The minuscule band of brigands, inspired by their courageous leader, rushed toward their foes. Each of the fifteen held a crude, poorly made but sturdy weapon that had tasted the blood of many. They collectively advanced and began engaging in rudimentary battle against these nightmarish creatures, focusing their efforts to avoid what they collectively designated as zombies.
Not only did the majority believe the zombies to be tougher opponents, but their grotesque appearances, despite their best efforts to ignore them, gnawed at their psyches. As a result, their primary focus was on the slightly more comprehensible skeletons instead. The skeletons outnumbered them, but their movements were stiff and unnatural, giving the outlaws a tactical edge.
The fastest of the bandits lured the zombies away, using his speed to keep a safe distance, while one of their few archers pelted the shambling corpses with arrows. Meanwhile, the others worked together, aiming to eliminate the skeletons before turning their attention back to the zombies.
At first, their strategy seemed to work. With the zombies temporarily out of the fray, they could focus on damaging their enemies. Some wielded bastard swords, slicing and swiping, while others used spears to thrust and stab. However, the results were far from what they hoped. The main issue was the creatures' immense durability. Even when bones shattered or were severed, the skeletal foes did not cease their pursuit. Though the bandits were faster, one mistake often led to severe injury.
One particular bandit wielded a mace, which proved to be the most effective weapon. By smashing and bludgeoning their opponents, they gained some minor respite. "AIM FOR THE HEAD!" the mace-wielding criminal shouted as the first enemy fell completely.
Unfortunately, their stamina had begun to wane. The bandit tasked with distracting the zombies panted hard, feeling as if his lungs were on fire. Though they wished to celebrate their minor victories, the battle was far from over. Four were already injured, and one had fallen unconscious. Ten fighters remained, while only two skeletons had been destroyed.
The skeletal creatures seemed to understand their vulnerability and began protecting their fragile points, counterattacking with the blunt weapons they held. The battle shifted to a game of cat and mouse, with the bandits retreating, launching quick attacks, and then falling back again. This continued until another three were injured and two more were dead. Now, six were wounded, and the rest were exhausted.
"ARGHHH!" A scream echoed from behind. The brave man who had been leading the zombies finally collapsed, his legs giving out as his lungs screamed for relief. The rotting corpses swarmed him like ants to sugar. Nothing could be seen, only the agonizing sounds of his end.
The remaining bandits knew their fate was sealed unless their leader intervened. Thoughts of fleeing crossed their minds as the zombies, having finished their gruesome meal, closed in, hungry for more. Running seemed futile; the harsh wilderness, their injuries, and the countless lurking creatures would spell their doom.
They were criminals and outlaws. Entering a city would mean execution, and living as hermits or joining another bandit camp was an uncertain prospect at best. Besides, exhaustion and the encroaching horrors made escape impossible.
True terror gripped them as they witnessed the abominations draw near. One bandit broke and tried to run. His stamina was depleted, and the horrors closed in. There was no escape.
The others reacted in various ways. Some screamed and attempted to flee; others resolved to take as many foes as they could to the grave. Some stood frozen or fell to their knees in despair. A few simply gave up, crying for their mothers or wetting themselves, paralyzed by the nightmare.
Their one hope was their leader, a man they believed untouchable and all-powerful. But this hope proved false. As they beheld the state of their leader, they realized their fate was sealed.
Jarmarth stood, astonished by the monster before him. His blade, still lodged in the creature's arm, rendered his own right limb useless. Despite this, the unreadable expression on his enemy's face remained unchanged. The figure moved forward, unfazed by the injury.
Jarmarth wanted to laugh but lacked the strength. The manic smile on his face gave way to an annoyed grimace. As his opponent approached, he recalled his life. His father, the previous bandit leader, had beaten him mercilessly. His mother had died at his father's hands, trying to escape the hell she was trapped in.
He remembered his father's words when he lay beaten and bloody. "There are only two kinds in this world: cattle and dragons. Be a dragon, for the only thing dragons fear is more powerful dragons." He hadn't realized how deeply he internalized those words.
When it was his father lying dead at his feet, blood coating his axe, he had felt... what? Pride? Vindication? Was this what his father wanted for him? Was this the path of the dragon?
Jarmarth's rage was not directed at his opponent, but at himself. He had failed and was about to die. If he had won, he would have soared through this world like the dragons his father spoke of. Now...
He didn't feel the pain as the world spun. Though he was frustrated, a small part of him felt content. He hadn't died a beggar, slowly starving, nor a worthless man waiting for time to take him. No, he died a dragon, defeated by something even greater than a dragon. He would take comfort in that.