The mansion of Lord Gareth windmere stood as the heart of Willowfield—a grand structure of stone and timber with towering spires that overlooked the town. Surrounded by a vast lawn that spanned acres, the journey from the main residence to the mansion's gates took five to ten minutes on horseback.
"Everyone, evacuate to the mansion lawn! This is no drill!" soldiers can be heard screaming on the streets. While families hurriedly gathered in the open expanse of the lawn. The mansion, a symbol of safety and authority, now bore the weight of the town's survival.
The city was in chaos. Streets once alive with merchants and laughter were now filled with panicked civilians packing their belongings, their faces etched with fear. Soldiers in the city armoury strapped on their armour and checked their weapons with grim determination. Crates of arrows and swords were hauled to makeshift barricades. Parents soothed crying children, while others directed their families toward the mansion lawn, the safest place left in Willowfield.
Standing on the balcony of his mansion, Gareth's voice boomed across the city through an enchanted broadcasting device. His words, heavy with emotion, echoed through the streets.
"Citizens of Willowfield! The hour is upon us. An enemy that seeks our ruin marches on our home. I cannot protect everyone alone—I will not lie to you. But together, we stand a chance! Those who know how to wield a bow, a sword, or even their bare fists, I ask you: come to the armoury. Fight not for me, but for your loved ones. For your families. For the memories we share in this place, we call home. Stand with me, not as subjects, but as a united people who will not go quietly into the dark!"
The speech hung in the air, heavy with determination and fear. Men and women hesitated, then began moving toward the armoury, resolve blooming where despair had taken root. Leaving their children and elders to continue march towards the lawn.
With the shelter being sealed, the only space Gareth thought that could work as shelter was his mansion's lawn and with no communication channel available to ask the empire or nearby towns for help he needed to ask help from the citizens themselves.
Reibar stood near the steps of the mansion, Gareth's words stirring something deep within him. The memories of his fallen friends flooded his mind—Milio's laughter, Eric's playful jabs. Willowfield was not just a place to him; it was a graveyard of dreams, a keeper of the bonds he had forged. To abandon it would be to abandon them.
His resolve hardening. "Eric would ask me if I fought to protect his father," he thought, "and I wouldn't have an answer if I ran now." He looked toward the armoury, his heart pounding with both fear and determination. No. This is my home, too. I won't let it fall.
As he stepped forward to join the ranks of volunteers gathering weapons, the chaos around him seemed to blur. Reibar had made his choice. Whatever happened, he would stand with Willowfield until the bitter end.
In no time, once cheerful streets were all empty. The city doesn't have some outer walls to fend off the undead army as any large city would have.
Gareth was a wise strategist, he made soldiers in groups holding bows stationed on the roofs of buildings. Each group consisted of 4 bowmen each with a sword and on some of the buildings a mage was also stationed. 50 of the roofs of the houses were covered this way. Knowing the sluggish approach of 'zombies', and upon seeing how milio had died, he had instructed men to aim for their heads as from that incident, he had deduced it was the quickest way to kill them.
2 hours passed since the war horn had blown and due to the many mock drills since the ogre attack the citizens had evacuated completely fine in the given time. Soldiers stationed at the roofs holding their bows.
The first wave of undead reached the outskirts of Willowfield just as the sun crept higher into the sky, casting an eerie light over the shambling horde. Zombies staggered forward, their decaying forms moving with a grotesque, unrelenting purpose.
The first volley of arrows rained down in synchronized arcs, their sharp tips finding their marks. Rotten skulls split and collapsed as the undead fell, their bodies piling.
"They're too slow to reach us!" one archer called out, nocking another arrow.
The zombies flailed helplessly, clawing at the walls and doors but unable to climb. The defenders had the advantage of height and agility, and with every arrow loosed, another undead abomination fell. Soldiers on the ground worked tirelessly to drive stragglers back into the main horde. It seemed, for a brief moment, that Willowfield could withstand the assault.
But then, the tide began to turn.
As the zombies' bodies piled at the base of the buildings, the grotesque mound of corpses grew higher. Slowly, the undead began using their fallen brethren as grotesque stepping stones, clawing their way upward. At first, it seemed like a mistake—one or two clambering only to fall back down. But soon, more and more began to ascend, their weight shifting the piles of corpses into makeshift ramps.
"They're climbing!" a voice rang out, panic lacing the cry.
Arrows continued to rain down, but for every zombie that fell, another replaced it, clawing its way higher. A group of archers atop a two-story house unleashed a desperate volley, thinning the wave below them, but it wasn't enough. The first zombie crested the roofline, its decayed hands grabbing a young archer and dragging him into its maw. The others screamed, some drawing short blades while others tried to shoot at point-blank range, but the undead overwhelmed them, their numbers pouring over the roof like a macabre flood.
Another rooftop fell, then another. The defenders, witnessing the collapse, shouted warnings, but the chaos drowned their cries. One by one, the groups of archers were overrun, their vantage points no longer safe.
It was not over yet. The mages stationed at strategic points across Willowfield had been silently preparing their spells, gathering energy as the battle unfolded. Now, with the undead beginning to overwhelm the rooftops, they unleashed their full power.
Blazing fireballs erupted from the hands of robed figures, their incandescent glow streaking through the air like miniature suns before exploding among the zombie horde. Entire clusters of the undead were incinerated in an instant, their grotesque forms reduced to ash and charred remains. Thunderous bolts of lightning crackled down from the sky, summoned by skilled elementalists. The ground trembled as arcs of energy surged through the dense clusters of zombies, charring them where they stood and leaving smoking, twitching husks in their wake.
The tide began to turn once more, this time in favour of the defenders. The relentless onslaught of magic devastated the undead ranks, their numbers thinned in great swathes as spell after spell rained down upon them. Human cheers rang out from the rooftops as the mages provided a much-needed reprieve.
"Keep it up!" Gareth's voice echoed across the battlefield, carried by magical amplification. "Hold your ground! We can end this!"
The defenders redoubled their efforts, the renewed hope reinvigorating their resolve. Archers resumed their deadly volleys, their arrows now more effective with the thinned numbers.
The once-overwhelming horde began to falter, their ranks decimated by the combined might of human strategy and magic. For the first time since the undead had reached Willowfield, it seemed victory was within reach. The defenders' spirits soared as more and more of the undead fell, their grotesque advance losing its relentless momentum.
It was looking like it might be over soon. The fireballs continued to roar, the lightning bolts crackled with unrelenting fury, and the archers and soldiers worked as one. But even as the defenders felt the edge of triumph, an uneasy tension lingered in the air. Victory was close—but the battle wasn't done yet.
Every archer and soldier on the battlefield was beginning to think that victory was near but... But Gareth's calculations had overlooked one fatal mistake—a mistake that would soon turn triumph into despair.