The court erupted into chaos the moment the messengers finished their report. Nobles shouted orders at knights that weren't theirs to command, priests cried prayers, and servants ran through the corridors carrying word to the garrisons.
King Aldred IV's voice thundered above the noise.
"Summon the generals! Ready every bannerlord! Drachenhalm will not fall as Blackmere did. Ride for the villages—now!"
Sir Edric and Caldus immediately saluted and rushed out with the king's personal guards, while Father Alric fell to his knees, muttering prayers to the One God for protection.
---
Far from Drachenhalm, in a small farming village near the Blackmere marshes, night had already fallen. The moon cast a pale glow over the thatched roofs and quiet fields.
Then came the first scream.
It was not long before the villagers saw them—rotting corpses clad in tattered armor, eyes glowing faintly with a sickly green light. They moved with jerky, unnatural motions, but their weapons—rusted blades and broken spears—struck with deadly force.
"THEY'RE BACK! THE DEAD WALK AGAIN!"
The village militia, a handful of poorly armed men, tried desperately to form a line. Pitchforks, axes, and a few old swords clashed against skeletal hands and rotting flesh.
But nothing worked.
For every corpse that fell, two more rose. Severed limbs twitched on their own, crawling toward the living like monstrous spiders. A fallen skeleton's skull rolled aside—only for the bones to knit themselves back together, reforming into an unholy warrior.
The defenders screamed as their barricade collapsed.
"GET THE WOMEN AND CHILDREN OUT!" a militia captain shouted—only to be run through by a rusted sword, his guts spilling into the mud.
The villagers tried to flee, but the dead moved faster than anyone expected. Their blades hacked through flesh, tearing families apart. Houses were set ablaze by burning arrows launched from the treeline, smoke choking the air.
And then… the air grew heavy.
From the forest's edge, a dark figure emerged—cloaked, faceless, radiating a terrible aura of power.
The undead stopped for a moment, as if bowing to their master. Then, with a flick of its hand, they surged forward with renewed ferocity.
The screams became unbearable. Men, women, and children were slaughtered without mercy.
One mother shielded her son as the corpses dragged them into the mud. Her cries were cut short as jagged teeth sank into her throat.
The last of the militia was torn apart, his arms ripped from his body as his dying eyes reflected the flames devouring his home.
By dawn, the village was silent.
The streets were littered with bodies—some still twitching as the foul magic reanimated them, turning them into new soldiers for the growing horde.
The cloaked figure stood at the edge of the carnage, raising a hand as green light pulsed in the air.
Thwe corpses slowly stood, now numbering in the hundreds.
And with a single gesture, they marched—toward the next village.
---
The dawn mist clung to the fields as the first banners of Drakensport appeared on the horizon. Rows of armored knights, spearmen, and archers formed into tight ranks, their boots sinking slightly into the wet earth as they marched. The clash of steel and the rhythmic beating of war drums filled the air.
At the head of the column rode Marshal Renard Falke, the kingdom's seasoned field commander. His scarred face remained expressionless as he surveyed the burning ruins of the village ahead. Smoke curled into the sky like black serpents, and the stench of rot already carried on the wind.
Behind him, Captain Sir Edric Halberg sat astride his warhorse, his jaw tight as he looked at the dark treeline.
Renard raised a gauntleted hand, halting the column. "Archers, form the first line! Spearmen, brace behind! Cavalry, hold the flanks until I give the signal!"
The men obeyed without question, their training evident as ranks shifted quickly into position.
Edric rode closer, his voice low. "Marshal… the villagers are gone."
Renard's eyes narrowed as he scanned the ground ahead—corpses, torn apart and left to rot. "Aye," he muttered. "But we are not too late for the ones who killed them."
A low, guttural sound rose from the treeline—a hundred pairs of glowing green eyes stared back at them.
"Archers," Renard ordered coldly, "nock arrows. Wait for my mark."
The undead emerged slowly, shuffling at first, then picking up speed as the cloaked figure appeared at their rear. Its faceless hood tilted slightly, as if it were studying the Drakensport army.
Edric gritted his teeth. "That thing… it's commanding them."
Renard didn't reply. He lowered his hand.
"LOOSE!"
A volley of arrows hissed through the air, cutting down the first wave of corpses. Several skeletons collapsed, skulls shattered.
But then, before the soldiers' horrified eyes, the broken bones rattled and reformed, standing again.
Renard's voice was like iron. "Spearmen—BRACE!"
The undead crashed into the first line like a tide of rot and bone. Rusted blades clashed with shields, jagged claws tore at armor. The spearmen held fast, screaming as they forced the corpses back with sheer strength.
"CAVALRY—NOW!"
Warhorses thundered in from the flanks, knights cutting down dozens of undead with brutal strikes. Heads flew, limbs scattered—but still, the corpses reassembled.
Edric's sword cleaved through a skeleton's ribcage, only for the creature to claw at his leg before collapsing.
Then, the cloaked figure raised a single hand.
