《The curse of Humanity》 Ch 1: Hunger and Awakening The world smelled of rot. It was not the kind of stench that made humans recoil, that sent them gagging and stumbling away in horror. No, this was a scent that drew him in, that filled his lungs with something primal, something necessary. The thick aroma of blood, the damp heat of flesh, the bitter tang of decay-it called to him, feeding something deep inside that had no name. His fingers dug into warm, wet flesh, tearing with ease. He did not question why his nails cut so deep, why his muscles felt so strong. He only knew that beneath his grip, something fragile pulsed with life. A beating heart, still desperate to keep its owner alive. The struggle was weak now. The body beneath him twitched, a pitiful attempt at escape, but it was already too late. His teeth ached, his throat burned. He leaned in, mouth parting. And then, for the first time, he hesitated.* It was a strange thing. Hunger had no patience. Hunger did not stop to think. Yet something flickered inside his skull, like a candle flame barely resisting the wind. A whisper of a thought, fragile and distant. Who am I? His grip on the dying body faltered, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to release or to tighten. A tremor ran through his limbs, something wrong, something foreign. His head jerked, and his breath-did he still breathe?-came sharp and ragged. The hunger fought back. His jaw snapped shut around the struggling heart before he could stop himself. The organ burst between his teeth, thick and iron-rich, spilling power down his throat. Magic. He could taste it. It burned like fire, sent his body into a violent tremor, each fiber of his being soaking in the energy as if starved for centuries. Then the body went still. And he finally lifted his head. The world around him swayed, like a dream still slipping into place. He blinked. Once. Twice. His vision sharpened. The details of the village became clear-charred wooden beams, shattered doors, pools of blood seeping into cracked stone. Corpses littered the ground. Some were still fresh, their faces twisted in terror, their wounds gaping and raw. Others were already claimed by decay, their bones jutting through ragged flesh. And moving between them, like specters in the night, were the others.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Zombies. His kind. They shuffled mindlessly, groaning and twitching. Some knelt over corpses, feasting with mechanical repetition. Others wandered, aimless, as if waiting for something to stir them into action. And he? He was like them. Yet he was not. The realization hit like a knife to the gut. His fingers clenched into fists, his breath-did he breathe? Quivering with something close to panic. He touched his own chest, where a human heart should have been pounding. Nothing. Only cold. Only stillness. But he thought. He knew. The others-they were empty, bodies ruled by nothing but hunger. But inside his mind, something still flickered, something too sharp, too real to ignore. Memories? No. Nothing that strong. Nothing he could hold onto. Only a name. *Gufran.* His name. His only truth. It was like a thin thread in the dark, the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely. He held onto it, gritting his teeth against the pull of mindlessness, of instinct, of hunger. Because something told him that if he let go-he would become just like them. And he could not allow that. --- The night stretched on, cold and endless. Gufran moved through the remains of the village, his steps unsteady. His body was adjusting, he realized. Every movement felt wrong yet eerily natural, like learning to walk again in a body that was no longer his. He reached a broken well at the village center, its stones slick with blood. His reflection shimmered in the water below, murky and twisted by the ripples. A face stared back. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Skin mottled with the first signs of decay. His lips were dark with blood, dried in cracks along his chin. His teeth-too sharp. His eyes-wrong. They should have been human. They should have been brown, or green, or blue. Instead, they glowed with an eerie, unnatural light, something caught between silver and void. I am dead. The thought settled into his bones, heavier than the hunger. But if he was dead-then why did he feel so alive? The wind carried a sound-a distant rustling, the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on dirt. His head snapped toward the source, instincts surging to the surface like a flood. Survivors. Their scent reached him a second later, rich and tempting. Warm blood, human flesh. His stomach twisted, his fingers flexing. The hunger reared its head, its whispers curling around his thoughts. He could see them now. A small group, no more than four or five. Huddled together, creeping through the ruins with torches held high. They reeked of fear. His body tensed. The others-mindless, starving-began to stir. One by one, the zombies turned toward the survivors, drawn by scent and sound. Their groans grew louder, their movements jerky, uncoordinated. And then, all at once, they charged. A frenzy of decay and death, clawing toward the warmth of life. The survivors screamed. The torches swung wildly. A blade flashed, a gun fired. The first wave of zombies fell, heads caved in, bodies collapsing into the dirt. But there were too many. The humans could not fight forever. And Gufran-he should have moved with the horde. He should have lunged, his teeth finding flesh, his hands tearing into throats. But instead, he stood still. Watching. Listening. Feeling. His mind, his thoughts, his very existence fought against the instinct to kill. The hunger told him to attack. But something deeper, something older, held him back. Something dangerous. Why? Why did he hesitate? Why did he care? The answer did not come. But he knew, in that moment, that he was no ordinary monster. He was something worse. Because a mindless beast could be hunted. A thinking one-could conquer. And tonight, Gufran was the only one who thought. Ch 2: The Curse of Humanity The night was alive with screams. The survivors fought with desperate fury, their torches casting erratic shadows over the ruined village. Steel flashed, gunfire cracked through the air, and the scent of fresh blood thickened. The zombies lunged without hesitation, driven only by hunger, mindless in their assault. Gufran watched. The instinct to kill raged within him, an undeniable force urging him forward, commanding him to tear, to feed. His fingers flexed, itching to carve into warm flesh. His mouth watered at the thought of fresh magic surging through his body. And yet. He did not move. Instead, he observed. He watched how the humans fought-not like warriors, but like survivors. Their eyes were wide with terror, their movements erratic, untrained. They struck wildly, fueled by panic rather than precision. A woman screamed as a zombie tackled her, its teeth sinking into her shoulder. Another man swung an axe, splitting a rotting skull in two. But for every zombie that fell, three more surged forward. They were losing. Gufran''s dead heart did not stir at their suffering. No pity, no remorse. But something else did. A thought. A realization. This was wasteful. The zombies attacked in chaos, without strategy. They swarmed blindly, their attacks predictable. And because of that, the humans still stood. They should have been overwhelmed by now. They should have fallen. But mindless hunger was weak. Gufran turned his gaze to the nearest zombie. It was a pitiful creature, half-decayed, its jaw barely hanging onto its face, its movements sluggish and jerky. It lunged at the humans with no thought, no plan. It was just another corpse, destined to be cut down. And that was unacceptable. Gufran reached out. Not with his hands. With his will. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. The moment his thoughts touched the creature, he felt it-something raw, something deep. A thread of existence, a presence as hollow as the body it inhabited. It was like gripping a chain submerged in thick mud. Heavy. Clumsy. But it was there. Gufran pulled. The zombie halted mid-step. Its dull, lifeless eyes flickered. It stood straighter. More alert. Not thinking. Not aware. But listening. Obeying. Gufran''s fingers twitched, and the creature moved. Not in the aimless shamble of its kind, but with purpose. It turned toward the nearest survivor-a man frantically reloading his rifle, his hands trembling. The controlled zombie did not lunge wildly. It waited. It watched. And then, at the exact moment the man''s fingers slipped on his ammunition. It struck. A clawed hand tore through his throat. Blood sprayed into the night. The man barely had time to gurgle before he collapsed, his rifle falling uselessly beside him. The other zombies continued their senseless assault. But this one? It had killed efficiently. And that sent a shiver of something dark through Gufran''s decayed spine. He could control them. He could guide them. And if he could guide one. His gaze swept over the battlefield. How many more could he take? --- The humans fought valiantly, but the tide had already turned. At first, they had been cutting through the undead with desperate energy, their weapons carving a path of survival. But then, something changed. The zombies were no longer attacking recklessly. They were coordinating. They were waiting. A survivor swung his sword, expecting a wild counterattack-but none came. Instead, three zombies surrounded him at once, cutting off every escape. He barely had time to scream before they tore him apart. Another man, wielding a torch, tried to hold them back with fire. He expected them to flinch, to hesitate. They did not. Instead, one zombie tackled him from behind, slamming his face into the dirt. The torch fell from his hands. He reached for it, fingers trembling. A foot crushed his wrist. He barely had time to look up before teeth closed around his throat. The survivors were no longer fighting zombies. They were being hunted. And as the last man standing looked around at his fallen comrades-his chest heaving, his torch flickering-he finally saw it. The figure standing amidst the dead. Gufran. His hollow silver eyes gleamed in the firelight, unblinking, unshaken. He was no frenzied beast. No mindless monster. He was something else. The man trembled. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Only terror. And then, he did the only thing left. He ran. Gufran did not chase him. He had no reason to. The battle was already won. The dead had not simply risen tonight. They had conquered. And for the first time, Gufran felt something beyond hunger. He felt power. --- The battle was over. The village, already ruined, was now a graveyard. Gufran stood at the center, surveying the aftermath. The other zombies-those not under his control-continued their mindless feasting. He had no need for them. They were weak. Unshaped. Nothing more than tools. But the ones he had touched? (Sorry this sounds so bad lol) They stood apart. Their heads did not loll, their bodies did not twitch erratically. They remained still, waiting. They were his. Gufran flexed his fingers, feeling the threads of control pulsing between them. This power was raw. Unrefined. It strained against him, resisting. He could not hold them forever. Not yet. But in time? He would master it. And when he did. The world would kneel. A dry wind howled through the wreckage, carrying the distant sound of footsteps. The lone survivor, fleeing into the night, his torchlight bobbing in the distance. Gufran let him go. Let the humans hear of what had happened here. Let them fear. Because tonight was only the beginning. And soon, the curse of humanity would spread. Ch 3: The Witch’s Curse The wind howled over the cliffs, carrying the scent of smoke and blood. She stood at the edge, her cloak whipping behind her, her breaths shallow and uneven. Below, the village lay in ruin, its once-thriving streets now silent and dead. And in the center of it all¡ª Him. Her grip tightened as she forced herself to look. Gufran. Even from this distance, she could see what he had become. His movements were wrong¡ªjolted, unnatural. His stance, too rigid yet somehow powerful, as if his body had been forced into something it was never meant to be. His head tilted slightly, as though listening to something only he could hear. The man she loved was gone. And in his place stood a mindless undead-zombie. --- The memories burned in her mind, sharper than any blade. She had been there when it happened. When the village turned against them. They had come for her first. Witches were never given trials. There were no questions, no hesitation. Just torches and ropes. Just fire and fear. She had been dragged through the streets, her wrists bound, her skin scraped raw against the stone. They had beaten her, spit on her, cursed her name. A monster, they called her. A demon.