It was subtle at first—a low, guttural growl echoing from the distant edges of the battlefield, a sound unlike the mindless moans of the undead. Then, shapes emerged from the shadows, larger and more feral than the shambling humans. Their glowing eyes pierced through the smoke and fire, their forms massive and sinewy.
Wolves, bears, and other beasts, their bodies twisted and decayed, lunged forward with unnatural speed. Unlike their human counterparts, these undead creatures retained their feral instincts, moving with a deadly coordination that sent shockwaves of terror through the defenders.
Panic spread like wildfire. Archers shifted their aim, but the beasts were swift and relentless, leaping onto rooftops utilizing the piles of human zombies with ease and tearing through defences. Mages redirected their spells, but the beasts closed the gap too quickly, their sheer numbers and agility overwhelming even the most well-prepared defenders.
"Holy crap! What in the world is this" Gareth uttered. He never thought that these undead would have had such beasts at their disposal.
The beasts and the undead forces were closing towards the mansion, either followed by instincts or some sort of leader who was telling the direction of the force towards the mansion, completely ignoring the arrows and occasionally spawning lightning and fireballs on their heads.
"Gareth Windmere, Let's see how much you keep me entertained this time" Behind the horde a girl with red hair wearing shiny silver armour sitting on an undead rotten Grizzly smirked. Lisanna was standing near her on the ground. "My liege you should not underestimate Gareth" she spoke her voice full of respect. "Don't worry kid, I won't be beaten twice on the same campaign"
But as the undead drew closer, they found themselves faced with an unexpected obstacle. The earth mages of Willowfield, with every ounce of their strength, had constructed a wall—four meters tall and unyielding—that encircled the mansion. It was not a hastily erected barricade of wood or stone but a solid earthen wall, born from the ground itself. Sweat poured down the mages' faces as their hands trembled from exhaustion. Every defender on the ground had pitched in to help reinforce the structure, hauling debris and fortifying weak points. When the wall finally stood complete, the mages collapsed, drained of their mana but with a grim satisfaction that their efforts might buy the city precious time.
The wall wasn't flawless. To funnel the enemy into a controlled area, a narrow passage was left open—just wide enough to allow a trickle of the undead to enter, but not the entire horde. It was there that the defenders made their stand. Soldiers, armed with swords, pikes, and shields, lined the passage in disciplined formation, while Reibar stood among them, his blade at the ready, his resolve unshaken.
As the first of the undead breached the passage, the defenders fought with precision and ferocity. Each zombie that stumbled through was met with a swift end—its head severed, its body impaled, or its form crushed under the weight of shields. Reibar fought with a fury that seemed almost supernatural, cutting down one foe after another with the swordsmanship of Eric and the rogue style of Milio he was dancing with the sword, Even slaying the undead wolves and bears.
"Steady!" Reibar shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "We hold the line! They fall one by one!"
Meanwhile, the mages who still had strength shifted their attention to the clusters of undead gathering outside the wall. Fireballs and bursts of lightning strikes, rained down on the horde, obliterating dozens at a time. The combined assault of magic and steel was effective, creating a grim rhythm to the battle: zombies trickled in through the passage, only to be cut down, while those outside were relentlessly thinned by magical bombardments.
Yet, there was one critical problem to solve—the undead piling up outside the wall. From atop the mansion's roof, the elder mage of Willowfield Eldrin observed the battlefield. His long white beard fluttered in the cold night breeze, and his eyes, filled with both wisdom and weariness, narrowed as he saw the threat forming.
Clad in a cobalt-blue mage's coat, the elder raised his staff high, its tip glowing with a pale blue light. He began to chant in a deep, resonant voice that echoed across the field. The air grew heavy, and a powerful gust of wind began to swirl around the entire wall.