A surge of dark energy burst forth. Dozens of fallen corpses snapped upright at once, their movements faster, stronger.
The Drakensport line faltered.
"REGROUP! HOLD THE CENTER!" Renard roared, his voice carrying above the chaos.
Even as they fought, every knight present felt it—this was no ordinary enemy.
For the first time in decades, the Kingdom of Drakensport had found itself against a foe that could not be killed by steel alone.
The battle at the ruined village raged for hours. Drakensport's soldiers fought valiantly—arrows flying, swords cleaving through rotting flesh—but for every undead struck down, more rose from the muck.
Marshal Renard Falke wiped blood and grime from his face as he pulled his sword free from a corpse. "Damn it… this is pointless," he muttered. Even Edric, breathing heavily beside him, could see the despair in the men's eyes.
Suddenly, the sound of horns echoed from the rear—a deep, commanding call that rolled over the battlefield like thunder.
From the western ridge, the Holy Legion descended.
Clad in polished plate and mail, each knight bore the insignia of the One God—a blazing sun engraved on their shields. At their head rode High Paladin Serion Valcroft, a towering figure whose golden armor reflected the firelit sky. Behind him, dozens of battle-priests chanted in unison, their voices resonating like a hymn of war.
The undead faltered for the first time.
Serion raised a massive warhammer that glowed faintly with divine light. "BROTHERS OF THE FAITH!" his voice roared across the battlefield. "THE DEAD SHALL FIND NO REST TONIGHT! CLEANSE THEM IN THE NAME OF THE ONE TRUE GOD!"
The Holy Legion crashed into the fray like a hammer of divine judgment.
Holy seals burned on their shields as skeletal claws recoiled from the radiant symbols. Warhammers and blessed blades smashed through bone and rotting flesh, leaving the fallen unable to rise again. Priests raised staves etched with runes, unleashing blinding flashes of sanctified fire that tore through the ranks of the undead.
Edric and Renard rallied their soldiers, falling in behind the Holy Legion as morale surged.
"PUSH FORWARD!" Renard bellowed.
For the first time, the tide began to turn.
But as the battle reached its peak, the cloaked figure at the rear raised both hands high. A dark, guttural chant echoed across the field, unnatural and deafening.
The ground trembled.
From the burning village ruins, the corpses of the fallen villagers—men, women, and even children—began to rise, their eyes glowing with the same green fire.
Even Serion faltered at the sight.
"Light preserve us…" he muttered.
The true battle for Blackmere had only just begun.
The battlefield erupted into chaos as the risen villagers staggered toward the living. Their familiar faces—mothers, children, even infants twisted into shrieking undead—struck terror into the hearts of Drakensport's soldiers.
"Merciful One…" a young knight whispered, his grip on his sword trembling as a half‑rotted child lurched toward him.
"DO NOT HESITATE!" High Paladin Serion roared, his warhammer blazing with golden light. "THE DEAD ARE NO LONGER WHO THEY WERE!"
The Holy Legion surged forward, shields locking as priests behind them chanted prayers of cleansing. Brilliant arcs of radiant fire shot from their staves, burning entire clusters of undead to ash.
Marshal Renard Falke led the right flank, his sword flashing as he cut down skeletal warriors one by one. "Edric! Hold the line with me!"
Sir Edric spurred his horse forward, carving through three corpses in a single strike, but they kept crawling, dragging themselves across the mud to bite at his legs.
"FORM RANKS! DO NOT LET THEM BREAK US!" Renard shouted, his voice hoarse from command.
The undead swarmed in relentless waves, overwhelming the outer line of soldiers. Spears shattered, shields splintered, and screams pierced the night as men were dragged down into the mud, torn apart, and reanimated seconds later to attack their former brothers.
Serion charged through the horde like a golden juggernaut, his warhammer glowing brighter with every swing. Each strike obliterated the undead, leaving nothing but shattered bone and charred flesh.
But then—
The cloaked figure raised both arms again, dark energy coiling around its hands like writhing serpents. It slammed its palms to the ground.
The earth cracked open.
From the rift emerged towering abominations—stitchwork horrors of corpses fused together, wielding crude weapons made of bone and rusted steel.
One of them, three times the height of a man, let out a guttural howl before smashing through a line of knights with a single swing.
"LIGHT WITH ME!" Serion bellowed, charging at the creature, his warhammer blazing brighter than ever.
Renard's voice rang out above the carnage: "ALL UNITS! REFORM BEHIND THE LEGION! DO NOT BREAK!"
The clash was a storm of steel, faith, and death.
The knights of Drakensport fought with all they had, but the endless tide of the dead—and the unholy monstrosities leading them—threatened to consume them all.
For every undead they struck down, more rose.
And far on the ridge, unseen by both sides, an Aurion reconnaissance drone circled quietly, its camera recording everything as it fed the horrific footage back to Outpost Sierra‑17.
For the first time, Aurion's high command would see the enemy lurking in this strange world.
