"Fuck you, Ross! I don’t know what you did or how you did it—but I killed you once, and I’ll kill you again!" Wilson roared, spit flying from his lips as fury twisted every line of his face.
He pointed his blade at Ross with a trembling hand, not from fear, but from the overwhelming rage burning inside him.
Behind him, his n surged forward, forming a semi-circle around their leader.
A sea of bodies—one hundred twenty-one ard fighters, each wearing a smug, confident expression.
Their boots thudded loudly against the marble floor as they approached, the sound echoing like a war drum.
They weren’t just confident.
They were certain.
One man—even Ross—couldn’t stop them.
Ross, seated lazily on his throne, simply watched them approach.
His fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest, his expression more amused than concerned.
"Is that so?" he murmured, tilting his head as if seeing sothing humorous in Wilson’s bluster.
Then his grin sharpened.
Without rising from his throne, Ross lifted one hand and made a slow, deliberate gesture in the air, as if pulling invisible strings.
The temperature in the vast chamber dropped.
A chilling wind swept through the hall, suddenly snuffing out several torches.
Shadows stretched unnaturally long.
The ground trembled—softly at first, then violently enough that so of Wilson’s n staggered.
"What the hell...?"
A chorus of footsteps echoed... dozens, then hundreds... synchronized, relentless.
From every dark corner of the hall—from behind pillars, above rafters, and even through cracks in the stone—figures began erging.
One mask appeared. Then another. Then ten. Then fifty.
A torrent of masked warriors flooded into view, each wearing an expressionless demon mask, each moving with silent coordination.
Their armor was dark, matte, and cold, their weapons forged with eerie, sinister designs.
They surrounded Ross in a perfect circle, forming a wall of death.
One hundred of them... then even more.
At their forefront stood Brandon, towering and imposing, his demon mask marked with jagged crimson streaks that signified his command.
He rested his massive cleaver-like blade on his shoulder, his posture calm, patient... hungry.
Wilson’s n froze.
Their bravado faltered.
"This... this can’t be real," one of them whispered, stepping back.
Ross finally shifted, leaning comfortably into his throne as though he had settled into a private theater.
"Well," he said with a soft chuckle, "now our numbers are equal."
His eyes glead dangerously.
"Boys," he called out, his voice echoing like a king addressing his army, "make sure they don’t die too quickly."
He paused.
Then added with a cruel, satisfied smile:
"Make them suffer."
Brandon lowered his blade.
Every masked warrior leaned forward in unison.
And then—
The horde surged.
A thunderous battle cry exploded through the hall as Ross’s undead minions rushed forward with terrifying speed.
Wilson’s n barely had ti to lift their weapons before the first clash rang out—tal against tal, bone against flesh, screams mixing with the thunder of combat.
Ross rested his chin on his palm, watching the chaos unfold before him like a private performance crafted for his amusent.
Blood splattered.
n scread.
Bodies flew across the chamber as Brandon carved through the front lines with monstrous strength.
And still Ross watched, calm and entertained, as if he were rely enjoying the opening act of a much longer show.
"No—NOOOOOO! GET AWAY FROM !" one of Wilson’s n shrieked, stumbling backward, his voice cracking under the sheer weight of panic.
His scream was swallowed by dozens more as the demon-masked warriors closed in like a tightening noose.
The gunfire started first—wild, frantic, uncontrolled.
Muzzle flashes lit up the hall as bullets tore through the air, slamming into the undead soldiers.
Dozens of rounds punched into their arms, chests, and skulls.
Holes ripped through their bodies; chunks of flesh and bone were blasted out.
But the undead didn’t even flinch.
It was as if their bodies were made of fog and iron at the sa ti.
Bullets entered—but nothing stopped.
They kept walking, jaws clenched beneath their masks, eyes burning with cold malice.
Abilities followed next.
Fireballs exploded across the chamber, bathing undead warriors in flas.
Electric arcs danced between their bodies.
Wind blades sliced through their torsos.
Ice spikes impaled legs and chests.
A barrage of magic thundered forward so violently that the entire hall shook.
And still... they advanced.
Unhurried.
Unstoppable.
Untouched in spirit even as their bodies tore apart.
Brandon took a blast of fire to the face—an inferno that would have lted steel—and swatted it aside with one hand before continuing forward, his heavy footsteps echoing like a death knell.
"WHY AREN’T THEY FALLING?!" another man scread, voice breaking.
"THEY’RE MONSTERS! MONSTERS!" soone else cried as he emptied his magazine until the gun clicked dry.
But their terror only deepened when the undead finally reached them.
Ross’s soldiers needed no blades. No spears. No guns.
Only their hands.
And those hands were far, far more dangerous.
The first impact was sickening.
A fist smashed into a man’s sternum, caving it inward like brittle wood.
He dropped, choking on blood, eyes bulging from the instant, catastrophic pain.
"AHHHHHHHH! F-FUCK! PLEASE—PLEASE!" the man gurgled before another blow shattered his jaw and sent teeth spraying across the floor.
Nearby, another fighter swung desperately at an undead warrior—only for his fist to be caught mid-air.
The undead tightened its grip.
Crunch.
The man’s wrist snapped backward at an impossible angle.
He scread, only for a knee to drive into his ribs, snapping them one by one.
He collapsed in a sobbing heap.
But they weren’t allowed to die quickly.
Brandon reached a fleeing man, grabbed him by the back of his neck, and slamd him into the ground so hard the marble cracked.
The victim writhed, only for Brandon to slowly, deliberately grind his boot into the man’s spine.
Pop.
A scream so raw it didn’t even sound human tore through the hall.
Another undead soldier grabbed a man by the ankle and dragged him across the floor as he clawed and kicked, leaving bloody streaks behind.
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