With a final word of command, the spell took hold. A barrier of wind enveloped the wall, roaring to life with unyielding force. The gale was merciless. Any zombie or beast that dared to touch the wall from the outside was immediately hurled back over 100 meters, tumbling like rag dolls across the battlefield. Bodies that might have otherwise piled up to form ramps for the undead were instead scattered far and wide, their efforts rendered futile by the unrelenting winds.
The defenders inside the walls let out a collective cheer at the elder mage's success, their spirits buoyed by the sight of the undead struggling to breach their defences.
"Focus on the fight!" Gareth's voice rang out from the battlements, stern but commanding. "This is Not over yet!"
The elder mage, his face pale and lined with effort, leaned heavily on his staff, but his resolve remained steadfast. He had given the defenders a fighting chance, and he would hold the winds as long as his strength allowed. Eldrin has been serving willowfield since the times of Gareth's father's lordship and he was one of the main reasons they were able to fend off the ogres last time.
Despite their unrelenting numbers, the undead could not surge forward as before. The narrow passage had become their bottleneck, and the combined forces of the soldiers and the spellcasters turned it into a killing ground. The defenders of Willowfield, against all odds, were holding their ground, each strike and spell a defiance against the encroaching darkness.
It was then the girl cladded in shiny silver armour on the grizzly strike its belly with her foot and it started to run towards the city itself. With her, there were 40 of those ogres that had escaped last time, but all of them turned into zombies too. "let's end this childish play of yours, Gareth!"
The ground trembled as the ogres charged toward Willowfield, their massive forms shaking the earth beneath them. They knocked down the remaining rooftops having archers stationed. Making their way unstopped to the last line of defence of willowfield. The wind from the elder mage's final spell had pushed them back momentarily, but it wasn't enough. Again and again, they were shoved away, but the brute force of their massive clubs broke through, splintering the magic's hold. They were unstoppable.
The ogres, along with the twisted undead beasts, were now within reach of the mansion. Their huge bodies smashed through the barricade, and they rampaged toward the soldiers. The air was thick with dust and the sound of destruction. It was not a battle anymore it was a massacre!
Reibar, driven by the instinct to protect, charged forward with a roar, his dual swords flashing in the sunlight. He struck down the first ogre with a single swing, its head rolling across the battlefield.
As he closed in on another ogre, the ground shook violently. The beast's hulking body swung a heavy club at him, knocking Reibar back with brutal force. He stumbled, struggling to regain his footing as the ogre loomed over him, its monstrous grin showing sharp, yellow teeth.
But it wasn't the ogre he had to worry about.
From behind the ogre, a new figure emerged—a red-haired commander, her spear gleaming in the chaos. Without hesitation, she lunged at Reibar. He barely had time to block, his swords clashing against her spear with a harsh ring of metal. They fought fiercely, each blow stronger than the last, but Reibar was growing weary. The weight of the battle, the loss, and the hopelessness were beginning to take their toll. He was no match for the commander herself, even with all his skills, and was knocked down just hearing the last cry of Gareth Windmere before his consciousness left him.
He heard it.
Gareth, his voice low with guilt and sorrow, muttered under his breath as he stepped onto the battlefield. "Sorry, I couldn't fulfil my promise of saving you all." His eyes were grim, filled with regret. His face was marked by the years of leadership and the heavy burden of failure. He fought, not as a lord but as a man who had lost everything.
As the soldiers and defenders held their ground, the undead flooded the battlefield. The once-proud mansion of Willowfield fell. It was no longer a symbol of safety—it was the final stage of a brutal massacre. The ogres crushed through every line of defence, and the undead swarmed, tearing into the helpless civilians hiding on the mansion's lawn. The screams of the elders, women, and children echoed through the chaos. There was no escape. The defenders fought until the very end, but it wasn't enough.
One by one, the people of Willowfield fell. Their last moments were filled with blood, screams, and the realization that their city was lost. Reibar, Gareth, and the remaining soldiers fought until they couldn't lift their weapons any longer. But the end was inevitable.
Willowfield had fallen.