I Got Reincarnated as a Zombie Girl-Chapter 150 – Stage of the False Heroes

The forest bordering the western valley was silent, though traces of battle still marred the earth. Broken branches, lingering scorch marks from magic blasts, and scattered zombie corpses filled the air with the pungent stench of burnt flesh and rot.

Four figures stood at its center, panting but smiling with satisfaction.

"Weak," muttered the leader a short-haired man with a greatsword strapped to his back. Chest puffed, eyes narrowed at the remnants of the enemy. "If this is what they call a threat, then this world has spent far too long fearing shadows."

"Agreed!" one of the three women exclaimed, wearing a crimson robe adorned with a split sun emblem. "I didn’t even need to use a tier-three spell. They just charged straight at us no tactics at all."

"It felt more like pest control than a real fight," said another woman lazily, her silver hair gleaming as she leaned on a long spear.

The last of the group let out a quiet chuckle. Her eyes shimmered blue as she scanned the battlefield casually, dressed in light combat gear with twin enchanted daggers at her sides.

"If these zombies were the ’scouts of the Demon Queen,’ then that queen must be an overhyped myth."

They were "heroes" a title bestowed by the gods, their faces plastered in temples, their names whispered in prayer. But behind the image, they were mere pawns. Not true saviors, but just another failed iteration in the gods’ grand design. Young people with inflated egos, promised glory as champions never realizing they were the latest in a long line of disposable tools.

"No sign of that ’Zombie Queen,’ huh?" asked the leader, Arven, wiping rotten blood from his blade.

"None," the crimson-robed mage replied. "If she even exists, she’s a coward sending common undead to face us? Pathetic."

But before they could make their way back east, the ground trembled.

Slowly. Deeply. Like the heartbeat of something ancient buried beneath the world.

Birds took flight. Beasts fled. Fog thickened unnaturally. Something... was coming.

"Stay alert," Arven ordered, raising his sword. But his voice lacked the bravado it had earlier.

"This isn’t a regular group," whispered the mage, her eyes narrowing. "This aura... it’s heavier than anything we’ve ever faced."

Footsteps emerged from the mist. One. Two. Three.

A towering figure appeared, and the air grew cold. The fog didn’t part around him it fled. As if his very presence was denied by the world.

A tall zombie, nearly three meters high, clad in ancient black armor inscribed with long-faded magic runes. Half of his body was bare bone and dark sinew laced with faintly glowing necrotic energy. A massive weapon part axe, part spear rested across his back. His crimson eyes burned not with rage... but with tired indifference.

His aura killed magic on contact.

"Wh... what is that?" the spearmistress whispered, voice trembling.

"Rank... Four," the red mage choked out. She was the sharpest among them in evaluating threats and this time, she knew they were in trouble.

"Attack!" Arven shouted.

His three companions immediately sprang into action.

Fire and ice exploded from the red mage’s hands, forming layered spell circles. The spearmistress hurled her weapon crackling with lightning at critical points. The rogue danced between the trees, seeking an opening from behind.

The zombie did not move. Even as magic struck him, he remained still.

Explosion. Wind. Shattered ground.

The three of them attacked in unison.

But as the smoke cleared... reality sank in.

The zombie still stood. Unshaken.

Slowly, he raised one hand And every pending spell died instantly. The spear lodged in his body turned to ash.

In a blur, the massive figure moved faster than his size should allow.

With one swing of his weapon, he sent the spearmistress flying into a tree unconscious.

A single stomp fractured the earth, launching the mage backward as blood spilled from her lips.

The rogue tried to strike from behind but the zombie turned, catching her by the throat mid-air. He didn’t crush her. He simply... stared.

"Too young. Too confident. Too hollow."

Then released her.

Both mage and rogue collapsed. Wounded but alive.

He hadn’t come to kill. He came to instill fear. Because that was his order.

The zombie looked around, then spoke in a deep, resonant voice:

"This land... belongs to the Queen. You are not guests. You are not threats. You are merely... petty intruders."

And with that, he turned and walked back into the fog.

Behind a tree, far from sight, Arven stood frozen. He had fled while his companions fought. His knees trembled. Cold sweat soaked his back.