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. She had fought back. The magic had surged through her veins, desperate to protect her. The fire had bent away from her skin. The ropes had burned to ash. But she was too weak. Outnumbered. Alone. And then¡­ he came. Gufran. She begged him to run. Screamed at him, told her to leave her behind. He had refused and screamed. "You have to live, run, run, run!" He fought for her, stood before them like a shield, taking blow after blow meant for her. And it was then, in that moment, that she had cursed him. Not with a spell. Not with intention. But with love. With desperation. She had wished¡ªprayed¡ªthat he would survive. That no matter what happened, he would not fall. That he would live. That he would never leave her. And the universe had listened. Not kindly. Not mercifully. It had twisted her wish into somewhat of a cruel joke. --- The moment he fell to the ground, unable to stop them anymore, the villagers turned on her again. "Burn the witch!" someone shouted. They grabbed her by the arms, pulling her toward the center of the square. Someone struck her across the face. Another man lifted a blade, ready to carve out the evil inside her. And then¡ª Chaos. A scream tore through the night¡ªnot from her, not from the villagers. From the walls. A sound so raw, so horrid, it made her blood turn to ice. The defensive wall collapsed. Zombies flooded into the village, pouring through the broken barricades like a wave of death. It happened so fast. One moment, she had been at the mercy of the mob. The next¡ª People were running. The first undead crashed into the square, tearing into flesh, ripping apart the very people who had demanded her blood just moments ago. A man who had held a torch to burn her alive was now burning himself, his throat torn open as fire consumed his flesh. The priest who had cursed her name had no name anymore. Only a gaping hole where his face had been. The village had turned from a place of judgment into a slaughterhouse. And in the middle of it all, Gufran. Still alive. Still standing. But no longer himself. For a moment, she thought¡ªhoped¡ªthat the zombies would ignore him. But then she saw the wound. The deep, festering bite in his flesh. And the light in his eyes, Eerie. Something in her shattered. She had lost him. The zombies had taken him. The world blurred around her, the screams distant, her body moving without thought. Run. Run. RUN. --- The wind howled through the ruins, whispering through the abandoned homes. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, but it did nothing to stop the creeping chill inside her bones. She had fled into the night, her breath ragged, her hands shaking. She did not know how long she had run. But when she finally stopped¡ª When she finally turned back to see what had become of him¡ª It was too late. The battle was over. The village was gone. And he¡­ He was still standing. A gust of wind sent dust swirling around her, but she did not move. She could not. Because she had promised. If things went wrong, she would not stay. She had sworn to keep running, no matter what. And so, she turned and ran. Ran as she had promised. Ran as she had sworn she would, if the worst happened. And as the village disappeared behind her, swallowed by the mist, she told herself. That Gufran was dead and what remained was a mindless undead-zombie And that he would never come back. Ch 4: The March Begins The world felt wrong. Gufran stood in the ruins of what had once been a village. The wind carried the scent of ash, blood, and rot, whispering through empty streets, over shattered doors, through homes that would never again hold warmth. Unbreathing. Unblinking. Still. The cold should have bitten into his skin. He should have shivered, his breath rising in the crisp morning air. But his chest did not rise. His pulse did not beat. The hunger, however, was alive. It gnawed at him, deep and primal, spreading through his limbs like a sickness. A constant, insatiable void. But it was not the same as the hunger he had seen in the others. The other undead twitched, wandered, moaned-a senseless, restless hunger. His hunger was calm. It did not command him to lurch forward, to mindlessly rip and feast. It whispered. Urged. Something within him knew what it wanted. And that something was waiting. His gaze drifted downward. A body lay at his feet, blood pooling beneath it, seeping into the dirt. The warmth was fading, but not gone. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. His hands twitched. The hunger pulsed. Something inside him whispered. Take it before it''s wasted. He crouched slowly, his fingers brushing over the corpse''s chest. His hand hovered there, just above the heart, his nails stained red. And then. Memories. Not his. Not fully. But flickers. Echoes. A name. A home. A past that had just been severed. It was still inside. The warmth. The life. The magic. This was not just flesh. It was power. His fingers clenched. The hunger twisted. He dug in. Tore through muscle, through ribs, until his hand wrapped around the still-warm heart. The magic within it shivered-trying to leave, trying to fade, trying to return to the earth. But he would not let it. His grip tightened. And he ate. --- A wildfire exploded through his body. His back arched, his limbs locked as something ancient and raw surged through him. His mind fractured. Flashes. A hand in his own. A voice, distant, laughing. He shouted! You have to live, Run, Run, Run! He reached for it, desperate. He tried to see her. But her face was blurred. The memory was not whole. The world inside his mind shattered like glass. And then he was back. Kneeling over the corpse. The taste of blood and magic thick on his tongue. The warmth was gone. The power was his. And the hunger, though still present, had shifted. It was no longer just hunger for food. It was hunger for understanding. For answers. For vengeance. Because someone had been taken from him. Someone he had loved. And he could not remember her. Only that she was gone. And he knew who had done it. The living. A deep, hollow ache settled into his chest. Not grief. Not rage. Something worse. Something colder. A single thought rose in his mind. The world is wrong. The world needs to change. --- He lifted his gaze, the last traces of memory slipping away like smoke. And he was not alone. The undead stood around him. Dozens. Some freshly turned, their flesh still soft and red. Others ancient and rotting, barely held together by decay. But they were not wandering. They were watching. Still. Waiting. Zombies did not wait. Zombies did not listen. And yet. He lifted his hand like a Monarch. And they dropped to their knees. His fingers twitched. They twitched. His thoughts flickered. They moved. Slow, uncoordinated. Not puppets, not completely, but tied to him. Like shadows. Like something unfinished. This was not natural. This was not human. And neither was he. --- The March Begins Dawn clawed at the sky, pale and cold. He stared at the sky. His mind was still his own. His thoughts still clear. But the world that had once belonged to him, the world of the living. It did not feel like his world anymore. And so, he would build a new one. Not as a plague. Not as a mindless swarm. But as something different. Something better. His gaze turned toward the horizon. The humans who had escaped would return. They would bring their weapons. Their fire. Their priests, their soldiers. They would come to kill him. To burn him. To erase him. But they did not yet understand. This was no longer their world. Not anymore. Gufran turned his back on the ruins, stepping forward, slow but certain. And they followed. A new order. A kingdom for him. And though he did not yet know its name. He knew it had already begun. Ch 5: The Survivors’ Warning The Fortress of Blackridge The city of Blackridge stood like a fortress against the chaos beyond its walls. Towering battlements, reinforced with steel plating, loomed over the valley below. Unlike the scavenged settlements that dotted the land, Blackridge had been built before the Fall¡ªa relic of a time when humanity still believed it could tame the wilds. Even now, its obsidian-black walls were a symbol of order. Inside, the streets were paved with dark stone, slick from the mist that constantly hung in the air. Smoke curled from the great forges that powered the city, the scent of burning coal and oil thick in the air. Blackridge did not survive on magic. It thrived on steel, discipline, and control. There was no room for weakness. No room for faith. Only preparedness. And yet, it was not prepared for what was coming. --- The Arrival of the Survivors A desperate pounding echoed against the heavy steel gates. "Open the gates! Please!" A small group of ragged survivors huddled outside, covered in blood, soot, and dirt. Their breath came in ragged gasps, their eyes wide with terror. Above them, from a watchtower, a guard peered down. His uniform bore the Imperial Legion¡¯s crest, though his armor was battered from years of war. He narrowed his eyes at the strangers below. "State your names and origin!" he barked. The man at the front¡ªclothes torn, dried blood streaking his face¡ªgasped, "Kasian traders! Our village¡ªit''s gone! They''re all dead!" The soldier stiffened. Kasian was fortified. Its walls had held against the undead for years. If it had fallen¡­If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Something was wrong. With a reluctant creak, the massive steel gates slowly opened. The survivors stumbled in. Some collapsed the moment they crossed the threshold, others fell to their knees, sobbing. The guards did not comfort them. They had seen broken people before. Some survived. Some didn¡¯t. And some¡­ never truly left the horrors behind. --- Inside the gates, Blackridge continued as if nothing had changed. Soldiers patrolled in perfect formations. The marketplace, though open, was strictly monitored¡ªevery vendor required a permit, every purchase recorded. Here, chaos was not tolerated. Even magic was distrusted. The world had long since abandoned it, choosing steel, gunpowder, and tactics over arcane forces. Witches were outlaws. Sorcerers were relics of a forgotten past. And yet, even in this city of reason and discipline, a whisper traveled through the ranks. Kasian had fallen. And something about it wasn¡¯t normal. --- The General¡¯s Chamber The survivors sat on the cold stone floor, their hands wrapped around cups of steaming broth. Opposite them stood General Aldric Voss. The man was scarred, broad-shouldered, and silent. His presence filled the chamber, his sharp gray eyes betraying nothing as he studied the newcomers. He had heard too many stories of the undead. Too many times, they were exaggerations. Beside him stood Captain Erwin, a veteran with arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes held far less patience. Voss spoke first. "Kasian has fallen, you say?" The lead survivor¡ªOrik, a trader by profession¡ªnodded. "We saw it. It started as any other night. The bells rang¡ªan undead breach." "How many?" "At first? Less than fifty." Captain Erwin scoffed. "Nothing your village couldn¡¯t handle." The survivor shook his head. "That¡¯s what we thought. At first, they were normal. Slow. Mindless. We formed our lines, cut them down¡ªjust like always." A pause. And then, the survivor¡¯s voice shook. "And then¡­ he came." Voss didn¡¯t react. He simply stared. "Who?" The survivor licked his dry lips, his gaze unfocused. "A man. Or something that used to be one." Voss¡¯s expression remained stone. "Explain." Orik exhaled sharply. "At first, we didn¡¯t see him. But then¡­ the undead changed." Captain Erwin narrowed his eyes. "Changed how?" The woman beside Orik, her arm wrapped in bloodied bandages, shuddered. "They stepped back. They let us think we were winning. And then¡­ they coordinated." The room grew colder. Voss exhaled sharply. Then he laughed. A quiet, humorless sound. "Zombies don¡¯t coordinate," he said, shaking his head. "You panicked. You think you saw something that wasn¡¯t there." Orik¡¯s hands slammed on the table. "I KNOW WHAT I SAW!" Silence. "They were disorganized," he continued, his voice shaking. "At first, they were nothing. Just mindless corpses, rushing forward. And then he appeared." "And then what?" Voss asked, his tone sharpening. Orik¡¯s voice lowered to a whisper. "Then they obeyed." --- Doubt Grows in the General¡¯s Mind Voss leaned back, expression unreadable. He had heard dozens of stories about the undead. None had ever been true. He turned to the guards. "They¡¯re shaken. Get them some rest, but don¡¯t waste my time with¡ª" A knock at the door. A scout stepped in, armor scratched and dirtied. His breath was short. "Sir," he panted. "I just returned from Kasian." Voss frowned. "And?" "Kasian is gone." The words hung in the air. Orik shuddered. "I told you," he whispered. "He let us go." Voss was silent. No undead outbreak had ever spared witnesses. "Even if it was just luck, we shouldn''t take any chances." Voss thought to himself. His fingers curled into a fist. "Captain Erwin." "Sir?" "Summon the war council." The Captain hesitated. "You don¡¯t believe this, do you?" Voss¡¯s expression was unreadable. "Let¡¯s hope they¡¯re wrong," he murmured. "But if they¡¯re right¡­ I don''t want to put the lives of people living in this fortress at risk." And for the first time in years, Blackridge felt cold. Ch 6: The Birth of a Horde The world had changed. Gufran could feel it. Not just in the air, thick with the stench of death and burning wood, but in the very fabric of existence. The rules were breaking. The undead had always been wild things¡ªdriven only by hunger, by instinct. But now, here they stood, waiting in silence, their empty eyes fixed upon him. They did not wander. They did not turn on each other. They waited. For him. It was no longer enough to be strong. No longer enough to simply survive. A king without a throne was nothing. And so, he would make one. --- The village was useless now. Burned, emptied. The living would return eventually, searching for answers, for vengeance. And when they did, they would come stronger, smarter, prepared. The survivors he had let go¡ªthey would bring word of him. They would spread fear, stories, lies, and truths. And the moment the living understood what he was, they would not hesitate. They would come to end him. Gufran knew this. He was not ready for war. Not yet. So he walked, and his horde followed. At first, it was a slow, awkward march. The undead were not built for order. Their bodies twitched, stumbled, lurched forward in uneven steps. But step by step, they changed. They moved with purpose. Some still resisted. Some still lagged behind, their rotted minds struggling against the pull of his will. