A Journey That Changed The World

The eastern road stretched endlessly before the creaking carriage, its wheels grinding against the frostbitten earth of Verdantia’s borderlands. Inside, Emperor Anatoly Volkvitch sat cloaked in furs, his sharp, predatory eyes glinting with schemes as the Pope, weary and resolute, gazed out at the barren landscape.

According to his new slave, his wretched wives were coming to save him from captivity and landing on the eastern shores of the continent that was protected by a string of fortresses, causing the generals to guess the landing location.

‘Stupidity. I could capture them as playthings, I’ve heard they’re all extremely beautiful,’ he internally chuckled without knowing he’d already lost his wife to his enemy. ‘Anastasia hates dragons to the core, she’ll be able to help me when this war. Afterward, I have to make it up to her for neglecting her all these years.’

As he thought about that, explosions in the distance caught his attention as the carriage came to a stop. Anatoly and the Pope climbed outside only to see utter chaos as black clouds covered the eastern shore.

A faint, eerie moan drifted through the air, barely audible at first, but growing steadily more ominous. The commander’s eyes widened in sudden recognition, his heart pounding as the chilling realization hit him.

He spun toward his soldiers, his voice booming with urgency over the restless wind. ”Men and women of the Alliance! To arms! Form a shieldwall, now! We face the cursed undead, hold fast, and prepare for battle!”

Two minutes later, a horrifying horde emerged from the shadowed shore, a tidal wave of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth. Thousands of zombies staggered forward, their movements jerky yet horrifyingly synchronized, as if driven by a single will.

Tattered rags and armor clung to their decayed forms, and their hollow eyes glowed with a sickly green light. The stench of death rolled ahead of them, a suffocating miasma that made even the hardiest soldiers gag.

Explosions continued to bloom in the distance, perhaps the desperate work of scouts or mages trying to slow the advance, but they did little to stem the tide. Anatoly’s mind raced as he assessed the chaos.

The Alliance army was formidable, but this was no mortal foe, as the dead gave off a horrible aura that was different compared to the Terravian troops. He glanced at the Pope, whose prayers had not faltered, and saw a flicker of defiance in the old man’s eyes.

”Jeremiah,” he growled, ”if your Light God is watching, now’s the time for miracles.”

When the older man heard his words, the Pope’s lips twitched in a faint, grim smile. ”Faith and steel, Emperor. We’ll need both to get through this.”

The shieldwall braced as the first wave of undead crashed against it, splintering spears and testing the resolve of every Novgorodian soul on that cursed shore. Anatoly swung his greatsword in a brutal arc as he decided to help out some of his commanders.

He cleaved through decayed skulls, while the Pope’s prayers grew louder, a beacon of hope amidst the screams. The black clouds loomed ever closer, and with them, the certainty that this was only the beginning.

***

(As Anatoly tried to help a lone foot soldier at the frontline witnessed hell on earth)

The tower shield weighed like a tombstone in Torren’s trembling hands, its scarred iron surface slick with blood and ichor. His arms burned from holding it steady, locked tight with the shields of his comrades in the Alliance’s desperate shieldwall.

‘I should have never answered the call of that damn fortress commander,’ he thought as his arms shook thanks to the force.

Torren didn’t know the eastern shore of Verdantia was a slaughterhouse, the air choked with the reek of rot and the guttural moans of the undead. Through the narrow slit of his helmet, his eyes darted across the frontline, where the cursed horde pressed against them.

The zombies were a mockery of life, their decayed flesh hanging in strips, their jaws snapping with mindless hunger. One lurched forward, its skeletal fingers clawing at his shield, close enough for him to see the maggots writhing in its hollowed cheek.

His heart pounded, but he held firm, boots sinking into the muddy quagmire as the pikemen behind him struck. A sharpened pike thrust past his shoulder, piercing the zombie’s skull with a wet crunch.

The creature’s glowing eyes dimmed, and it collapsed, trampled under the next wave of its kin. ”Hold the line!” his commander roared.

