Aiden reached the graveyard, his chest heaving as he stumbled to the ground, sweat dripping from his face. His body was on the edge of collapse, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Behind him, he could hear the distant voices of the robbers and the unmistakable crunch of leaves and snapping branches. They were close, too close. He knew he had only a moment before they would be upon him.
He scanned the scene, his gaze settling on the bodies strewn across the ground. The robbers he had ambushed earlier lay there, limbs twisted, eyes staring into nothingness, and blood pooled around them. An idea. Dark, desperate, and morbid, seized his mind.
'It's all I have,' he thought.
His hands shook as he knelt beside the nearest corpse, his fingers brushing against the cold skin. Without fully knowing what he was doing, Aiden clenched his fist, focused his mind, and pressed his hand against the man's chest.
"Wake up!" he hissed, his voice cracking.
Nothing happened. Frustrated, he gritted his teeth, pressing down harder, as if he could force life back into the body by sheer will alone. Panic started to claw at him as he realized he had no idea how to repeat the summoning he'd done before.
'Come on, focus.' he urged himself,
He thought of the fear he'd felt in the lab, the rage that had surged through him, and let it swell within him. He forced all of that energy, all of his dread and anger, into the body beneath his hand, willing it to respond.
"Wake up!" he shouted again, his voice louder this time, filled with desperation.
And then, slowly, the corpse's fingers twitched. Aiden stumbled back, his eyes wide as the man's hand clenched into a fist, the fingers curling as though gripping something unseen. The head turned, the dead eyes now fixed on him, blank but somehow aware.
One by one, he hurried to each corpse, repeating the ritual, his voice hoarse as he commanded each of them.
"Wake up! Get up!" he shouted,
his voice ringing out in the silent graveyard. Each time, the corpses stirred, their lifeless bodies responding to his desperate commands. They moved with eerie, stiff motions, like marionettes on invisible strings, their eyes empty, yet alive with a purpose not their own.
Aiden's heart pounded as he watched the last of them rise, feeling both horrified and exhilarated. He had done it. They were his to command.
But he didn't have time to marvel. He took a step back, feeling his strength drain as he slipped into the shadows, hiding behind the nearest tree. He glanced back, watching his newly risen undead army stagger forward, their gaze locked on the approaching robbers.
He pressed himself against the bark, breathless, his pulse racing as he steadied himself.
Aiden crouched low behind the tree, heart pounding as he watched the five undead rise, weapons clutched in their decaying hands.
Each had taken up their previous tools as makeshift weapons: shovels, a rusted pickaxe, a wooden club, and two with jagged daggers. As they advanced, shambling but determined, their lifeless eyes fixed on the three robbers.
The robbers froze, faces pale with horror. Only the leader, sword steady, managed to keep his composure, his expression twisted in frustration and disgust as he assessed the scene.
"Pull yourselves together!" he barked at his men.
"They're just corpses—aim for the head!"
But the lackeys, clearly unnerved, hesitated. One of them took a fearful step back, muttering under his breath, "This isn't… this isn't possible…"
Before he could react further, the first undead lunged at him, swinging a shovel with brutal force. The lackey raised his arm to block, but the blow struck hard, driving him backward. He barely kept his footing as he staggered, but the undead pressed forward, swinging again with an almost mechanical determination.
Another undead, holding a pickaxe, focused on the second lackey. The man tried to parry, but the undead's strength was relentless. The pickaxe connected with his shoulder, piercing his armor with a sickening crunch. He cried out in pain, staggering back, his grip on his weapon faltering as blood seeped from the wound.
The leader let out an angry curse, eyes darting from one lackey to the other as they struggled. His expression hardened.
"Useless cowards," he muttered under his breath.
Determined, he lunged forward, targeting the undead wielding the club. He sidestepped as it swung the makeshift weapon in a wide arc, then retaliated with a powerful slash to its torso. The blade cut deep, but the undead didn't falter; it turned, swinging again, and the leader had to duck as the club narrowly missed his head.
