The smoke hadn't cleared.
Aden pushed himself up from the cracked ground, coughing out dust as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His armor was dented at the ribs, the edge of his shoulder pauldron snapped clean off. Around him, the ruined eastern cliff of the battlefield stank of burning flesh and sour mana.
He'd been blasted straight into the Lich's ritual pit—a grotesque bowl carved into the land, where bones jutted like jagged spires and sigils pulsed with cold, green light.
The roar of battle thundered above. He could hear them—his soldiers—screaming, fighting, dying.
He clenched his jaw and rose to his feet, the ringing in his ears slowly giving way to something worse: silence. A terrible, momentary stillness that came before pain.
"Egmund," Aden muttered under his breath, his vision still swimming. "Status."
Egmund's voice didn't come right away. When it did, it was quieter than usual. "You're missing about six ribs and might be pissing blood soon, but hey—you're not dead."
Aden wiped his mouth with his wrist, blood smearing across his gauntlet. He looked up the ridge toward the ridge line. "The commanders?"
"Still holding, barely. But the center line's breaking. They're getting pushed into the kill zone." Egmund's voice darkened. "Liches are using necrotic spreaders now. It's not just death—it's conversion."
That was when Aden saw it. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the battlefield—and the horror it had become.
His army was splintered. Duran, his lead blade-captain, fought with a shattered sword and a torn eye socket, shielding a cluster of wounded mages. Warda, the beast-tamer, was locked in battle with a three-headed construct stitched from fallen soldiers and wolves. The lines had collapsed. Commanders were being torn apart.
And then it got worse.
The dead began to rise.
One by one. Not their enemies—his own men.
Dozens of corpses across the blood-drenched soil jerked unnaturally, lifted by invisible strings. The black fog slithered into their nostrils, mouths, eye sockets.
Aden watched them rise—men he had marched beside. Drilled with. Bled with.
Their armor still bore his insignia. Their swords still hung at their sides.
Only now, they were hollow puppets—animated by necromantic cruelty.
Gasps rang out across the ranks. Even hardened veterans began to falter.
"No..." Aden whispered. His fingers curled at his side.
"Boss..." Egmund's voice was cautious now.
The frontline reeled. Shock spread like wildfire as soldiers hesitated, torn between defending themselves or recognizing the faces of the undead coming toward them.
"You knew this was coming," Egmund said quietly, inside his mind. "The novel said this happened. But knowing and seeing are different things."
Aden didn't answer.
One of the risen dead lunged toward a young scout named Reiss. He couldn't raise his spear. Couldn't stab what was once his tentmate.
The creature lunged, mouth open, teeth black.
Aden moved.
He burst from the ridge with a blast of force, a crimson line trailing his boots from the Wind God's Step. Flames lit across his blade as he roared, "Get back!"
His sword sliced through the revenant in one stroke, the head tumbling off like an apple from a tree. He followed it with three more slashes, carving through the puppets in a flurry of steel and fire.
Behind him, soldiers regained their senses and screamed—rage replacing sorrow.
"Burn them!"
"No mercy!"
Flame mages cast fireballs into the ranks of the dead, even as they sobbed.
Aden landed beside Duran, lifting the man by his collar as a blast of bone shards exploded nearby.
"Can you still fight?" Aden asked.
Duran gritted his teeth, blood leaking from a cracked cheek. "Until the bastards rip my spine out."
Aden gave him a nod, then turned, eyes locked on the ritual hill in the distance.
The liches hadn't even sent their strongest yet. This was a warning. An insult.
"We're losing them," he said to Egmund, breathing hard. "This is beyond what I can fix with swords."
"I know." Egmund was quiet for a second. Then he added, "You want to protect them, don't you?"
Aden nodded grimly.
"You mean it?"
He didn't hesitate. "I'll do anything."
That stopped Egmund cold.
Aden raised his hand and let the flames on his blade burn higher, forcing the dead back from the front line. He could barely stand now—his limbs shaking, mana reservoirs draining dry.
But his soldiers needed him.
"Egmund," he whispered again. "There's got to be something."
For a moment, silence.
Then Egmund's voice returned. Low. Calm. Dangerous.
"There is one thing. But it's not free."
Aden stood in the middle of the burning battlefield, smoke curling from his shoulders, the weight of the army crashing on him like the sky itself.
He closed his eyes.
"I'll pay it."