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. But Gufran learned. With every command, with every moment that passed, the connection between them grew stronger. This was not just an army. This was his horde. And it was growing. --- Two days into the march, they found an old battlefield. A place where the living had once fought¡ªperhaps decades ago, perhaps longer. Skeletons, shattered weapons, rusted armor littered the ground. And among them¡­ More of the dead. Dozens. Maybe more. But they were not his. Yet. Gufran stepped forward, sensing the difference before he saw it. These undead were wild. Feral. They had no master, only the raw hunger that ruled them. As he approached, they turned. They did not bow. They did not obey. They attacked. And Gufran smiled. --- The first of the wild undead lunged toward him¡ªa creature that had once been a man, its skull half-caved in, bones barely holding together. Gufran didn¡¯t move. Not until it was too close. Then¡ª He struck. His hand shot forward, fingers curling around the creature¡¯s throat. It thrashed, clawed at him, but it was nothing. Nothing. With a single flex of his hand, he crushed its neck, snapping bone and rotted flesh. The body collapsed instantly. Too easy. Another charged. Then two more. Gufran let them come. He wanted to test something. One clawed at his chest, another went for his throat. He did not move. Their teeth sank into his flesh. And¡ª Nothing. The pain was there, but it was dull. Distant. He could feel their teeth break his skin, but they could not rip through him. His body had changed. He grabbed one by the wrist and tore the arm clean from its socket. The creature howled, but he silenced it with a sharp kick that shattered its ribs. The other undead still gnawed at his shoulder, but he barely felt it. This was not a battle. This was a lesson. --- He moved through the battlefield, unhurried, testing. One enemy grabbed his arm. He let it, then wrenched free, breaking its fingers like dried twigs. Another tried to gouge his eyes. He caught its arm and ripped it from its body. He let one sink its rotted teeth into his throat, just to see if it would matter. It didn¡¯t. The wounds closed too fast. The pain wasn¡¯t real. But the hunger¡ªit was. And when the first real wave of attackers came, Gufran stopped playing. He reached forward and grabbed an undead by the face. It struggled, screeched, but his grip was iron. And then¡ª He fed. Not by eating. Not by biting. But by pulling. The undead shuddered, its flesh turning black, crumbling to dust in his hands. And the black mist rushed into him. He was already learning to get stronger. --- The Horde vs. the Wild Ones As the wild undead charged, his horde finally reacted. But this was not chaos. This was strategy. Gufran reached out with his mind, commanding them as a general commands his soldiers. The larger undead¡ªthe brutes, the heavy ones¡ªheld the front. The faster ones¡ªthin, wiry, unburdened by rot¡ªmoved to the flanks. Gufran watched as his horde fought differently now. They adapted. They moved as one. They learned from his commands, executing tactics no undead had ever used before. A slow, methodical intelligence was growing among them. And he realized¡ª He was not just creating soldiers. He was creating something more. A new race. An empire. And the wild undead did not understand what they were facing. They had always fought in mindless, chaotic swarms. They had never faced organized undead. And they fell like a house of cards. Within minutes, the battlefield belonged to Gufran. Those who had not been slaughtered stood frozen, their rotted bodies trembling. Feeling something other than hunger-fear! And then¡ªthey kneeled. Not all at once. Not immediately. But one by one, they submitted. They recognized him. And they obeyed. His horde had doubled. --- Later that night, as the undead stood in silent ranks, Gufran sat atop a crumbling stone altar, thinking of his next move. He looked at the moon that looked really beautiful and his eyes glowed with the same glow. As he was admiring the sky, A thought crossed his mind. He was a king and a king needs a fortress. A base. A stronghold. A place to prepare for war. The living would come. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. Soon the survivors will come back and if they do not prepare for what''s coming they stand no chance. His gaze turned northward, toward the distant mountains. Something was calling him. Not a voice. Not a whisper. But a feeling. A pull, deep in his bones. As if something waited for him there. Something meant for him. He did not understand it. Not yet. He rose, and without a word, the horde followed. They marched toward destiny. Towards where his instincts told him to go. Towards the first kingdom of the dead. Ch 7: Whispers of War The War Council The war chamber of Blackridge Fort was silent, save for the crackling of torches lining the stone walls. The air was thick with tension, pressing against the gathered officers like an invisible weight. At the head of the long wooden war table, General Aldric Voss sat, his fingers drumming against the rough surface. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows on his scarred, weathered face. Voss was a man of order and discipline¡ªa man who had fought wars and won. But war had rules. And tonight, for the first time, he wasn''t sure they still applied. Across from him, Commander Rykard, his second-in-command, exhaled sharply. "You mean the rumors from Kasian?" Rykard muttered. "Rumors," another officer scoffed. "Zombies don''t organize. They don''t coordinate. They don''t lead." Voss said nothing. He slowly unrolled a map of the region, his fingers tracing the roads leading from Kasian to Blackridge. "The way I see it, we have two options," Voss said. His voice was calm, but absolute. "We either ignore what happened in Kasian¡ªassume it was another outbreak¡ªor we treat this as a true threat." Rykard exhaled sharply. "You don''t seriously think¡ª" Voss cut him off with a glare. "Scouts," Voss said. "I want confirmation. If this is just another wandering horde, we''ll crush it and move on. If it''s worse, I want to know before it''s on our doorstep." He turned to Lieutenant Gale, a younger but experienced officer. "Take twenty of your best men. Ride to Kasian. Check the surroundings. Report back before sundown." Gale nodded without hesitation. "It''ll be done." Voss''s expression darkened.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. "I don''t like what I''m hearing. I don''t like what we don''t know. But for now, we wait for the scouts. Until then, prepare the men." The meeting ended in grim silence. Something was wrong. Voss just didn''t know what. --- The Second War Council The next evening, Voss stood once more in the war chamber. The atmosphere was different now. More tense. More uncertain. The first scout party had not returned. Now, there was no more denying it. Voss leaned forward, his steel-gray gaze scanning the room. "Where are the scouts?" Captain Erwin asked, his voice sharp. No one answered. "That''s the real question, isn''t it?" Rykard muttered. "Twenty men. Trained scouts. They were supposed to be back yesterday." He looked around the table. "They aren''t." A murmur spread among the officers. "They may have been delayed," one of the older commanders suggested. "Or they may be dead," Erwin countered. A long silence. Voss''s fingers tapped against the table. Some of these men still wanted to believe this was just another minor outbreak¡ªsomething they could handle. But deep down, Voss already knew. This was different. Voss exhaled. "We''re not going in blind. We send another group¡ªthis time, warriors. Small in number. Armed for battle. They''ll confirm what happened before we commit to the full force." Erwin nodded. "I''ll pick the men myself." --- The Second Scout Party By mid-afternoon, ten hand-picked warriors rode out from Blackridge Fort. Unlike the first scouts, they traveled in armor, weapons drawn, expecting a fight. Some carried early-model flintlock rifles, crude but deadly at close range. They were slow to reload, unreliable in damp weather¡ªbut against the undead, a well-placed shot could shatter a skull before a sword was ever drawn. They disappeared into the mist. They did not return. By nightfall, Blackridge knew the truth. Something had taken them. Just like it had taken the first scouts. There was no more doubt. Only grim certainty. --- The Decision to March By the time news spread of the second party''s disappearance, the atmosphere in Blackridge had shifted. The streets, once filled with structured patrols and quiet industry, were now tense with whispers. The forges burned longer. The barracks were restless. Even the civilians felt it. Something was coming. Something worse than anyone had faced before. Inside the war chamber, Voss made his choice. "Send word to the commanders," he ordered. "We march at dusk." Rykard stiffened. "Are you sure?" Voss met his gaze. "That''s precisely why we go now. Before it grows into something worse." Erwin smirked, adjusting his sword belt. "Besides," he said, "if we don''t act, the people will lose confidence." A ripple of agreement spread across the officers. Blackridge had always faced its enemies head-on. This time would be no different. --- The City Prepares for War The call to arms rang through the fortress-city. Blacksmiths'' forges burned hotter, hammering out last-minute repairs to armor and weapons. Inside the barracks, warriors strapped on breastplates, adjusted shields, and tested their blades. Some checked their firearms, ensuring the delicate mechanisms weren''t clogged with ash or moisture. No magic. No enchantments. No sorcery. Blackridge prided itself on discipline, science, and steel. Witches were blamed for the undead plague, just like the rest of the world. No one trusted magic, and those who wielded it were hunted down or exiled. Even the civilians felt the tension. Some stood at their doors, watching as columns of soldiers moved toward the gates. Others whispered prayers, hoping their warriors would return. Blackridge had never fallen. But for the first time¡­ it felt like the city was preparing for something far worse than an ordinary battle. --- The March Toward Kasian As the final light of day faded beyond the mountains, the gates of Blackridge groaned open. Two hundred warriors¡ªknights, archers, and gunners¡ªmarched in formation. Their shields gleamed in the torchlight. Their banners billowed in the wind. At the front, General Voss rode on horseback, his expression cold and unreadable. They rode toward Kasian. Toward the unknown. Toward the first battle in a war they did not yet understand. Ch 8: The Feast Of The Fallen The Hunt Begins Commander Gale adjusted the straps on his armor, scanning the dark treeline ahead. His scouts¡ªtwenty elite warriors¡ªmoved 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 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¡ªa soldier with six years of experience¡ªbeing dragged into the underbrush. A rotting hand clamped over his mouth. Another sank claws into his stomach, pulling him down. Luka thrashed¡ªthen 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¡ª 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¡ª**Joran, one of his best men¡ª**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¡ª They stopped. The undead suddenly stopped. A pause. A moment of unnatural stillness. Gale froze. The remaining scouts¡ªnow barely ten¡ªlooked around in confusion. And then¡ª Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. 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¡ªlike 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¡ª Gufran was already standing over him. "You fought well," the undead murmured. Then¡ª He struck. Gufran¡¯s hand pierced his chest. Straight through bone, muscle, and heart. Gale gasped¡ªhis vision blurring. Blood pooled from his lips. A lifetime of training¡ªgone in an instant. His fingers twitched uselessly. And then, Gufran tightened his grip. With a final twist¡ª 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¡ª 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¡ªa 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¡ªand twisted. CRACK. A howl of agony. "How many are coming?" Gufran asked. The man clenched his teeth. Gufran gripped a finger. Then¡ª 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¡ª 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¡ªuntil they didn¡¯t. A heavy silence hung in the air. Then¡ª 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¡ªkept moving¡ª**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 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¡ªat least, for now. They would soon reach that place. Ch 9: The March to War (Blackridge Army¡¯s Perspective ¨C 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¡ªhardened 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¡ª¡± ¡°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.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. 