Sweat stung his eyes, but he couldn’t blink, not now. The shieldwall was all that stood between their homeland and the undead. To his left, a comrade grunted as another zombie slammed into the shields, its deadweight testing their resolve.

Pikemen worked grimly, their long weapons skewering the enemies one by one, but the horde seemed endless, a tidal wave of death stretching to the horizon. Then, a new sound cut through the chaos, animalistic screeching sounded out that sent a chill down his spine.

His head snapped to the right just as a pack of feral ghouls erupted from the forest on their flank. Unlike the shambling zombies, these creatures moved with horrifying speed, their elongated limbs and razor-sharp claws tearing through the air.

Their eyes burned with a predatory malice, and their gaping maws dripped with foul saliva. Moments later, the ghouls crashed into the side of the Alliance’s formation like a battering ram, scattering soldiers and splintering the line.

His shield shuddered as a ghoul’s claws raked across it, the screech of metal deafening. A scream tore from his left, a pikeman, caught off guard, was dragged into the mud, his throat ripped open before he could raise his weapon.

”Brace!” Torren bellowed, shoving his shield forward to cover the gap, his muscles screaming in protest.

The ghouls were relentless, leaping over fallen zombies to slash at exposed flesh, their frenzied assault threatening to collapse the entire flank. Following that, it became too much for the frontline, causing it to falter.

He bolted, heart pounding, but a pack of ghouls lunged, tackling him to the ground. Their claws tore through flesh, ripping him apart as darkness consumed him.

***

Anatoly stood shocked when the sudden appearance of the Ghouls washed over his soldiers like a tide of death, making the Pope go pale as he muttered. ‘What sort of hell has that devil opened upon us?”

”Rumors say he’s lovers with the Death Sisters,” a voice from behind echoed out.

He stiffened when hearing it, but replied. ”Hello, oh mother. What brings you out here?”

The grey-haired Catherine Volkovitch appeared with a smile. When the Pope went to look at her, as warned. ”If your eyes land on me, Jeremiah, I’ll blind you.”

Anatoly watched the old man stiffen at his mother’s voice as she continued talking. ”I heard you captured the White Dragon son. What happened while I was away?”

”One of the Dark Gods offered aid for a few hundred slaves,” he confided. ”That price brought the devil himself here. Now, our greatest threat wears a slave collar, and my wife’s extracting every secret he holds.”

He instantly noticed her smile growing, prompting him to question. ”What are you so happy over, Mother?”

”I’m happy that we’ve captured the White Dragon,” she answered before starting to fly while saying her farewells. ”Son. I have some business to attend to, you and the army can deal with the hundred. That’s what you have trained for.”

Following that, Anatoly observed the mysterious woman vanish into the distance as the Pope muttered. ”Damn Catherine, always threatening me.”

”No wonder, she was bailing you out of all the trouble you kept causing because of Aunty Natalia, but not that she stays at the Death Manor, you cannot do anything to her,” he revealed.

His words made the Pope grimace as a commander ran up to them. ”My Emperor! The lines hold, but we need the church knights to reinforce our left before it falls to the Ghouls that keep coming.”

Anatoly turned toward the old man with narrowed eyes, growling. ”Where the fuck is your soldiers? You can’t expect the Alliance to fight your mess.”

Jeremiah went to retort, but two Imperial Guards appeared beside him, forcing the Pope to shut up. He pulled out a Mana Device and sent a message to his knight commander, only to receive a reply a few seconds later.

”They are ten minutes down the road,” he replied.

The emperor nodded before turning toward his commanders. ”Steffan. Reinforce the lines with the reserves. I’ll have the church knights attack the left wing to take the pressure off the Alliance soldiers.”

Moments later, the men and women saluted before rushing off to complete their orders to push the undead hordes back. The constant hum of moaning annoyed Anatoly, who began casting magic into the swarm.

Explosions rocked the land as the zombies were pushed back, but even more appeared and slammed into the shieldwall. This pushed the soldiers back just as the church knights arrived.

”Help the Alliance now!” The Pope exclaimed. ”The White Devil sent his evil witches to attack our homeland!”

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