The first scream shattered the night.
It wasn't just one. It was many.
As Arlan and his companions stumbled out of the crypt, gasping for breath, the town of Duskhaven was already dying.
From the treeline, the dead were marching.
Dozens at first. Then hundreds. An army.
Skeletal figures wreathed in unnatural green light dragged themselves from the earth, empty sockets glowing with hunger. Some were little more than animated bones, while others bore the decayed remnants of armor—forgotten warriors, raised once more.
And in their wake, shadows. Dark figures. Things that had no right to exist.
Duskhaven, once a thriving frontier town, was about to become a graveyard.
Arlan's lungs burned as he ran, his mind reeling.
This wasn't happening.
This couldn't be happening.
"GO!" he shouted, forcing his legs forward. The others followed without hesitation.
Tomas kept pace beside him, his sword drawn, expression grim. "We have to warn them!"
Leila swore under her breath. "There's no time—they're already here!"
Mira gritted her teeth, her staff crackling with energy. "We fight, or we die."
Beren growled, his axe already swinging before Arlan could stop him.
Because the first wave of the undead had reached them.
The dead swarmed.
They weren't slow. They weren't mindless. They moved with purpose.
The first skeleton lunged for Tomas. He barely had time to raise his shield before it slammed into him with unnatural force. The impact sent him staggering.
Beren roared, swinging his axe with raw power. The blade crunched through brittle ribs, sending bones scattering across the ground. But another undead stepped forward instantly to take its place.
Leila loosed an arrow—straight through an empty skull. The body collapsed.
Mira raised her staff, unleashing a wave of fire. The flames caught. Skeletons burned, their brittle bodies crumbling.
For a moment—it looked like they could hold.
Then—they came from the sides.
More skeletons burst from the ground, flanking them.
Arlan twisted just in time to see a ghoul lunging for him. It wasn't a mindless skeleton—it was something worse. It moved too fast.
His instincts screamed. He raised a hand—
A bolt of shadow shot from his palm, hitting the creature dead in the chest. It screeched, staggering—but it didn't die.
Then it slammed into him.
Arlan hit the ground hard, pain exploding in his ribs. The ghoul's claws raked his cloak, nearly catching flesh.
And then—Bones attacked.
The skeletal rat launched itself from Arlan's shoulder, growing midair.
This time? A giant skeletal wolf.
The ghoul had no time to react before Bones' massive jaws clamped around its throat. The force of the impact sent the undead creature tumbling.
Bones snarled—a hollow, echoing sound.
Arlan rolled to his feet, chest heaving.
The fight wasn't over.
It was only beginning.
Duskhaven Burns
They weren't the only ones fighting.
As the party raced toward the town, they saw the battle unfolding.
Adventurers were already engaged, weapons flashing in the firelight. The guild had reacted fast—mercenaries, warriors, and mages all fighting to defend their home.
But they were losing.
Duskhaven wasn't a fortress. It wasn't built for war. It was a town of hunters, merchants, and rookie adventurers.
And they were being overrun.
A paladin in silver armor—one of the Holy Order—slammed his warhammer into the ground, unleashing a blast of golden light. Skeletons disintegrated in its wake.
For a second, Arlan thought—maybe they could win.
Then the second wave arrived.
A massive undead monstrosity—easily ten feet tall—stomped into the battlefield.
It wasn't a skeleton.
It was stitched together from many corpses.
It swung its enormous, clawed fist.
The paladin raised his hammer—too slow.
The blow connected.
The man was thrown through a building. The wooden structure collapsed in an explosion of dust and splinters.
Arlan's stomach twisted.
They couldn't win.
Not against this.
The sorcerer had raised more than just soldiers. He had raised weapons.
Mira grabbed his arm. "Arlan! We have to retreat!"
"No," he muttered. "We can't just leave—"
A loud horn blast cut through the air.
The signal for evacuation.
The town was falling.
And there was nothing they could do to stop it.
A Desperate Retreat
"Move! MOVE!" Tomas yelled, grabbing Leila and pulling her back.
Beren hacked through another undead, face twisted in rage.
"We're abandoning them?!" he snarled.
Mira's voice was firm. "If we stay, we die."
She wasn't wrong.
Arlan's hands clenched. He watched the town burning—friends, acquaintances, innocent people fighting for their lives.
People who wouldn't make it.
But if they stayed…
They wouldn't make it either.
The undead behemoth roared.
Arlan turned and ran.
They weren't the only ones.
As the town crumbled, dozens of survivors fled into the woods.
Arlan saw Gareth—the guild clerk—limping, blood running down his face. He was barely keeping up with a wounded adventurer.
Cedric—the noble paladin—stood at the rear, his armor cracked, holding the line with the last of his men.
Then—
The undead sorcerer stepped through the flames.
Arlan's body froze.
The sorcerer lifted a single hand.
The ground split open.
And an ocean of corpses swallowed the remaining defenders.
The last thing Arlan saw before he turned away—
Cedric, disappearing beneath a tide of the dead.