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¡ªtwo hundred strong¡ªstood 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¡ªnot 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¡ªcollapsed 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¡ªdozens, 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¡ªthey found them. The missing scouts and warriors. At the very front, Commander Gale hung impaled¡ªcompletely 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¡ªone 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¡ªsome 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¡ªhe had given them a reason to fight. --- Erwin hesitated. ¡°Sir, we still don¡¯t know what we¡¯re facing¡ª¡± ¡°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¡ªthis 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¡ª 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¡ª At the bottom of a narrow pass, surrounded by the horde¡ª 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¡ªhe 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¡ª He smiled. A slow, knowing grin. Erwin¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°Sir¡­ is that a¡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¡ªthis one did. Not attacking. Just staring. Mocking them. Like a predator toying with its prey. And for the first time in his life¡ª Voss felt it. Fear. --- Voss took a step forward, sword raised. The figure did not move. He simply watched. Then¡ªhe raised a single hand. And the undead stopped. Voss¡¯s grip tightened. This wasn¡¯t just another outbreak. This was a war. Ch 10: Stand off with Voss (Gufran¡¯s POV) The sky was bleeding. Or maybe it was just the sunset, its dying embers stretching across the horizon, staining the world in shades of crimson and gold. The last remnants of daylight clung to the jagged peaks of the mountains, flickering like candlelight before the storm swallowed them whole. Gufran ran. Not out of fear. Not out of weakness. But because something called to him. A whisper in the wind, a pulse beneath his feet, a force stronger than hunger, stronger than the primal instincts that had guided him since the moment he had awoken in his new, cursed existence. The fortress loomed in the distance. A black silhouette against the sky, ancient and unmoving, a relic of forgotten wars. Its stone walls, cracked by time yet unbroken, stood like a final challenge. It was close. So close he could almost feel its weight pressing against his mind. But so was the enemy. Behind him, the earth trembled. Hoofbeats rolled like distant thunder, growing louder with each passing moment. The air shuddered with the clash of metal, the bark of orders, the furious cries of men who had sworn to exterminate his kind. The Blackridge army had come. Faster than expected. Stronger than expected. Their warhorses carved through the mist, their banners snapping in the wind. They had found him before he could reach the fortress. And now¡ªthere was no choice but to fight. Gufran slowed his pace. The horde continued to march at their own rhythm, guttural growls vibrating through the night. He turned, his sight cutting through the darkness, past the jagged ridges and broken cliffs. The last light of the sun fell upon his face, igniting his eyes with a crimson glow. And then he saw him. At the forefront of the charging army, astride a monstrous warhorse clad in steel, was Commander Voss. Their eyes met. For a moment, the battlefield fell silent. Gufran didn''t know why, but excitement bloomed within him instead of fear. He smiled. A slow, deliberate grin. The air shifted. The soldiers faltered. He could feel their hesitation, their unease. Their hands tightened around their weapons, but not in preparation for battle. It was something else. They had never seen an undead like him. He was different. He was special. And Voss¡ªhe was afraid. --- Gufran turned sharply on his heel, his cloak whipping around him like a shadow unfurling in the wind. With a single motion, he raised his hand. The horde obeyed. A sudden, eerie stillness fell over the battlefield. The undead¡ªover a hundred of them¡ªceased their relentless march, their rotting bodies freezing mid-motion, their hollow eyes locking onto their master. The only sound was the whisper of the wind through the craggy peaks and the distant, uneasy snorts of warhorses. Then, slowly, deliberately, Gufran turned his gaze toward the man at the forefront again. Commander Voss. The human sat atop his massive warhorse, his silver-plated armor glinting in the dying sunlight. His face, hardened by countless battles, remained still¡ªbut his grip on the reins had tightened. Gufran smiled again. A slow, taunting grin. A challenge. The mocking curve of his lips sent a ripple through the Blackridge soldiers, a moment of hesitation, a breath of doubt. They had fought undead before¡ªmindless, rabid creatures with no thought beyond hunger. But this¡­ this was different. Gufran was different. Then¡ªhe clenched his fist. The horde moved. A guttural, inhuman roar ripped through the silence as the undead surged forward like a tidal wave of death. Voss rorared and charged into the battle before any of his soldiers could react. And then the Blackridge army followed suit and crashed into them like an iron hammer. Steel met bone. Flesh met blade. The battlefield exploded into chaos. Swords carved through decayed bodies, severed limbs flew through the air, and the ground turned slick with a mixture of human and undead blood. The air filled with screams¡ªof dying men, of snarling corpses, of warhorses rearing and kicking in blind panic. A soldier cleaved through an undead¡¯s skull, only for two more to drag him from his saddle, their teeth sinking into his throat. Another warrior impaled one of the creatures through the chest, but it didn¡¯t die¡ªit kept moving, clawing at his face until it ripped his eyes from their sockets. It was a slaughter And yet in the middle of it all--Voss charged. His warhorse, a beast of iron and fury, barreled through the undead ranks, trampling rotted bodies beneath its thundering hooves. The sound of breaking bones and snapping limbs filled the air as he cut his way forward, his blade a silver streak in the dying light. One swing¡ªan undead¡¯s head flew from its shoulders, tumbling into the dirt. Another strike¡ªhis sword cleaved through a torso, splitting it in half before the body even realized it was dead. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. But Gufran was no mindless corpse. He moved like a shadow, slipping through the carnage, his body a blur of unnatural speed. He didn¡¯t fight with brute strength alone¡ªhe flowed, weaving between lunging swords and desperate strikes, cutting down armored soldiers as if they were nothing more than dry leaves in the wind. His claws, black and jagged, tore through steel like parchment. A soldier raised his shield, but Gufran¡¯s hand speared through it¡ªthrough him¡ªripping flesh and armor apart in one merciless motion. Screams echoed. Blood sprayed. And then¡ªgunfire. A deafening roar. The air cracked as musket shots and rifle rounds tore through the battlefield. Undead jerked and fell, their decayed bodies shredded by lead. Some collapsed instantly, their skulls bursting open from well-placed shots. Others, slower to die, twitched and writhed on the ground as their bodies struggled to obey commands they could no longer hear. Gufran twisted¡ªtoo late. A bullet seared across his shoulder, cutting through flesh and bone. A sudden, sharp burn¡ªhot, raw, real. Pain. His steps faltered. For a moment, the battlefield faded, and only that sensation remained. A dull throbbing, followed by the slow, aching realization: It had been a long time since he had felt pain. He hissed, his eyes narrowing, his claws flexing. The Blackridge soldiers weren¡¯t just holding their ground. They were adapting. This wasn¡¯t a slaughter anymore. This was war. And for the first time since becoming a zombie¡ª Gufran was struggling. --- Through the bloodshed, through the chaos, through the endless screams of the dying¡ª They found each other. Voss, his armor slick with gore, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, locked eyes with the monster. Gufran grinned. A sharp, taunting thing. A predator¡¯s smile. ¡°You¡¯re better than I expected.¡± His voice was low, almost amused, as if this was nothing more than a game. Voss didn¡¯t answer. He just attacked. Steel clashed against claw in an explosion of sparks. Voss struck first¡ªhis sword a blur of silver, cutting through the air with the force of a man who had fought monsters before. Who had killed monsters before. But Gufran was not like the others. His claws raked against the blade, the screech of metal splitting the battlefield, and then he was inside Voss¡¯s guard, his fingers curling like a vice toward the commander¡¯s throat¡ª Voss twisted away, fast, but not fast enough. Gufran¡¯s strike grazed his shoulder, shredding cloth, drawing blood. Voss didn¡¯t flinch. He lunged, his sword flashing again, and this time¡ªhe struck true. The blade sank deep into undead flesh. Gufran¡¯s grin widened. He didn''t feel pain the way humans did. But the force, the sheer power behind the strike¡ªit thrilled him. They moved like two storms colliding¡ªbrutal, raw, unrelenting. Gufran¡¯s attacks were wild, fast, like a predator testing his prey, looking for an opening, a weakness, a moment of hesitation. Voss was different. Precise. Controlled. Every swing, every block, every counter measured with deadly efficiency. A hunter who had spent his life killing things that should not exist. But neither of them could finish the other. Slash. Dodge. Strike. Counter. Faster. Harder. Again and again. They were both too strong. Too stubborn. And all around them¡ª Their armies were dying. --- Gufran felt it first. The shift. The slow, inevitable collapse. His horde was crumbling. The Blackridge soldiers were falling fast¡ªbut they fought like demons, refusing to break, refusing to die easily. His undead weren¡¯t infinite. His strength wasn¡¯t infinite. And if this continued¡ª He wouldn¡¯t make it to the fortress. Voss saw it too. His army was winning, but barely. Their numbers were bleeding out, their formations beginning to thin, their once-solid line breaking apart under the relentless assault. Another twenty minutes¡ªand there would be nothing left of either side. The battle would end in ashes. Gufran smirked. A small, knowing grin. "This was fun," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper¡ªjust loud enough for Voss to hear over the carnage. Then¡ª He ran. Straight for the fortress. Like a shadow breaking away from the fire. Like a ghost slipping through the cracks of war. And before Voss could react¡ªbefore any command could leave his lips¡ª Gufran was already gone. --- The undead threw themselves at the Blackridge soldiers, becoming a wall of flesh and bone. A barrier. A sacrifice. Cannon fodder. That¡¯s all they were now. Gufran didn¡¯t look back. He didn¡¯t need to. A handful of his strongest followed, their movements swift, purposeful. The rest? Left behind to die. They would buy him time. That was their only purpose now. The Blackridge soldiers tried to chase¡ªbut they were exhausted, bloody, barely standing. Some ran after him on instinct, blades raised, desperate to stop the nightmare from escaping¡ª "STOP!" Voss¡¯s voice cut through the battlefield like the crack of a whip. The soldiers froze, their hesitation thick in the air. They wanted to pursue. They should pursue. But Voss just watched. He watched as Gufran vanished into the mist, swallowed by the fortress¡¯s looming shadow. He clenched his jaw. He could chase him. He should chase him. But if he did¡ª He¡¯d just lose more men. And once he¡¯s inside the fortress¡­ We won¡¯t be able to take him down. Not with our current manpower. --- Just before vanishing into the fortress, Gufran turned back. The battlefield was a graveyard of bodies, human and undead alike. The air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and smoke. And there, standing amidst the ruin, was Voss. Still standing. Still breathing. Gufran raised a hand. Not in defiance. Not in anger. But in acknowledgment. A slow, casual wave. As if this had all been some grand game. As if the hundreds who had died meant nothing. A cocky, arrogant grin spread across his face. "This was fun, General." His voice carried over the silence, sharp as a blade. Then¡ª He was gone. --- The battlefield was silent. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that came after carnage. The moans of dying soldiers. The crackling of fire, devouring the remnants of war. The thick, suffocating stench of death. Voss sat atop his horse, motionless, his grip tightening around the reins. His gaze remained fixed on the last place Gufran had stood. A ghost. A nightmare. A monster. Gone. Erwin limped to his side, his armor dented, his face smeared with blood¡ªhis own, or someone else''s, Voss wasn¡¯t sure. ¡°Orders, sir?¡± His voice was hoarse, tired. Voss didn¡¯t answer immediately. His eyes stayed on the fortress. On the darkness waiting inside. On the thing they had let escape. He exhaled slowly. "We go back." Erwin stiffened. "What?" "Let him go." Voss¡¯s voice was steady, but his expression was unreadable. "We¡¯re not chasing him into whatever that is." He nodded toward the looming fortress, its silhouette swallowing the sky. "Not when we are this weak." Erwin followed his gaze. At the dead. At the men they¡¯d never get back. At the price they had already paid. He didn¡¯t argue. There was nothing left to say. There was nothing left to do If they followed him inside, they would almost certainly die. Because they didn''t know what awaited them inside. Traps? More zombies? Witches? --- Inside the fortress, Gufran stopped running. The silence was heavy. His breath was ragged. His body ached. The wound in his shoulder throbbed, a slow, dull burn. His strength was waning, his horde reduced to barely a handful of survivors. But he was alive. And that was enough. The doors behind him groaned, their rusted hinges screaming in protest as they began to close. A slow, deliberate creak. The last sliver of moonlight vanished. Darkness swallowed him whole. Then¡ª A whisper. Low. Ancient. It slithered into his mind like smoke, curling through his thoughts, filling the empty spaces where fear should have been. Something had been waiting for him. Something old. Something hungry. And now¡ª He had arrived. Chapter 11: The Witch Kasian just like another village in this world was a Village Built on Fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of change. Fear of witches. But she was just like the others. A normal child, growing up in the village. She ran through the fields, played in the streets, laughed with her brothers, and listened to her mother¡¯s stories by the fire. She had a home. She had a family. She had love. There was no darkness, no whispers, no distance. Not yet. She was happy. Until the Age of Coming. Until the Witchstone. Until everything changed. --- Every girl in this world was tested at the age of eighteen. It was not a choice. It was law. A rite as old as time itself, spoken of in whispers, carried out without question. They called it a simple ceremony. A mere formality. But she had always felt the weight of it. A test. A trial. A judgment. One by one, the girls of Kasian would step forward, barefoot on the cold stone floors of the temple, their breath shallow, their hands trembling as they reached for the Witchstone. A relic of a forgotten past. A slab of blackened crystal, smooth as glass, humming with a power that no one dared to name. It was said to reveal evil. It was said to unmask the wicked. The elders called it holy. The villagers called it necessary. But deep in her bones, she had always felt something wrong about it. Most girls passed. Most girls walked away untouched, unmarked, their futures secured. Most girls had nothing to fear. And for most of her life, she had believed she would be one of them. She had believed she was safe. She had believed she was ordinary. She had been wrong. --- She had stood in line, her heartbeat matching the slow, rhythmic toll of the temple bell. Each chime was a countdown. Each strike against the iron sent a shiver through her ribs. She clenched her hands to keep them still, forcing herself to breathe, to focus, to remind herself that this was just a test. Nothing more. She watched as the first girl stepped forward, bare feet silent against the cold temple floor. She placed her hand on the Witchstone. Nothing. A sigh of relief passed through the crowd. The girl stepped back, smiling, her fate sealed in safety. The second girl. The third. One by one, they came. One by one, they pressed their palms to the stone.