Before he could regain his footing, another undead, this one with a dagger, slashed at him from behind. The leader twisted, blocking the strike, but the dagger still managed to graze his arm, drawing blood. Gritting his teeth, he swung his sword in a wide arc, forcing the undead back.
One of the lackeys, still battling the undead with the shovel, let out a strangled yell as the undead's weapon connected with his chest, driving him to the ground. The shovel came down again, this time striking his face with bone-crushing force. Blood spattered across the ground as the lackey's body fell limp.
The other lackey, already weakened, tried to fend off the undead with the pickaxe. He swung his sword wildly, fear clouding his movements. But the undead closed in, raising the pickaxe high before bringing it down on the man's skull with a sickening crunch. The lackey's body crumpled, lifeless, leaving only the leader to face the undead alone.
The leader's eyes flashed with anger as he took in the scene.
"Pathetic fools," he spat, gripping his sword tightly.
"Fine. I'll handle this myself."
The five undead turned their hollow eyes on him, shuffling forward in eerie unison. The leader positioned himself, his muscles tense as he prepared for the assault.
The first undead, armed with a broken dagger, lunged forward, slashing wildly. The leader sidestepped, catching the undead's arm and twisting it sharply, snapping the bone with a crack. But the undead didn't react to the pain; it swung its other arm, clawing at him with bony fingers.
He ducked, then drove his sword into its chest, forcing it back. With a grunt, he yanked the blade free, taking a step back to assess his next move.
Another undead, this one holding a shovel, approached from the side. The leader barely had time to raise his sword before the shovel came crashing down, the impact rattling through his bones. He managed to deflect the blow, but the force drove him backward, his balance faltering.
Two more undead, one with a club and another with a jagged pickaxe, joined the assault, closing in from either side. The leader swung his sword in a desperate arc, striking the undead with the club across the chest.
The blow forced it back momentarily, but the pickaxe-wielding undead took advantage, swinging its weapon toward the leader's head.
The leader ducked, the pickaxe barely missing him. He retaliated with a powerful upward slash, severing the arm holding the pickaxe.
The limb fell to the ground, It swung its remaining arm, claws reaching for him, and the leader gritted his teeth as he parried the attack.
Sweat dripped down his face, his breathing growing heavier as the battle wore on. His muscles ached, fatigue setting in as he struggled to fend off the relentless onslaught.
'They're stronger than they look', he realized,
frustration gnawing at him. His breathing grew heavier as he realized the full scale of the challenge before him, five relentless foes, and he was their only target.
With a snarl, he focused on the undead with the shovel. He sidestepped its attack, then brought his sword down on its neck in a brutal swing. The blade bit deep, severing the head from its body. The undead collapsed, finally motionless.
But his victory was short-lived. Another undead, this one wielding a club, closed in, swinging the weapon with brutal force. The leader raised his sword just in time, deflecting the blow, but the impact jarred his arm, pain flaring through his wrist. He felt something snap, a sharp, blinding ache spreading through his hand. His grip on the sword weakened, his injured wrist now almost useless.
"Damn it," he hissed through clenched teeth, his expression twisting with pain and frustration.
"These things… they're taking me apart piece by piece"
Another undead approached, brandishing a jagged dagger, and he barely managed to block the strike with his good arm. But the blow forced him back, and he stumbled, his injured wrist throbbing as he struggled to maintain his stance.
With a roar, he swung his sword in a wide arc, catching the dagger-wielding undead across the side of the head. The blade cleaved through its skull, and the undead crumpled to the ground, defeated.
He stood there, panting, his body screaming in protest, his vision blurring at the edges. His left wrist throbbed with pain, and blood trickled from cuts on his arms and face. But he still stood, his gaze fixed on the three remaining undead, each one advancing with the same cold, unrelenting determination.
Cursing his bad luck and the incompetence of his fallen men, the leader raised his sword with his good arm, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He could feel his strength waning, his energy draining with every passing second. But he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
The three undead lurched forward, their weapons raised, and the leader braced himself, determination flashing in his eyes as he prepared for the next assault.