Kara's chest still burned from hours of fighting, but her mind replayed the start of this nightmare in sharp, unwanted flashes.
A few hours ago, it had been simple—just a few more miles to the Citadel. The last convoy of civilians huddled in reinforced transports, hope within reach. She and her squad had been given the mission to transport them there, no matter the cost.
Then the ambush came.
They hadn't heard it first—they had felt it. The ground trembled beneath a tide of undead, the guttural roar splitting the air as a Rank-three Rook Zombie descended upon them. And with it—dozens upon dozens of Rank-twos, more than fifty, and hundreds of Rank-ones. Too many.
Felix, their captain, made the call without hesitation. He drew the Rook away, dragging the monster into the distance before its fight could annihilate them all. The rest of them—the shield, the blades, the arrows, the fire, the support—were left to choke the tide and protect the civilians.
They had tried, fought their hardest to ensure no zombie got close to the civilians.
They thought it was supposed to be enough.
But it wasn't.
A splinter group of undead had broken through, led by a cunning Rank-two. Kara still remembered the metal scream as its claws tore into the transport. The memory of the first cry from inside clawed at her chest, raw and merciless.
They had failed.
Or so she thought.
From nowhere, the Rank-two's skull had burst apart—splattered against steel—and the swarm shifted. Almost half the horde peeled away at once, as though seized by some unseen predator. Even now, Kara's mind reeled. Saved by what? By who?
Her grip on her red staff trembled, firelight catching the faint traces of blood on her robes. She tried to steady her breathing, to anchor herself as she asked Mary what was going on. But the Custodian's voice over comms still haunted her:
"You will hardly believe me right now. There's no time for explanations. He'll reveal himself any moment, but you must be ready."
He.
Kara's lips tightened. Who in all the burning hells was he?
Before she could unravel the thought, the world split again.
A deafening boom tore through the battlefield, the shockwave rattling her bones. Fire blossomed against the night sky, scattering ash and gore in a violent plume. The frontline faltered, zombies shrieking as the wave tore them apart.
From the curtain of smoke and flame, shapes stumbled—burnt corpses collapsing, ash raining down like black snow.
And then she saw it.
A figure.
Walking out of the explosion with slow, deliberate steps. Silhouetted by flame, untouchable amidst the ruin, the newcomer moved as though the battlefield itself bent to his presence.
Kara's throat went dry. Her heart hammered once, twice, before she forced her staff higher. Whoever this was—friend or foe—he had just tipped the scales.
And every eye, living and undead, turned toward him.
….
The battlefield froze.
Even the mindless horde, driven by nothing but hunger and bloodlust, hesitated as though some ancient instinct clawed at their rotten cores. Silence spilled across the field, drowning the crackle of flames and the wet groans of the dying.
At first, he was only a shadow—a shape against the firelight, framed by drifting ash. The haze made his features indistinct, but the aura that bled from him was undeniable—weighty, suffocating, commanding.
Step by step, he advanced.
His coat—a long, dark thing that clung and flowed with the night wind—lashed against his legs, carrying the impression of something both human and more than human.
Piercing red eyes cut through the smoke, glowing faintly like embers in a storm. They didn't just look; they pierced, dissected, and judged.
In his hands, he carried death with effortless familiarity—two Staccato P pistols, each fitted with silencers and sleek pointers that gleamed when the firelight kissed them. Forward serrations lined the slides, built for touch more than sight.
Low-profile sights crouched along the top, black and purposeful, ready to snap into perfect alignment. Even at rest, they radiated an aura of control—streamlined, balanced, heavy in all the right ways.
On his back, concealed by the flowing coat, two short swords rested in a cross-sheath. Their hilts protruded just enough for a swift draw—a silent promise that steel would sing if lead failed.
The wind shifted. The smoke parted.
And something else happened.
Kara saw it first in the zombies. Their bodies twitched, convulsing as though an invisible weight pressed down on them. A guttural moan rippled through the horde—not hunger, but fear. Even the Rank-twos—creatures of cruelty—hesitated, claws trembling mid-swipe.
The team, battered and bloodied, stared in disbelief, their exhaustion drowned by something colder: awe.
A single man had walked into hell.
And hell itself seemed to hold its breath.