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. One by one, they were declared clean. The tension in the air eased. The priest¡¯s shoulders relaxed. The villagers murmured in quiet approval, the weight of expectation settling like a warm, familiar cloak around them. Everything was as it should be. Everything was normal. And then¡ª It was her turn. Her breath hitched as she stepped forward. The air felt heavier now, thick with something unseen, something watching. Her fingers trembled, but she steadied them. She was nervous, yes. But she was not afraid. Because she was not a witch. She was not a monster. She was just like the others. Her hand pressed against the stone. And the world shattered. --- The sound split the air like a thunderclap. A jagged crack tore through the Witchstone¡¯s surface, black veins spiderwebbing outward in an instant¡ªbefore the entire slab exploded. The force rippled through the temple. Shards of obsidian sprayed across the chamber, slicing into wood, into cloth, into flesh. Gasps turned into screams as villagers flinched away, some shielding their faces, others stumbling back in terror. She reeled, nearly losing her footing, her ears ringing, her heart slamming against her ribs. The world blurred¡ªthe flickering torchlight, the rows of open-mouthed spectators, the blood dripping from fresh cuts where the stone¡¯s shards had torn into skin. And for a moment¡ªonly a moment¡ª There was silence. A moment where the world held its breath, as if even time itself was too afraid to move. And then¡ª "WITCH!" A single voice, shrill, panicked. Then another. And another. "She is a WITCH!" The words erupted from the crowd. Louder than the shattering stone. Louder than her own heartbeat. Louder than anything she had ever heard before. It was not a question. Not an accusation. It was a sentence. --- Hands seized her. Rough, merciless hands. They clawed at her sleeves, yanked at her hair, dragged her across the temple floor like a ragdoll caught in a storm. Her knees slammed against the stone, the sharp bite of pain radiating through her legs, but she barely registered it over the rising panic in her chest. She kicked, she fought, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "Father!" she choked out, twisting against the iron grip that held her. "Mother¡ªplease!" But then¡ª She saw them. Her father. Her mother. Her brothers. Standing among the crowd. Their faces were carved from stone, emotionless, untouched by the chaos swallowing her whole. Not reaching for her. Not fighting for her. Just watching. She felt the scratch of rope against her wrists. Tight. Unforgiving. Final. And still, they did nothing. Her breath hitched. She searched their eyes for something¡ªanything. Horror. Denial. Even disgust. But all she saw was relief. Her stomach lurched. They had been waiting for this. Waiting for a reason to cut her away like a rotting limb. And now¡ª They had it. "Father¡­" Her voice cracked, trembling, breaking. "Please¡ª" His expression did not change. His gaze did not waver. And then, he spoke. "You are not my daughter." The words gutted her. She stopped struggling. Stopped breathing. Because in that moment, she understood. She was already dead to them. --- Torches were raised. Ropes dragged across the floor. Fists curled around stones. The air crackled with fury, thick with the scent of burning oil and the sweat of the angry mob. She was hauled from the temple, her feet barely skimming the ground as they dragged her through the streets like an animal to the slaughter. The shouts rang through the night¡ª "BURN THE WITCH!" "DON¡¯T LET HER ESCAPE!" "KILL IT BEFORE IT CURSES US!" She thrashed, kicked, fought¡ªbut it was useless. There were too many of them. A wall of rage and fear, hatred and conviction, pressing against her from all sides. They weren¡¯t just villagers anymore. They were executioners. And she¡ª She had no power. Not yet. Not enough to save herself. Through the smoke, she saw it¡ª The woodpile. The stake. The waiting fire. They were going to burn her alive. Her chest tightened, her vision blurred. Her body was numb, her mind screaming for a way out, for something, anything. And then¡ª Something answered. A spark. A shift. A force inside her, long buried, long dormant, awoke. Suddenly¡ª The magic reacted. The ropes burst into flames. A searing wave of heat tore through the air, consuming the bindings that held her. The fire was hers. It did not burn her. It did not fear her. It obeyed. --- The ropes burned away, curling into ash, the flames licking at her skin¡ªbut she felt no pain. Only power. A gasp rippled through the crowd. For the first time, they were afraid. She moved. Her hands flung forward, and with a burst of will, the fire answered. A wave of flame erupted, roaring outward, sending villagers stumbling back in terror. The torches they had held¡ªturned against them. Fire leapt from hand to hand, crawling up sleeves, igniting the edges of skirts, setting wooden stalls ablaze. The square became a storm of light and shadow, the night splintered by screams. She ran. Through the chaos, through the wall of bodies now stumbling, cowering, retreating. They had dragged her through these streets as a prisoner. Now, she ripped through them as a force of nature. A man lunged at her, a knife glinting in his hands¡ª She turned, instinct flaring. The flames whipped out, engulfing his arm in a burst of fire. He screamed, dropping the blade, clutching his burning limb as he fell to the ground. Another came at her from behind¡ª She spun, kicking him hard in the stomach, sending him crashing into a cart of grain. More villagers swarmed, emboldened by their numbers. She fought. Kicking, dodging, striking¡ªher magic burned through her veins, untamed, wild, a firestorm barely under her control. But there were too many. Too many hands grabbing at her, too many voices screaming for her death. She was getting weaker. Her flames faltered. Her breaths came in ragged gasps. And then¡ª A fist struck her across the face. Pain exploded through her skull as she crumpled to the ground, her vision spinning, the world turning into a haze of fire and shadowed figures closing in. Her body refused to move. Boots crunched against the dirt as the villagers surrounded her, their rage now desperation. A spear was raised¡ª And then¡ª A voice cut through the madness. "ENOUGH." Everything stopped. A gust of wind rushed through the square, putting out every flame except for the embers clinging to her skin. The villagers froze. Their hatred turned to fear. And standing at the edge of the firelit ruins, framed by the glow of destruction¡ª Was him. Gufran. His silhouette was towering, his breath steady, his fists clenched at his sides. His eyes¡ªthey burned, deep and endless, filled with a fury so sharp it made the villagers step back without realizing it. And for the first time¡ª She felt hope. Because he had come. Because he hadn¡¯t abandoned her. Because if there was one person in this world who would fight for her¡ª It was him. ---Author''s note--- I hope ya all remember what happened after this if you don''t go back to chapter 3 We will come back to her again also her name is Lahiba And also let me know if you all like how I am switching between different timelines and characters Trying to learn a thing or two from crystopher Nolan Chapter 12: The Secret Of The Fortress The fortress loomed above him, an unbroken monolith of stone and shadow, its jagged silhouette devouring the starlight. It did not welcome. It did not threaten. It simply was¡ªwatching, waiting. Gufran staggered through its colossal gates, his breath a ragged staccato, his vision swimming in and out of focus. His muscles burned, his skin slick with sweat and blood¡ªnot all of it his own. Every step felt like wading through molasses, his body screaming for rest. But rest was a compromise. Rest was surrender. And he was not dead. Not yet. The iron doors groaned behind him, not with the tired resistance of rusted hinges, but with a weight that felt... intentional. A finality to the sound, like the last note of a requiem. He had not touched them. He had not commanded them. And yet, they sealed shut. The silence that followed wasn¡¯t true silence. It was charged, humming beneath the surface, a tension he could feel pressing against his skin. The walls exhaled, the very stone shifting in subtle, imperceptible ways. The air thickened, the temperature dropping just enough to make his breath ghost in front of him. His steps slowed. His thoughts blurred. Something was wrong. His exhaustion wasn¡¯t natural. His wounds¡ªsuperficial at best¡ªwere not enough to drag him under. Then why¡ª? The fortress pulsed. Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, abstract sense. The stone beneath him shuddered with a heartbeat that was not his own. A whisper¡ªfelt more than heard¡ªcurled through the space, threading through his mind like fingers through silk. His knees buckled. The world tilted. And then¡ª He collapsed. Darkness didn¡¯t rush in. It pulled him under, slow and deliberate, like the fortress had simply decided to claim him.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. --- The undead stood over him. A wall of rot and ruin. For the first time since their cursed existence began, they hesitated. Their master had fallen. Something deep, something ancient, had pulled him under. His body lay before them, still and silent, his breath shallow, his mind elsewhere. And in that moment¡ª Their instincts surged forward, wild and untamed, as if they had been caged for centuries and only now remembered what it was to be. Twitching fingers. Shuddering limbs. A raw, unshackled hunger waking in hollow chests. One by one¡ª They turned on him. Gufran had commanded them. Controlled them. Owned them. Now¡ª They would consume him. A foot dragged forward. Then another. The air thickened with the weight of inevitability. But one did not move. The Tall and Skinny One stood still. Watching. The others lunged. And he struck. His claws tore through decayed flesh, severing limbs, snapping brittle bones. The undead did not scream, did not waver, did not stop. They fought like animals, unthinking and relentless. But he fought with something else. Purpose. The horde moved as one¡ªan avalanche of hunger, blind and primal. But for the first time, a zombie had chosen. And he chose Gufran. --- Gufran was not asleep. He had not collapsed from exhaustion. His body was here. But he was elsewhere. Summoned. The darkness around him was not the absence of light. It was not empty. It was alive. It curled around him, weightless yet suffocating, pulling him deeper¡ªnot through space, not through time, but through something else. And then¡ª A presence. Not a voice. Not a being. The fortress itself. It did not speak. It did not need to. It whispered without words. It called without sound. And it showed him. --- A Glimpse of the Forgotten Past Gufran was not himself. He had no body. No weight. Only presence. He was nowhere. And everywhere. Floating. Watching. The air shifted. And suddenly¡ª He saw. Not with eyes. Not with thought. But with understanding. Not clearly. Not fully. But enough. The world had not always been like this. The curse. The plague. The war. They were not fate. Not destiny. They were designed. Someone¡ªsomething¡ªhad changed everything. Not by accident. Not by chance. By will. And the cost¡ª It was more than death. More than ruin. The world itself had broken. Not in metaphor. Not in spirit. Torn. A wound in reality. Land split apart, oceans spilled into the void. Cities lost to nothingness. The world was not whole. It had been ripped in two. And then¡ª The vision broke. Torn away. Stolen. Gufran was falling. Not through space. Not through time. Through reality itself. --- Gufran jerked awake. A gasp tore from his throat. His chest heaved. His claws twitched, still remembering a battle his body had never fought. The fortress was still. Silent. Watching. He pushed himself upright. The stone beneath him was cold, pulsing faintly¡ªalive. The Tall and Skinny One stood over him. Bloodied. Unmoving. Victorious. The others? Gone. Limbs scattered. Flesh torn. Nothing left but the remnants of mindless hunger. The fortress? Still waiting. And Gufran? He had questions. Too many questions. Chapter 13: Kendrick Enya Gufran looked at the tall skinny one And said out loud "I wonder what happened." And to his surprise he replied He said they tried to kill you As soon as you passed out they tried to kill you. So I killed them all. Gufran was stunned He didn''t expect him to talk Was it him causing this change? Was it the fortress? Whatever it was it didn''t really matter at this point What mattered was he was alive and he was alive because the tall and skinny zombie saved him "What''s your name?" I don''t know From today you have a name, it''s kendrick, kendrick enya Kendrick enta fell to his knees and bowed to gufran Gufran had gained a first true follower Not one he had to control Not one that would try to kill him as soon as he passes out A true loyal follower --- Gufran turned his attention to the fortress. He had felt it the moment he stepped inside. That presence. Not a spirit, not a god¡ªsomething older, something deeper. The fortress itself had shown him the vision. Not through whispers. Not through voices. Through knowing. He scanned the vast halls, the towering walls. The fortress was empty, but not abandoned. The stone was too well-preserved, the structures too intact. No ruin. No decay. This place had not fallen. It had been left. But why? Why was it here? Why was it waiting? And why had he seen¡ª The images were still fresh in his mind, like echoes of something half-remembered. A history buried beneath time itself. And yet, as he pieced them together, a pattern emerged. A truth hidden beneath centuries of decay. Two nations.