—Clear the battlefield! —John shouted from atop his steed—. Search for survivors and secure the rear! The main army is approaching—we can’t stay here!
The cold afternoon wind lashed at the torn banners. Around him, the field was a nightmare: dismembered bodies, shattered armor, dying horses, and the thick stench of death hanging in the air. The battle had been brutal. Blind. Merciless.
And it was only a warning.
—Lord Commander! News from the north! —yelled a rider, his armor caked with dried blood and mud.
John turned quickly.
—Speak.
—The border cities have fallen. All of them. There was no meaningful resistance. They were wiped out within hours.
The silence that followed was heavier than any war cry. John paled, but did not waver.
—Are they certain it was an undead horde?
—Yes, sir. Nothing was left. No crops, no bodies, no traces of life.
John clenched his fist.
—Estimated numbers?
—Preliminary reports speak of… nearly one hundred thousand. They move like a single shadow.
The commander looked to the horizon. The sun barely pierced the dark clouds, casting a dull red hue over the plains. The sky churned above the north, thick and heavy, as if forewarning of calamity.
—Satcnes…
For generations, Satcnes—the Dark Land—had been viewed as a bottomless pit. A place cut off from the civilized world, covered in constant mist, where death seemed eternal. Each year, undead marches emerged from there—small, always contained. But this time, something had changed.
—This is not a raid —John said—. It’s an invasion.
He looked around. Of the twenty thousand men he’d commanded that morning, barely four thousand remained. And what they’d faced had only been the vanguard.
Another scout arrived at full gallop, panting.
—Lord Commander! We’ve sighted the main undead army! They’re heading toward Valmitor. A day away, maybe less.
John felt the weight of the moment crush his chest.
Valmitor wasn’t just any city. It was the wall between the north and the heart of the Kingdom of Hackal. If it fell, the inner lands would be exposed. Peasants, villagers, nobles—everyone at the mercy of a death that didn’t stop.
—Gather all remaining troops. Wounded who can still hold a weapon. Tracking squads. We leave in one hour —John ordered firmly—. Valmitor must hold.
—And if it doesn’t? —asked one of his officers.
—Then everything else will fall —John replied without hesitation—. Send messengers to the neighboring cities. Evacuate if needed. Prepare. This war has already begun.
The soldier nodded and rode off.
John lifted his gaze to the overcast sky. He thought of the quiet days of his youth. Of what he had already lost. Of what could still be saved.
He mounted decisively and drew his sword, raising it toward the sky.
—To Valmitor! For Hackal and the living!
The army began to regroup. Few, exhausted, bloodied. But still standing. Still with will.
And the northern wind blew stronger. Like a warning.
The ancient city, over three centuries old, was now a desolate landscape. Columns of smoke rose from the rubble of burning houses. Blood formed streams that snaked through the streets. Mutilated bodies lay everywhere. Where harmony once reigned, now hell resided.
Among the remains of a two-story house, covered in dust and ash, lay the body of a boy around sixteen. Slim, with intense red hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, freckles marked across his cheeks, and pale skin. He wore thick, durable clothing, typical of a modest home, though far too clean for such an infernal setting.
The boy opened his eyes with difficulty.
—Where… am I?
He sat up slowly, groaning, bones cracking with the motion.
The house was destroyed—the roof cracked, walls blackened by smoke.
—Ugh… my head…!
A stabbing pain surged through him. He clutched both temples, pressing hard as the world spun around him. It hurt as if something was trying to reposition itself inside his skull. As if his very consciousness were out of place.
—No… this isn’t… this isn’t my body…
He searched for anything that could reflect him. Among the wreckage, he found a shard of mirror. Dirty, cracked—but enough to see.
The reflection showed the face of a boy he didn’t recognize. Red hair. Hazel eyes. Youthful skin, freckles he never had. His hands were thinner, softer. His chest less broad. Even his voice sounded strange in his throat. Foreign.
—Those bastards… they transferred my soul into another body.
Lavitz couldn’t explain how he knew. But he knew. It wasn’t a dream or a hallucination. He had too much self-awareness. Too many memories.
And far too many questions.
He leaned clumsily against the least damaged wall.
—I need to get out of here… this house could collapse any second.
He walked like someone relearning how to use their limbs. The front door was blocked. The windows too. At last, he found a hole in the back wall, just over a meter wide. He crawled through it with effort, scraping his side.
Outside, the air hit him like a slap. The stench of death filled his lungs.
—Okay… I’m out —he whispered, gagging.
But as he looked up, his blood turned cold.
The streets were covered in bodies and blood. Silence reigned, save for the dull sound of wind and the occasional crackle of burning wood. Lavitz staggered to a corner, stomach churning. He vomited uncontrollably.
—What… the hell happened here?
Then he heard footsteps. Slow, dragging.
He pressed against the wall, holding his breath. He peeked carefully.
A knight in armor walked erratically, sword dangling loosely from one hand. His body had no purpose—only motion.
—Is he injured?
The knight stopped. Sniffed the air. Turned his head.
Lavitz saw him clearly now. The rotting face. Hanging flesh. Lifeless eyes.
—Shit…
The undead knight growled and charged at him. Lavitz ran without thinking. His body responded with surprising speed—faster than he remembered in his past life.
Turning a corner, he ran into two more. Instinct drove him into an open house. He slammed the door shut behind him and ran toward the back. The entrance collapsed with a crash.
His heart pounded in his chest. He kept running. He wasn’t thinking anymore—just acting.
He leapt through the back door, tripped, rolled, and kept running. Only when he no longer heard footsteps behind him did he stop. His lungs burned, but his body held.
Then he heard voices.
—This way, hurry!
Five figures ran down the street. Armor, blood-stained weapons, exhausted faces.
They stopped when they saw him. Raised their weapons. Lavitz immediately raised his hands.
—Wait! I’m not a monster! I’m alive!
One of them stepped forward. Around seventeen, refined armor, noble bearing. Sharp eyes.
—He’s not contaminated —he said—. No dried blood, no gray skin, no stench of death. His clothes are dirty, but not shredded. Too clean for a corpse.
—Are you sure, Lord Víctor?
—Look closely. He’s alive.
The weapons lowered—but not the tension.
Víctor locked eyes with Lavitz.
—What’s your name?
—Lavitz —he answered, still panting—. And if you really don’t want to kill me… maybe stop pointing those at me.
Víctor raised an eyebrow. A slight smile appeared.
—You’ve got guts.
He turned to the group.
—Let’s keep moving. We can’t stay still.
Víctor gestured for Lavitz to follow, and he did so without hesitation. He didn’t know where he was or why.
But something in the young man’s tone inspired a strange sense of trust.
And for now, that was all he had.