelenting.
Candlewraith had made up his mind. With a swift leap, he surged forward.
His plan? Play dumb. Stick close behind Ironhorn, and when Wraithshade made his move to ambush, they'd strike together and take him out.
"I really am a genius..." Candlewraith smirked, thoroughly pleased with himself. This was the true value of a psychic-type Zombie King—not just raw power, but total battlefield control.
Up ahead, Ironhorn was still tearing through enemies like a force of nature. As one of the Voidborn Undying, his presence alone radiated crushing pressure. Every stomp of his massive foot shattered waves of zombies into pulp.
But Frostmere's undead horde wasn't backing down. They charged head-on, fearless and relentless.
Bloodleech, pale as bone, was slinking away while releasing swarms of parasites behind him—cowardly and slippery as ever.
"Don't even think about running!"