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. A war that did not just break the world¡ª But tore it in two. Literally. The land itself had been sundered, reshaped into something unrecognizable. And from that moment, everything changed. The dead did not always hunger. The witches were not always hunted. Witches¡­ The thought struck him with a force that made his body tense. Something pulled at the edges of his memory. Someone. A shadow¡ªno, a face. A voice. The lingering touch of something warm, something gentle. She was there. Somewhere in the fog of his mind. But who was she? And why did it feel like remembering her was more terrifying than anything else? .... Gufran pushed the thoughts aside. He could not afford to linger on memories that refused to surface. Not yet. The fortress had revealed something to him, but it was not ready to explain. Or perhaps he was not ready to understand. So, he continued forward, deeper into the unknown halls of the fortress. He spoke to it¡ªaloud at first, then in his mind. No answer. He reached out, testing his control over it. The result was¡­ limited. The gates obeyed him, creaking open and shut with a mere thought. The strange magical lights that lined the corridors flickered to life, their glow cold and unnatural. But that was all. Nothing more bent to his will. Not yet. And yet, he knew¡ªas surely as he knew his own hunger¡ªthat the fortress had accepted him. It did not reject him. It did not fight him. He was simply too weak to grasp its full power. That would change. Soon. --- As he moved through the fortress, he came upon something unexpected¡ªa stone tablet, resting alone in the depths of a chamber untouched by time. It was ancient, worn yet whole. And it was covered in inscriptions. Runes. Letters. Symbols. He could not read them. He spent long minutes¡ªperhaps hours¡ªtracing the carvings with his fingers, trying to make sense of the patterns, the shapes, the meaning buried beneath centuries of dust. Nothing. His mind was strong, his instincts sharper than they had ever been. But against this? He was blind. Then¡ª A hum. Not a sound, not exactly. More like a vibration in the air. A resonance that spoke without words. One word. One truth. "Witches." Gufran stilled. It wasn''t a memory. It wasn''t an order. It was a key. To what, he did not know. Did the fortress demand a witch to unlock its secrets? Was this tablet a message left for them¡ªfor those who had once commanded magic freely? It did not matter. Because Gufran had no time to search for answers. A war was at his doorstep. And this time¡­ it would not be a simple skirmish. This time, they would not underestimate him. This time, the living would come prepared to end him. He turned to Kendrick, who stood silently, waiting. He met Kendrick''s hollow gaze. "We need to rebuild the horde." --- Kendrick stood still, waiting for the command. Gufran didn''t speak right away. He was thinking. Rebuilding the horde wasn''t just about numbers¡ªit was about control. The undead were easy to gather, but mindless. If he was going to make them into something more, he needed to push further, to understand his power. He looked at his hands, flexing his fingers. The hunger was always there, deep inside him, but now there was something else¡ªsomething new. A pull. Not just toward flesh, but toward the dead themselves. His influence was growing. "Kendrick," he said at last. "Let''s go." Kendrick nodded once. He understood. Without another word, they left the fortress. --- The land beyond the fortress was silent, a wasteland of forgotten ruins and twisted trees. But it was not empty. Zombies were scattered across the landscape, wandering aimlessly, driven by nothing but their endless hunger. Easy to kill. Easier to control. Gufran stepped forward, reaching out¡ªnot with his hands, but with his mind. The pull strengthened. One by one, they stopped. Dozens of them. They turned toward him, their empty gazes locking onto something unseen. Something greater. He had their attention. Now he had to claim them. He focused, tightening his will around them like a fist. Mine. Some resisted. They twitched, staggered, their instincts fighting back. Gufran clenched his jaw. He would not fight them one by one. He would drown them. He pushed harder, letting his presence flood their rotting minds, filling the empty spaces where thought had once been. The weak ones fell first. Then the stronger ones. One by one, they stopped resisting. And then, one by one¡ª They bowed. A sea of the dead, kneeling before him. His army was forming. And this was only the beginning. --- Gufran turned to Kendrick. The kneeling horde stretched before them, a sea of rotting bodies waiting for purpose. Some were barely intact¡ªlimbs missing, jaws hanging loose, eyes clouded with decay. Others were stronger, their flesh still holding together, their movements less broken. But not all of them were useful. Not all of them deserved to be part of what he was building. He met Kendrick''s hollow gaze. "This is your kill." Kendrick blinked. "The ones you don''t like¡ªkill them." A pause. The horde remained motionless, waiting, unknowing. "Keep the ones you think are good enough." Kendrick''s expression didn''t change. He looked out at the kneeling zombies, scanning them as if seeing them for the first time. And then¡ª He moved. Fast. His claws slashed through the first zombie before it even realized what was happening. A clean kill¡ªhead severed, body crumbling. The next one barely had time to twitch before Kendrick tore through its chest, ripping the spine free in one fluid motion. Gufran watched. Admiring what was unfolding. There was no hesitation in Kendrick''s movements. No wasted effort. No anger. Just judgment. One after another, he cut down the weak, the slow, the useless. And the ones that remained? They did not flinch. They did not resist. They simply waited. Gufran nodded. This was necessary. They weren''t building a mindless swarm. They were building something stronger. When the last corpse hit the ground, Kendrick stepped back, silent. The chosen remained¡ªfewer, but better. Gufran exhaled. "Now," he said. "We get some more." --- Authors note --- Yooo so my grandfather is really sick so chapters for a day or two might be a little shorter than the usual but I will make sure to update daily Also let me know if you like the pacing or would you like me to change it a bit And what about the writing style like it? If no! well can''t change that, can only change the pacing And one final thing, do you like kendrick enya? Well that''s all have a good day. Love you all Chapter 14: Vosss Perspective (Voss''s POV ¨C Blackridge Stronghold) The gates of Blackridge loomed in the distance, monolithic and unyielding. Twin slabs of blackened iron, their surfaces webbed with runes that pulsed faintly in the dim torchlight. Wards against the dead. Wards against what lay beyond. But tonight, it wasn''t the dead that it was keeping out. It was the living. Voss led them home¡ªor what remained of them. His armor, once a polished emblem of command, was now a second skin of dried blood, soot, and grief. His warhorse, ribs heaving, staggered beneath him, its hooves dragging through the slush of old rain and old ash. Behind him, thirty men struggled to keep pace. Once, they had been two hundred. They didn''t march. They moved like revenants. A limping mass of exhaustion and ruin. Cloaks in tatters. Bandages steeped in rot. Some leaned on shattered spears for balance, others were carried on crude stretchers fashioned from shields and torn banners. This was not the return of warriors. This was not the triumphant march of men who had conquered. This was survival. The guards at the gate stood frozen. One of them¡ªyoung, barely past the age of twenty¡ªstepped forward, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword as if the weight of it could steady him. His voice barely found breath. "Gods¡­ what happened?" Voss said nothing. He urged his horse forward, past the threshold. The gates groaned open, iron screaming against iron. The air inside was thick, stagnant, holding its breath as if the city itself recoiled. They entered. And the people of Blackridge were waiting. Lined along the streets, lanterns in hand, faces half-lit in flickering gold. What had they expected? A victorious return? The clash of steel against shields, banners held high? They had sent out the best. Men clad in plate and fury, marching like an unstoppable force. But the force had been stopped. And now? Now, they looked like ghosts. A murmur rippled through the crowd, a wave of disbelief rolling through the silence. "They lost?" "What¡­ what could do this?" A man fell to his knees. A veteran, by the look of him. Scars across his arms, a sword at his side. His lips moved in prayer, though no sound came. His hands trembled. He had seen war before. But not this. Not whatever had done this. Voss clenched his jaw, eyes fixed ahead. Each hoofbeat, each footstep, felt heavier than the last. There was nothing left to say. The dead did not speak. And neither would he. --- The war room of Blackridge was a chamber of cold stone and colder men. A place where decisions were made with ink and steel, where lives were reduced to numbers on parchment. The long table, carved from black oak, was surrounded by the council¡ªaged men in fine robes, their faces marked with years of governance but untouched by war.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. They had been waiting for him. Voss stepped inside. His armor was still caked in blood, his gauntlets stained, his cloak torn. He had not bathed. He had not rested. He did not need to. Their eyes studied him. Some with concern. Others with suspicion. Then¡ª "Explain." The word came from the head of the table. Lord Regent Rhygar, his voice edged with restrained fury. "Two hundred of our finest warriors. Gone." Voss did not answer immediately. He let the silence settle. Then, finally¡ª "We met them in the field," he said. His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it. Something raw. "We thought we understood what we were facing." A scoff. Regis, the youngest among them, leaned forward. A man who had never seen battle but spoke as if war were a game to be played. "You did understand," he said. "You faced undead. Brainless, shambling corpses. We''ve slaughtered them by the thousands before. How, exactly, did you fail?" Voss''s jaw tightened. His fingers curled into a fist. "You weren''t there." Regis smirked, but it faltered when Voss took a step closer. "You''re right," another councilman said, older, his voice carefully measured. "We weren''t there. And that''s why we struggle to believe you. This army was sent to eliminate an outbreak, not crawl back in ruins." Voss exhaled sharply through his nose. He had expected this. The doubt. The dismissal. They didn''t understand. Because they couldn''t. His patience snapped. The sound of his gauntlet slamming against the table sent a shockwave through the room. Scrolls spilled onto the floor, the echoes lingering like the distant thunder of a battlefield long since lost. One of the councilmen flinched. Another paled. Voss leaned forward, his voice low. Cold. "They weren''t mindless." That silenced the room. "They moved together¡ªlike an army. Shield formations. Flanking maneuvers. Coordination. Not instinct. Not hunger. Orders." He let that word hang. "Someone led them." A pause. Rhygar''s gaze sharpened. "Led them?" Voss''s throat tightened. His mind dragged him back. To that moment. To him. "I saw him," he said. "Tall. His skin¡ªPale. Like the dead. But his eyes... his eyes weren''t empty. They were watching. Calculating---Evil." Regis scoffed again, but this time it sounded forced. "You''re saying the undead had a commander?" Voss''s hands pressed into the table. "I''m saying we went to cull an infection," he said. "And instead, we found a war." Silence. No more scoffing. No more dismissive glances. Because they knew¡ª He wasn''t lying. And that meant everything they thought they understood about the enemy was wrong. Very, very wrong. --- He told them everything. The way the undead fought. The way they moved. The way they obeyed one of their own. And then¡ª The way that ''thing'' smiled at him. The council remained silent as Voss finished. Then¡ªlaughter. A chuckle at first. Then a full, arrogant laugh. One of the older men, a priest clad in silver robes, shook his head. "Ah," he exhaled. "Now I understand." Voss turned to him, his jaw clenched. "Explain." The priest smiled. A knowing, patronizing smile. "You have been cursed, General." Voss did not move. But something dark, something cold, twisted in his chest. "What?" "The soldiers who returned," the priest continued, "spoke of an undead with a mind. A voice. A will. That is not natural. It''s is not part of the plague." His voice dropped into a whisper. "It''s a Witches doing." "It was a Witch in disguise." A murmur spread through the council. Some nodded. Some looked doubtful. Voss felt his heartbeat slow. They didn''t get it. They were wrong. That wasn''t a witch. But before he could speak, another councilman raised a hand. "We must not act rashly." He