When the man tried to crawl, the undead stomped on his thigh, shattering bone through flesh.
His howl echoed through the stone chamber.
"PLEASE! PLEASE STOP!" someone begged, dropping to his knees, hands raised.
The undead warrior's response was a calm, mechanical punch to the face—one that turned the man's features into a ruin of blood and broken bone.
The air filled with screams—high, panicked, agonized.
The scent of blood, spilled organs, and burnt flesh thickened until breathing became difficult.
Wilson's men weren't fighting anymore.
They were just trying to survive.
Trying to crawl away.
Trying to hide.
Trying to escape the nightmare.
But there was no escape.
Every punch carried the weight of a hammer.
Every blow ensured a slow, agonizing death rather than a merciful one.
And through the chaos—through the screams, the cracking bones, the begging, the dying—Ross sat comfortably on his throne.
One leg crossed over the other.
Chin resting lazily in his hand.