---
In Solaira City, the footage streamed across the massive screens in the Aurion High Command war room. Generals, senators, and President Elias Velez sat in grim silence as they watched the events unfold—knights torn apart, holy warriors blazing with divine power, and towering abominations wreaking havoc on the battlefield.
The drone's camera shifted, showing the cloaked figure raising the dead with dark energy.
Elena Choi, Foreign Affairs Secretary, was the first to speak. "So this is what we're dealing with… These aren't simple tribal conflicts. This is necromancy—true necromancy."
General Marcos Delos leaned forward, arms crossed. "This is worse than anything we've prepared for. If they can raise the dead, then every Aurion soldier killed in battle becomes their soldier in minutes."
A senator slammed his fist on the table. "We can't sit and wait for them to come for us. We should mobilize fully—fortify every settlement, arm every man and woman capable of fighting!"
Another senator shook his head. "Mobilization means panic. The people are only just returning to normal life. If we start marching troops through the streets again, we'll lose public trust."
General Delos turned to President Velez. "Sir, with respect, this is no longer a question of if. These things will find us. We're their next target. We need to act now."
Dr. Helena Voss, still wearing her translation headset, muttered quietly, "We don't even know what fuels their magic. If bullets can't stop them permanently, we need heavier firepower. Flamethrowers. Incendiaries. Maybe even napalm."
The room fell silent for a moment.
President Velez finally spoke, his tone calm but firm. "Suggestions. Now."
Delos pointed at the map projected on the table. "We fortify Outpost Sierra‑17 and every forward settlement. I want armored units positioned at every chokepoint leading into our territory. Drones and air patrols will provide 24/7 surveillance. If we see movement, we strike first—hard."
A naval officer added, "We can establish artillery emplacements on the western ridges. If the undead come in large numbers, we'll rain fire before they ever reach the outpost."
Elena Choi interjected, "And what about diplomacy? If the kingdom falls, we're next. We need them alive to hold the line—or at least to buy us time."
Another general spoke up. "Then we send supplies—medicine, weapons, whatever we can give without showing our full hand. If they survive, they'll owe us. If they fall, we'll already be ready for war."
President Velez looked at each of them in turn, his expression grim. "Mobilize the reserves. Fortify every outpost. Begin production of incendiary weapons—effective immediately. But no panic. The people don't need to know the full extent yet."
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the frozen image of the cloaked figure on the screen.
"If this… thing comes for Aurion," he said quietly, "then we will show it that it made the worst mistake of its existence."
Across the room, General Delos nodded. "Then we prepare for war. A war unlike anything we've fought before."
---
The battlefield was a hellscape of fire, blood, and rotting flesh. The Holy Legion stood as the last bulwark, their shields glowing faintly under divine blessings. Every knight fought with grim resolve, but the endless tide of undead pressed harder with every passing moment.
Marshal Renard Falke's voice was raw from shouting orders. "HOLD THE LINE! FALL BACK IN FORMATION—DON'T LET THEM BREACH THE CENTER!"
Knights staggered backward in formation, stepping over mangled corpses of both comrades and villagers. The screams of the dying mixed with the guttural howls of the undead as soldiers were dragged into the mud, their armor torn open by rusted blades and skeletal claws.
Each time a knight fell, their body twitched unnaturally, eyes glowing green as they stood once more to join the horde.
"Damnation!" Renard cursed as he cut down what had been one of his own men moments earlier.
High Paladin Serion Valcroft smashed through another abomination with his blazing warhammer, the creature's bones shattering in a burst of divine light. "PRIESTS—FOCUS YOUR BLESSINGS ON THE FRONT RANK!" he bellowed.
Behind the front lines, battle‑priests knelt in a circle, chanting in perfect unison. Golden light flared outward, burning dozens of undead to ash—but the strain was immense. Two of the priests collapsed, blood trickling from their noses as their magic drained their life force.
Sir Edric Halberg's sword was slick with gore as he fought near Renard. "Marshal! The left flank is breaking!"
Renard looked and saw it—the undead had begun to encircle them, the sheer number of risen villagers overwhelming the spearmen.
"Serion!" Renard shouted, pointing toward the breach.
The High Paladin glanced briefly before spurring his warhorse forward. "FOLLOW ME!"
The Holy Legion knights roared as they charged, a wave of shining steel and divine fury smashing into the horde.
Yet for every undead destroyed, more clawed their way out of the earth or reassembled from broken bones. The cloaked figure at the rear raised its hands once again, dark power spiraling upward like black smoke.
A fresh surge of corpses shambled forward, their movements unnervingly fast—bitten soldiers and fallen villagers alike, still wearing fragments of their former lives.
"WE CAN'T HOLD FOREVER!" Edric shouted as he cleaved through two more undead.
Renard's jaw tightened. "We hold until every last man is dead… or until the gods themselves intervene."
The Holy Legion continued to fight, their divine blessings keeping the horde at bay—but only barely. For the first time in generations, the knights of Drakensport realized they were not the most powerful force on this battlefield.
And with every bite, every torn throat, every broken shield, the undead army grew stronger.