Without warning, he moved.
The iron baton sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, aid straight at the undead’s head. The strike was fast, precise, nothing like the wild swings of the thugs outside.
The undead raised its arm and blocked.
Clang!
tal struck bone-hidden armor, the impact echoing through the room. The floor cracked slightly beneath their feet as both forces collided.
The man’s eyes narrowed.
"So you’re not weak," he muttered.
He stepped in, baton flashing again, striking low, then high, chaining his attacks smoothly. Each blow carried weight and technique. The undead retreated half a step, then countered, fists snapping forward with disciplined precision.
To any observer, it looked like two trained fighters exchanging blows.
The man spun, bringing the baton down in a heavy arc. The undead caught the strike on its forearm, then drove a punch into the man’s ribs. The sound of bone cracking filled the room as the man staggered back, coughing.
"Good," the leader growled, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "Very good."
He rushed forward again, faster this ti, pouring everything into his strikes. The undead t him head-on. Elbow to baton. Palm to chest. Knee to thigh. Each exchange shook the room.
But slowly, the difference beca clear.
The man’s breathing grew heavier. Sweat ran down his face. His movents lost their sharpness.
The undead didn’t slow.
The thug leader, disbelief flashing across his face.
Does this guy feel no pain at all?
He knows exactly where he’s striking. Throat, ribs, joints, every blow is aid at a vital point, places that would cripple or kill an ordinary martial artist. Even when the attacks are blocked, the impact should still hurt. It’s iron against flesh. Bone should crack. Muscles should tear.
Yet the man in front of him doesn’t even flinch.
The undead stands there, silent, unmoving, absorbing the force of each strike like a wall. Its expression never changes. Its breathing never quickens.
The leader tightens his grip on the iron baton, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.
"What the hell are you?" he mutters.
He lunges again, unleashing a rapid series of strikes. The baton whistles through the air, smashing toward the undead’s neck, chest, and knees. Each attack is sharp and practiced, but none of them slow it down.
Clang. Thud. Crack.
The undead blocks, deflects, and counters with chanical precision.
And in his focus, the leader forgets sothing.
He forgets about Aiden.
Aiden stands a few steps behind, eyes calm, breathing steady. He watches the exchange closely, not interfering, not rushing. His mana circulates quietly within him as he waits.
Now... not yet.
The thug leader overextends, swinging the baton in a wide arc, putting all his strength into a single decisive strike. The undead steps back half a pace, deliberately allowing the man to commit fully.
That’s when Aiden’s eyes sharpen.
There.
His fingers curl slightly, mana surging through his arm like cold water rushing through veins. The air around his hand distorts faintly, almost imperceptible.
Aiden raises his hand.
A sharp, pale glow condenses in front of his palm as bones form from nothing, knitting together in an instant. A long, jagged spear takes shape, white, polished, and razor-sharp, humming with deathly mana.
The Bone Spear is born.
Before the thug leader can react, before he can even sense the danger, the spear shoots forward with a piercing scream.
It tears through the space between them.
The man’s eyes widen as the spear punches straight through his chest, shattering bone and flesh alike. Blood sprays across the room as the force lifts him off his feet and slams him into the wall behind.
The iron baton clatters to the floor.
The leader twitches once, then goes still.
The Bone Spear dissolves into pale dust, scattering in the air as if it was never there.
Aiden lowers his hand slowly.
For a mont, the room is silent except for the faint drip of blood onto the wooden floor.
He exhales softly. "That timing was perfect."
Aiden walks closer to the leader’s corpse, his footsteps slow and asured.
The man lies slumped against the wall, eyes wide open, blood soaking into the wooden floor beneath him. Even in death, there is still a trace of defiance on his face. A martial artist to the end.
Aiden looks down at him and murmurs, "Now... let’s see if I can raise you as my undead."
He kneels and places one hand over the man’s chest. Cold mana flows out from his palm, spreading like frost across the corpse. The air in the room grows heavy, the temperature dropping just enough to raise goosebumps.
He kneels and places one hand on the floating dark orb. Cold mana flows out from his palm, spreading like frost across the corpse. The air in the room grows heavy, the temperature dropping just enough to raise goosebumps.
First attempt.
Dark symbols flicker briefly above the body, then shatter like broken glass. The corpse remains still.
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