The First Wave

The undead army was finally upon them, which unnerved most of those that were there to defend Fantom City. As the humans readied themselves for what was to come, without any signal, the undead army charged at them.

The footmen responded to this act by charging at the undead as well.

"No don’t charge yet!" someone shouted, but none of the footmen could hear it.

Fear and the desperate resolve to protect their homes, their children, and their loved ones had drowned out reason. Many of them were not soldiers. They were farmers who had spent their lives behind plows instead of shields. Some were merchants whose hands were more familiar with coins than swords. Others were blacksmiths, carpenters, hunters, fishermen, stable workers, and ordinary townsfolk who had volunteered because there was no one else left to stand between the enemy and Fantom City.

They charged with whatever they possessed.

Rusty spears.

Woodcutting axes.

Pitchforks.

Kitchen knives tied to wooden poles.

Old hunting bows.

Broken shields inherited from fathers who had once served in the army.

Some couldn’t even afford proper armor, wearing nothing more than thick leather jackets or patched clothing reinforced with scraps of metal.

Their battle cry echoed across the plain.

It was loud.

It was fearless.

It was also tragic.

The skeletal warriors never broke formation.

Their empty eye sockets glowed with eerie green flames as they marched in disciplined ranks. Shield met shield. Spears remained perfectly aligned. Their movements carried neither fear nor hesitation, only absolute obedience.

The distance between both armies disappeared in seconds.

Steel crashed against bone.

The battlefield exploded into chaos.

A farmer thrust his pitchfork into a skeleton’s ribs. The force knocked the creature back a step, but it felt no pain. Before the man could pull his weapon free, another skeletal warrior swung its sword.

Blood sprayed across the dirt.

The farmer collapsed without even understanding what had happened.

Nearby, an elderly blacksmith roared as he swung his heavy forging hammer, crushing a skeleton’s skull into fragments. He barely had time to breathe before three more undead surrounded him from different directions.

One blade pierced his shoulder.

Another opened his stomach.

The third ended his struggle.

A young hunter fired arrows as fast as his trembling fingers allowed. Every shot shattered a skull or pinned an undead to the ground, but for every skeleton he destroyed, two more stepped over the remains.

His quiver emptied.

He reached for another arrow.

There wasn’t one.

Moments later, skeletal spears pierced his chest.

The line continued to crumble.

Unlike the defenders, the undead did not tire.

They did not fear injury.

Broken arms were ignored.

Missing legs only slowed them slightly as they crawled toward the living with horrifying determination.

Meanwhile, the defenders felt every wound.

Every cut weakened their grip.

Every scream shook the courage of those nearby.

"Hold the line!"

"Don’t let them through!"

"Protect the city!"

The desperate cries were swallowed by the deafening clash of weapons.

One merchant, gripping a sword for the first time in his life, stood over his injured younger brother.

"I won’t let you touch him!"

He blocked one strike.

Then another.

His arms trembled violently from the impact.

The third strike shattered his borrowed shield.

The fourth cut him down.

His younger brother screamed as skeletal warriors marched over both bodies without slowing.

Elsewhere, a mother who had disguised herself as a soldier fought with nothing but a woodcutting axe.

Every swing carried the determination of someone protecting her children waiting behind the city walls.

She managed to split apart two skeletons before a spear pierced her side.

Still, she refused to fall.

She dragged the spear out with shaking hands and swung again, collapsing only after taking down another undead beside her.

Her sacrifice bought only seconds.

The battlefield was merciless.

When the two sides clashed, it was obvious that the more well- equipped skeletal warriors had the upper hand. Not only were they better equipped but they also had superior numbers. The enemy forces used one of humanity’s greatest tactics in the age of chaos, the human wave attack.

Ranks of undead continued advancing without pause.

Whenever one skeleton fell, three more stepped over its remains.

The defenders slowly found themselves surrounded.

Those in the front couldn’t retreat.

Those behind continued pushing forward, believing they could reinforce the line.

Instead, they trapped their own comrades.

A soldier tripped over a fallen body.

Before anyone could help him, skeletal swords descended together.

His scream ended almost instantly.

Blood soaked the earth.

The smell of iron filled the cold air.

Broken shields littered the battlefield beside snapped spear shafts and abandoned helmets.

The once-green plain had turned into mud stained crimson.

If that wasn’t bad enough every time one of the footmen dies, the elder necromancer that was leisurely watching at the back would turn the dead footmen into his minions. So every time one footman dies they were turned into enemy forces.

The old necromancer never moved from his position.

His expression remained calm.

One hand rested behind his back while the other slowly traced ancient symbols through the air.

Dark mana gathered like black mist around the fallen.

The cemetery-cold energy seeped into corpses scattered across the battlefield.

One by one...

Bodies twitched.

Hands clawed into the blood-soaked earth.

Eyes opened once more, now burning with pale green light.

The dead stood again.

A father rose before his son’s horrified eyes.

A childhood friend lifted the same spear that had once defended the city.

A veteran who had fallen moments earlier slowly turned toward the people he had sworn to protect.

"No..."

"No... please..."

The horrified cries spread through the defenders.

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Authors Notes: Dear Readers, Thanks so much for joining me on this adventure! Your enthusiasm, feedback, and encouragement really keep me motivated to keep bringing *Journey to Become the Zenith* into existence. If you’re loving the Chapters, I’d love it if you supported my book with a Powerstone, review, or even a Golden Ticket—it helps me develop as a writer and lets more readers enjoy the story. I look forward to hearing your ideas and thoughts, so please don’t hesitate to share!

With love,

Scorpio_saturn777

Creator of Journey to Become the Zenith

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