turned to Voss. "The fortress. What do we know of it?" Voss hesitated. "It was¡­ old. Unbroken. As if it had been waiting." The priest smirked. "A relic," he murmured. "It makes sense. A cursed place, built by the sinners of the past. And now? A witch-possessed corpse sits upon its throne." Voss''s hands curled into fists. That wasn''t what happened. That wasn''t what he saw. But before he could argue¡ª "We will send a hunting party," the councilman declared. "A small, elite unit. Enough to finish what you could not." Voss felt it then. The decision had already been made. They weren''t sending an army. They weren''t taking this seriously. They were treating it like a rogue monster, not a war. Fools. Absolute fools. --- The meeting ended. The council had made their decision. The priest and the councilmen returned to their chambers, their voices fading down the corridors, their minds already set. They believed their hunting party would end this threat. A mission. A strike force. Just another cleanup. Voss knew better. As he walked through the torchlit halls of Blackridge, his steps heavy with exhaustion and something far worse, a figure emerged from the shadows. Erwin. He fell into step beside him, his voice quiet. "Orders?" Voss stopped. His mind raced. The fortress. The undead. The way they had moved, fought¡ªcoordinated. And Gufran. Voss had faced horrors before. But this? This was something else. Something was changing. And if the council sent their men in blind, treating Gufran like any other outbreak¡ª They would lose. Again. Slowly, Voss turned to Erwin. "I want everything," he muttered. "Every record of the old world. Every ruin. Every scrap of knowledge about what came before." Erwin frowned. "Sir?" Voss''s eyes burned, no longer clouded with exhaustion but sharpened with purpose. "If I can understand him¡­" He turned away, his figure swallowed by the flickering torchlight, disappearing into the war room''s shadows. "¡­I can kill him." Chapter 15: The Hunters and the Hunted (The Blackridge Hunting Party''s Perspective) --- The Hunt Begins The hunting party moved like shadows through the wilderness, their figures swallowed by the thick mist creeping down from the mountains. Twelve of them. Handpicked. Elite. The best Blackridge had to offer. Captain Reynard rode at the front, his armor dulled to avoid catching the moonlight. He had led men through war, through battles where the dead outnumbered the living. He had fought things others could barely speak of. But this was different. This wasn''t war. This wasn''t even a battle. This was an execution. Or at least¡ª It was supposed to be. --- Reynard glanced over his shoulder. His men followed in tight formation¡ªtwelve riders, their cloaks drawn close, weapons low but ready. Their movements were precise, disciplined. No wasted steps. No unnecessary sound. They had been trained for this. Prepared. Or so they thought. The mist coiled around them like ghostly fingers, rolling in from the mountains, thick and unnatural. It muted everything¡ªthe crunch of hooves against brittle grass, the clink of armor, even the sound of their own breathing. The world beyond their torches faded into an endless wall of gray. They had been briefed. A rogue undead. A single entity. Unusual? Yes. Dangerous? Perhaps. But not invincible. They had heard Voss''s warnings. They had listened to his tales¡ªof an undead that could think, that could command, that could fight like a man. They had listened. But they had not believed. "Undead don''t think," Davin, the youngest among them, had scoffed back in Blackridge. "They rot." The others had laughed. --- They weren''t laughing now. Because as they crept closer to the ruins of the fortress, the silence followed them. Heavy. Watching. Not even the wind dared to breathe here. The air was wrong. Still. It smelled of damp stone, of old rot buried beneath layers of earth. Their torches flickered but did not sway. The mist, thick as it was, did not shift. It simply hung there, dense and waiting. The horses grew restless, their ears flicking back, nostrils flaring. They could sense it before the men could. Something unseen. Something watching. Reynard tightened his grip on the reins. He had been on too many battlefields not to recognize the feeling creeping into his bones. Not fear. Not yet. But the first whisper of it. The first, quiet realization that they had stepped into something far worse than they had imagined. --- Hours passed. No ambush. No resistance. The only sounds were the rhythmic hoofbeats against damp earth, the occasional creak of leather, the whisper of the wind through skeletal branches. They had expected wandering undead. Mindless corpses should have been lurking in the trees, drawn to the scent of living flesh.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. But there was nothing. No movement. No distant groans. No red eyes watching from the dark. Only emptiness. Davin finally broke the silence. His voice was hushed, uneasy. "This doesn''t feel right." Reynard didn''t snap at him. Didn''t tell him to keep quiet. Because he felt it too. Something had been here. The land carried the weight of it¡ªan invisible pressure, like the moments before a storm. But where had they gone? Then, they found them. The first corpse was slumped against a boulder, its skull caved in, darkened bone gleaming under the moonlight. Then another. And another. Not human. Undead. Torn apart. Ripped to pieces. One had its head missing entirely, the jagged wound at its neck too precise for an animal, too brutal for a blade. Another had been gutted, its ribcage split open like carrion picked clean. Arms twisted at unnatural angles. Limbs severed. Davin paled. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword as if that alone could steady him. "They were¡­ killed?" Another soldier muttered, "By what? Humans don''t do this to undead." No. This wasn''t human work. Reynard clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the reins. This was the work of something else. Something that hunted its own kind. --- The Fortress Beckons The hunting party moved faster now. The mission had shifted. The tension in their movements was no longer that of hunters closing in on prey. This was something else. Not a hunt. A pursuit. They weren''t stalking their target. They were following¡ªdrawn forward by tracks left with intent. A trail carved into the land, leading them in one direction. Straight to the fortress. And then¡ª It emerged from the darkness. A structure of black stone, towering and unnatural, rising from the earth like a wound in the landscape. The moonlight barely touched it, as if even the sky recoiled from its presence. No torches burned within its walls. No banners marked its allegiance. It was silent. Waiting. Reynard pulled his horse to a stop, his breath slow, controlled. "We go in on foot." The soldiers dismounted, boots crunching against brittle earth. They tightened their grips on their weapons¡ªmuskets loaded, swords drawn. One by one, they crossed the threshold. And the air changed. Heavier. Thicker. A weight pressed against their chests, as if something unseen coiled through the corridors, moving between them, through them. Watching. No footsteps echoed. No voices carried. The fortress swallowed all sound, turning their presence into whispers, their existence into something smaller. Davin gritted his teeth. "This place is cursed." Reynard agreed. But curses could be killed. --- The hunting party fanned out. Rooms were checked. Hallways were cleared. Nothing. Only the weight of silence pressing down on them. Then¡ª A sound. A scrape of movement down the corridor. Faint. Measured. Reynard raised a fist. The men halted instantly¡ªmuskets lifted, blades poised. Silence. Then¡ª A blur. Something moved. A shadow slipping between the pillars¡ªtoo fast, too fluid to be a normal undead. "Contact!" a soldier shouted, firing his musket. The shot rang out, a thunderclap in the still air. The muzzle flash lit the darkness for half a second¡ªstone walls, flickering shadows¡ª But no target. The bullet struck stone. Missed. Then¡ª A scream. Short. Cut off. Reynard turned just in time to see Lionel yanked into the darkness. Gone. Blood spattered across the cold stone where he had stood. Davin stumbled back, his breath coming fast. "What the hell was¡ª" Another scream. A second soldier. Ripped into the void. Panic took hold. The hunting party turned wildly, weapons raised, eyes darting between corridors, pillars, every blind spot that suddenly felt too large, too close. "We need to regroup!" Reynard barked, his voice hard, commanding. Then¡ª Laughter. Soft. Mocking. Not human. Not undead. Something else. A figure stepped into the dim light. Tall. Too thin. Kendrick. Or what had once been him. His skin was wrong¡ªstretched too tight, pale as bone, his lips curled into something that might have once been a smile. And behind him¡ª Shadows flickered. More figures emerging. More waiting. The hunting party wasn''t alone anymore. The hunt had become an execution. --- Reynard barely had time to react. Kendrick moved first. Not like a mindless corpse. Not like the shambling dead. Like a predator. Like a hunter. He lunged, faster than any undead had the right to be, closing the distance in a blink. His claws tore through the first soldier''s armor like parchment, ripping flesh from bone in a spray of red. Davin screamed, musket rising¡ª Too slow. Kendrick was on him in an instant, his grip vise-like, his teeth flashing¡ª And then¡ª Blood. Davin collapsed, hands clutching his throat, gurgling, drowning in his own breath. Then¡ª Chaos. Gunfire. Swords clashing. Screams. But this was no battle. It was a massacre. They had come thinking they were the predators. They were wrong. They were prey. And Kendrick was starving. Reynard fought. He killed. His sword struck true, carving through undead flesh, his blade slick with blackened blood. But it wasn''t enough. There were too many. They weren''t fighting a lone monster. They had walked into a den. The fortress wasn''t a ruin. It was a tomb. And they had sealed themselves inside. --- Reynard was the last one left. His breath was ragged, each inhale sharp and broken. His vision blurred¡ªblood in his eyes, on his hands, pooling at his knees. His own. His men''s. Kendrick stood before him. Unfazed. Unbothered. His long, skeletal fingers dripped with fresh carnage, black and red streaking his pale skin. Behind him, the undead gathered. Silent. Waiting. Not attacking. Not finishing him off. Because this wasn''t about killing. This was about sending a message. Reynard''s body failed him, his strength leaking away with every drop of blood soaking into the cold stone. He collapsed to his knees, gasping. Kendrick watched. Then¡ªhe tilted his head. And spoke. "You thought you were hunting us." The voice was wrong. Not entirely human. Not entirely dead. Reynard trembled. Kendrick crouched in front of him, slow and deliberate, meeting his gaze with hollow, knowing eyes. "You were wrong." A pause. Then¡ªKendrick smiled. Behind him, the fortress doors groaned. Opening. Reynard''s breath caught in his throat. No. Not for him. Not for escape. For Gufran. A shadow beyond the threshold. A presence. Waiting. And then¡ª The last thing Reynard saw¡ª Glowing eyes. And that awful, awful smile. Then¡ª Darkness. Chapter 16: The Gift Of Terror Inside the fortress. The scent of blood was thick in the air. It clung to the damp stone walls, seeped into the cracks of the floor, and filled the dimly lit chamber where Reynard hung in chains. The once-proud captain of Blackridge was barely recognizable. His face¡ªswollen, bruised, misshapen. His once-polished armor stripped away, leaving him in torn, bloodstained cloth. His body sagged, held up only by rusted chains, the metal biting deep into his wrists. But he was alive. For now. Across from him, Gufran sat. Still. Unreadable. Not cruel. Not angry. Just watching. Beside him stood Kendrick. Silent. Waiting. The air was heavy. Not just with blood, but with something else. A pressure. A presence that pressed down on the room, thick and suffocating, as if the very walls were holding their breath. Then¡ª Gufran spoke. "How many men does Blackridge have?" Reynard didn¡¯t say a word. Not at first. His one good eye twitched open, half-lidded, clouded with pain and exhaustion. His breath came in ragged pulls. Then¡ªhe laughed. Weak. Broken. But laughter nonetheless. "You think this is over?" His voice was hoarse, raw from screaming. "You think killing me will stop them?" Gufran tilted his head slightly. Curious. Amused. "Stop them?" he echoed. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers clasped together. "No, Captain." His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. "I don¡¯t want to stop them." Reynard¡¯s breath hitched. Gufran smiled. "I want them to come." Silence. For the first time¡ªReynard had no response. Then¡ªKendrick moved. Slow. Deliberate. His elongated fingers wrapped around Reynard¡¯s jaw like iron shackles. And tilted his head to the side. Gufran watched. Unblinking. "Tell me, Captian." He reached out, dragging a single clawed finger across Reynard¡¯s cheek. Barely touching. Just enough for the man to flinch. "Do you fear dying---"Gufran''s voice barely above a whisper. "---or what comes after?" Reynard gritted his teeth. He didn¡¯t answer. So¡ªGufran let Kendrick have some fun. A flash of movement.