He had seen it all And dared not act.

He knows we’re weak. And he didn’t kill us... just to show we don’t matter.

So Arven turned and ran, abandoning his fallen comrades. The legend they mocked... was real. And they were not the protagonists of this tale.

Heavy yet steady footsteps echoed down the mountain trail leading to the castle. The towering figure marched calmly, his armor scratched not by enemy attacks, but from charging through brush and stone with disregard.

As he reached the castle’s reconstructed gates, the undead guards bowed not in fear, but in respect. They knew who returned.

He wasn’t their commander, nor a general. But he was one of the First once sealed deep within the Dungeon Tower of Zombie. One of the earliest to attain Rank 4. And now reborn under the Queen’s command.

The gates opened without a sound. His heavy steps echoed through the main hall, where Sylvia sat on a makeshift throne of bone and stone, a steaming teacup in her right hand.

Celes stood beside her, glancing briefly before returning to her notes. She already knew who had arrived there was no need to ask.

The zombie knelt, one knee striking the stone with a metallic clang. He bowed, his massive weapon laid beside him.

"Orders fulfilled," his deep voice boomed like an echo from the dead. "The four so-called ’envoys of the heavens’ have been engaged. Three injured. One fled. None of them know who I am."

Sylvia calmly placed her teacup on a small stone table beside the throne.

"And them?" she asked quietly, her tone as cold as mountain frost.

"Arrogant. Dismissive. Overconfident in their titles. They believed this world was theirs. That I was their final test. They don’t realize... they haven’t even crossed the threshold of what we’ve built."

Sylvia gave a faint nod. Her gaze wasn’t on the zombie but on the vast window behind him, where cracks in the dimensional sky still lingered faintly. Starlight spilled through as if trying to hide the fractures tearing the world apart.

"You frightened them?" she asked.

"As instructed," he replied. "I could have killed them. But... it wasn’t necessary. They’ll spread fear far better than corpses."

Celes smirked.

"One ran?"

"Their leader. The one who ordered the first strike. Also the first to flee."

"Good," Sylvia said as she rose, her gown flowing like mist beneath the moonlight. "Let them return and speak. They’ve written us off as false legends It’s time they understand that nightmares... are real."

She stepped slowly toward the balcony. The night breeze danced through her silver hair beneath the moon’s glow. Below, the valley lay in shadow and silence but in her mind, Sylvia saw the tides of history beginning to shift. Not from temples. Not from the heavens. But from the ground, From below, From bone and death reborn.

She turned briefly toward the elite zombie.

"Name?" she asked suddenly.

"I have none," the zombie replied.

Sylvia paused, then raised her hand, pointing to the dimensional fracture shimmering in the sky.

"From this day forth, you shall be known as Varnak Splitter of the Night. The first to greet dawn not with light... but with silence."

"I will carry out your every command, Queen of the World."

And with that, Varnak rise his massive form returning to the ranks of undead that toiled throughout the night. No celebration. No reward. But from where she stood, Sylvia knew...

The first step was done. What came next... would be the real performance.

Night settled in, and Sylvia returned to her chamber. The tension around her slowly faded.

"Heh... being the villain is kind of fun," she whispered, reclining in her chair.

But a voice called softly from beyond the door.

"You’re back to your roots, I see."

"Huwaa! Celes! You startled me!" Sylvia squeaked.

Celes only shook her head, hiding a small smile.

Sylvia glared at Celes with a pout. "You were waiting outside the door on purpose just to scare me, weren’t you?"

Celes replied in a flat tone, "I just happened to be passing by... and heard someone talking to herself about how ’being a villain is fun.’"

"I wasn’t talking to myself!" Sylvia protested, folding her arms. "It was... a dramatic monologue. Important characters always have monologues."

"Well, as long as you don’t start laughing maniacally while stroking a black cat, I think we’re safe."

Sylvia paused, then pretended to inspect her hand. "Hmm... a black cat, huh. Maybe I should get one."

"Don’t. The only creature you’d successfully tame is a zombie."

They both chuckled softly. The night outside remained quiet, but inside that cold stone room, a small spark of warmth began to take hold.

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