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. A wet, sharp snap. Reynard screamed. Kendrick had taken two fingers. Just two. Blood dripped onto the floor, pooling, spreading, darkening the cracks in the stone. Reynard¡¯s chest heaved. His body convulsed, wracked with fresh agony. Gufran sighed. "This is tedious." A lazy gesture. "Take his head. We¡¯re done." Kendrick obeyed. One swift motion¡ª A clean sever. The body slumped forward. Blood pooling. Twitching. The head¡ª**Reynard¡¯s head¡ª**rolled once, twice, then stopped at Gufran¡¯s feet. Gufran stared at it. Then¡ªhe grinned. "Take it to Blackridge." --- The gates of Blackridge loomed against the night¡ªtowering walls of iron and stone, reinforced with ancient runes meant to ward off the dead. The guards stood at their posts, torches flickering in the frigid air, eyes scanning the distant road. A lone figure approached. At first, they barely noticed him¡ªjust another shadow moving through the mist. The night swallowed most details, reducing him to something indistinct. But as he stepped closer, the firelight caught his face. Thin. Pale. Wrong. He walked with purpose. No stumble. No limp. Not the way the undead moved. Too smooth. Too deliberate. "Finally," one of the guards muttered. "They¡¯re back." Another exhaled. "Took them long enough." They had been expecting the hunting party. But as the figure stepped into full view, they realized¡ª This was not them. There was only one. And in his hands¡ª A box. Blackwood, bound in iron. The guards froze. One of them frowned. "Who goes there?" No answer. The figure stepped closer. And spoke. "Open the gates." A simple request. Spoken too clearly. Too calmly. The guards stiffened. Something was wrong. "Identify yourself!" another barked. The figure tilted his head slightly, as if considering the demand. Then¡ª He opened the box. A severed head tumbled onto the ground. It landed with a wet thud. Blood seeped into the dirt. The eyes¡ªfrozen wide in terror. The mouth¡ªtwisted mid-scream. The guards staggered back. One of them gasped. Captain Reynard. Leader of the hunting party. Dead. The air around them seemed to constrict, thick and suffocating. The torches flickered. Hands tightened around weapons. One of the guards swallowed hard, forcing his voice through the sudden weight of silence. "What¡­ What is this?" --- Kendrick took another step forward. The torchlight caught his face. And finally¡ªthey saw him. Not just a shadow. Not just a figure in the mist. His skin¡ªpale, stretched too tight. His eyes¡ªwrong, gleaming with something the undead weren¡¯t supposed to have. The guards remained frozen. Shock rooting them in place. Every instinct, every fiber of their being screamed danger. But their bodies refused to move. Because for the first time in their lives¡ª They weren¡¯t sure of, what they were looking at. Then Kendrick spoke. "A message." A pause. "A message from my king." The guards didn¡¯t respond. Couldn¡¯t. "King of the undead?" The thought went unspoken, but it lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. The man continued, his tone steady. Controlled. "Your sent hunters to us." A slow tilt of the head. "We return them as prey." The guards stiffened. Then¡ª "Your city has been noticed by my king." Not a threat. Not a demand. A statement. And somehow¡ªthat was worse. Blackridge had spent centuries believing itself untouchable. Runes carved into its walls, steel gates sealed tight. But now¡ªthe king of the dead had sent a messenger. Delivering proof. Proof that their warriors¡ª**their best¡ª**had been butchered. And that they weren¡¯t finished. The guards didn¡¯t know what to do. Not fight. Not run. Not speak. They had spent their lives hunting monsters. But this? This wasn¡¯t a monster. This was something else. Something thinking. Something watching. And then¡ª He smiled. Not wide. Not exaggerated. Just the barest curl of his lips. "His Majesty Gufran has spoken." Then¡ª He turned. And walked away. Back into the mist. Back into the night. Not in fear. Not in haste. Because he knew they wouldn¡¯t follow. Because they couldn¡¯t. --- The severed head of Captain Reynard sat on the war table. No one spoke. No one breathed. The council members of Blackridge¡ªthe most powerful men in the stronghold¡ªstared at it, their faces pale. Not in grief. Not in anger. In fear. Voss stood apart from them, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Watching. Because now¡ª Now, they understood. "This¡­" One of the councilmen finally whispered, his voice shaking. "This cannot be allowed to stand." Another swallowed hard. "We¡­ we underestimated him." At this point, they all knew. This was not the work of a mindless horde. This was not random brutality. This was a declaration of war. And Gufran had just made his first move. --- The council erupted into heated debate. "We must retaliate¡ª" "Against what?" another snapped. "An army of corpses?" "They aren¡¯t just corpses anymore." Voss remained silent. Listening. Calculating. He could feel it in the air. They were scared. For the first time in Blackridge¡¯s history, they weren¡¯t the ones hunting. They were the ones being hunted. And if they didn¡¯t act soon¡ª They would be next. Finally, Lord Regent Rhygar slammed his fist onto the table. "This city will not kneel to the dead." His voice was steady, but even he couldn¡¯t mask the tension beneath it. "We will burn that fortress to the ground." Murmurs of agreement. A battle plan forming. But Voss¡­ Voss knew it wouldn¡¯t be that simple. This wasn¡¯t a monster to be slain. This was a war. And wars weren¡¯t won by brute force alone. --- As the meeting adjourned, Voss lingered. His hands rested on the war table, his fingers trailing over the blood-stained map of the frontier. This wasn¡¯t over. It had only just begun. And Gufran¡­ Gufran was watching. Waiting. Because he knew¡ª They would come. And when they did¡ª He would be ready. Chapter 17: The Hidden Ones (Lahiba¡¯s Perspective) The gates of Blackridge rose like monoliths against the dying light, forged from iron so black it seemed to drink in the last remnants of the sun. Magic wove through its steel lattice, humming beneath the surface, a silent promise that nothing¡ªnothing dead¡ªwould breach these walls. Inside, the city stood as the final bastion of order, a place where fear was as tangible as stone, where survival was built on discipline, war, and the unwavering certainty that beyond these walls lay only ruin. To the weary, the desperate, the damned¡ªthose huddled in the line stretching back into the wasteland¡ªthese gates were salvation. The guards, clad in armor that gleamed despite the dusk, were the last line between life and the unrelenting horrors outside. But Lahiba knew better. She had always known. Because she could feel it. Not the presence of the guards. Not the cold weight of their steel-tipped gazes scanning the crowd. No¡ªsomething else. Something watching from beyond sight, beyond understanding. A tension in the air. A shift too subtle for the untrained to perceive. It was there. Not just watching. Waiting. She lowered her head beneath the tattered hood of her cloak, her movements precise, calculated. A slow breath. A careful step. Just another face among the weary masses, another nameless traveler seeking sanctuary. That¡¯s what she wanted them to believe. But then¡ªthere. A flicker in the periphery of her senses. A presence. Not seen. Not heard. But felt. The weight of an unseen gaze pressed against her like an unspoken question. Not a passing glance. Not a momentary curiosity. No¡ªthis was something deeper. A recognition. A knowing. Her fingers curled beneath the fabric of her cloak, brushing against the hilt of the blade hidden at her waist. Every instinct screamed at her to run. To disappear before it was too late. But she didn¡¯t. Because running meant death. So she walked. One step. Then another. Not too fast. Not too slow. Measured. Controlled. And as the great gates of Blackridge yawned open before her, swallowing her in their shadow, she crossed the threshold¡ªinto the city, into its secrets, into whatever unseen force had just marked her as its own. --- Lahiba didn¡¯t look back. But she felt it. A presence. Silent. Unrelenting. Moving through the crowd like a ripple in still water, unseen yet undeniable. There were no footsteps, no shifting of fabric, no breath against the cold night air. It was there, and yet it wasn¡¯t. Whoever¡ªwhatever¡ªwas following her, it wasn¡¯t human. Not in any way that mattered. She had heard the whispers before, spoken in hushed, fearful tones. The unseen hands of Blackridge. The hidden ones who moved before the guards could. The ghosts that walked among the living. And she knew what they hunted. Witches. The word pulsed in her mind like a heartbeat. Witches. The damned. The forsaken. The ones the city would never allow to exist. Lahiba exhaled slowly, her breath barely visible in the cold air, but inside, her pulse pounded like war drums in her ears. Control. She had to control it. The magic beneath her skin. The fire in her blood. If they sensed it¡ªif they even suspected¡ªshe would never leave Blackridge alive.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. And yet¡­ They weren¡¯t stopping her. Not yet. That was the part that unsettled her the most. --- Lahiba found refuge in the lower districts of Blackridge, where the desperate travellers found refuge. The inn she chose was more ruin than refuge, its walls sagging under the weight of too many stories left untold. The air inside was thick¡ªdamp with sweat, laced with quiet desperation. Faces blurred together in the dim candlelight, worn by travel, by hunger, by fear. No one asked questions here. No one looked twice. That¡¯s why she had chosen it. She kept to the shadows, speaking only when necessary. She did not ask about the city. She did not linger where eyes could follow. She became just another nameless traveler. And for a time, it worked. Days bled into nights. She listened, watched, waited. Then, the whispers began. They drifted through the inn like smoke, curling into conversations at the edges of firelight, spoken in voices too afraid to rise above a murmur. The King of the Dead. Lahiba froze the first time she heard the name. A name she had buried in Kasian. A name she had tried¡ªneeded¡ªto forget. But Blackridge. They spoke in reverence, in fear, of something more than the dead that roamed beyond the gates. A monster that was different. A creature that did not simply hunger¡ªbut commanded. A mind behind the madness. A will beneath the ruin. They spoke of Gufran. Her Gufran. Lahiba¡¯s fingers curled around the edge of the table in her rented room, the rough wood biting into her palms. Before her, a candle flickered in the still air, its light dancing against the walls, fragile, uncertain. Could it really be him? She had seen him fall. Seen the sickness take hold. She had run because there had been nothing left to save. Had she been wrong? And if she had¡­ What did that mean? A slow exhale. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temple. She needed time. Needed to think. And then¡ª A knock. Soft. Light. Lahiba¡¯s breath stilled. Her body tensed. She was no longer alone. --- Lahiba barely had time to move. The moment the door cracked open¡ªit came inside. Shadow shifted, fluid and seamless, slipping through the narrow gap as if it had always been there, waiting. The room, once hers, no longer belonged to her. A hand clamped over her mouth. Firm. Unyielding. The press of skin against her lips was neither rushed nor panicked¡ªit was deliberate and measured. Then, a whisper. Low. Calm. Absolute. "Stay quiet, witch. Or they¡¯ll find us both." Not a threat. Not a plea. A fact. Before she could resist, before she could think, before her magic could rise to the surface¡ª The world turned black. And just like that¡ª She was gone. --- Lahiba woke to darkness. Not the crude, suffocating black of a cell. Not the cold, impersonal void of a prison. Something else. She felt it before she saw it¡ªa presence. The air was thick, pressing against her skin like unseen hands, humming with something unnatural. But it wasn¡¯t the sickness of the dead. Not the rotting, broken magic that clung to the outside world like decay. This was different. This was alive. A flicker of light. Slow. Deliberate. A lantern¡¯s glow, pushing back the dark just enough to reveal the shape of the room. And the figures standing within it. Women. All of them cloaked, unmoving, their presence as much a part of the chamber as the air she breathed. And at the center of them¡ªher. A woman draped in black silks, effortless in her command, a stillness in her that made the others seem like shadows cast in her wake. She was beautiful in a way that made the room feel colder. Her hair, silver as dying embers. Her eyes, ashen as burned-out stars. And when she looked at Lahiba¡ª Everything else ceased to exist. ¡ª She already knew. Lahiba felt it in the silence. In the weight of the woman''s gaze. In the way the others stood motionless, waiting¡ªnot for answers, but for what came next. Then¡ª "You knew him, didn¡¯t you?" Lahiba¡¯s breath caught. A fraction of a second. Just long enough. The woman¡¯s lips curved¡ªjust slightly. Not a smile. Something sharper. "Gufran." The name struck like a blade. She knows. She knows. She knows. Lahiba¡¯s fingers dug into the stone beneath her, grounding herself in something real. Something solid. "Who are you?" Her voice was hoarse, but steady. The woman tilted her head, as if the question amused her. "A survivor." Lahiba swallowed. "You¡¯re a witch." A slow, deliberate nod. "And so are you." The others still didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t whisper. They simply watched. Waiting. Lahiba forced herself to breathe. "What do you want from me?" The woman¡¯s smile widened¡ªjust a little. "Nothing." A pause. "Yet." She leaned in, studying Lahiba with the careful patience of someone weighing a blade, testing its edge. "You ran from him." Lahiba flinched. "You left him behind." Her fists clenched. "And now, you are here. And he is out there." Lahiba said nothing. Because what could she say? She had left him to die. But he hadn¡¯t. And now¡ªhe was something else. The woman¡¯s voice was smooth. Too smooth. "So tell me, Lahiba." A pause. A silence so heavy it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath. "What will you do when he comes for this city?" Lahiba didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t breathe. Because she knew the answer before the woman even spoke it. "Because make no mistake¡ªhe will." And deep inside, beneath the fear, beneath the doubt, beneath everything she had told herself to survive¡ª Lahiba knew she was right. Gufran was coming. And she had to decide which side she was on.