Chapter 35: The First Wave
The unnatural dawn brought no comfort. Instead of the warm glow of the twin suns, a thick, greenish fog crept from the eastern wildlands, swallowing the light and casting Vance Haven in a grim, sickly twilight. The air grew cold, carrying a sharp, metallic tang that coated the tongue and stung the nostrils. It was the smell of ozone and rot, a scent that had no place in the living world.
Alistair stood on the reinforced palisade wall, Thora a steadfast presence on his right, Grok a mountain of grim fury on his left. Below them, the settlement was a hive of silent, fearful activity. The last of the children were ushered into the central hut, its walls now braced with extra timber. Hunters, both Blue-Skin and Graxian, stood on the watchtowers, their bows held tight. On the ground, a line of the strongest warriors, armed with the newly forged resonance hammers, guarded the main gate. The air thrummed with a tense, silent dread.
The jungle beyond the walls was deathly still. The familiar chorus of birds and insects was gone, smothered by the advancing fog. It was a silence more terrifying than any roar.
Then, the sound began. A slow, dragging, scraping noise, emanating from the heart of the green mist. It was the sound of something broken being forced to move.
A figure shambled out of the fog. It was a Graxian. Or rather, it had been. Its skin was a dull, cracked grey, like parched riverbed clay. One of its arms was torn off at the shoulder, and a leg was twisted backwards, forcing it to drag a useless foot as it lurched forward. But the most horrifying feature was its face. Its eyes were vacant black pits, and from its slack-jawed mouth poured the same vile, green light that filled the fog. It was a puppet of corpse-flesh and necrotic energy.
[SCAN: GRAXIAN REANIMATE. TIER-2 UNDEAD. WEAKNESS: PURIFYING ENERGY, SEVERE PHYSICAL TRAUMA. CAUSE OF REANIMATION: UNKNOWN CORRUPTIVE SOURCE.]
"By the deep stones..." Grok's voice was a low, devastated rumble. He gripped the edge of the palisade so hard the wood creaked. "It is Borg. One of the three who stayed with Varg. He was a proud warrior."
More shapes emerged from the mist. Dozens of them. All Graxians. All bore the marks of violent deaths—shattered limbs, deep gashes, crushed skulls—all now animated by the same eerie green glow. They moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, their empty eye sockets fixed with single-minded purpose on the walls of Vance Haven.
A cold fury settled in Alistair's gut. This was Varg's answer. He hadn't just fled into the wilds to lick his wounds. He had sought out a power far darker than anyone could have imagined, and his first act was to defile the bodies of his own loyal followers, turning them into this... this abomination.
The first Reanimate reached the wall. It didn't attempt to climb. It simply began beating its remaining fist against the solid timber, a dull, repetitive *thump* that was more chilling than any war cry. Others joined it, a silent, relentless mob hammering mindlessly at the gate and walls.
"Loose arrows!" Thora's command cut through the tense silence.
A volley of arrows whistled down from the watchtowers. They struck true, thudding into grey flesh. The Reanimates showed no reaction. They didn't cry out, didn't stagger, didn't bleed. They simply absorbed the impacts and continued their mindless assault. Normal weapons were almost useless.
"The hammers!" Grok roared. "Use the hammers!"
A Graxian warrior on the wall hefted one of the resonance hammers. With a grunt of effort, he swung it down in a powerful arc, smashing it into the skull of the Reanimate below. The effect was instantaneous and profound. There was a deep, resonant *THOOM*, and the creature didn't just fall—it *disintegrated*. Its body exploded into a cloud of inert grey dust, the captive green light within it snuffed out in an instant.
A ragged cheer went up from the defenders. The weapons worked. But the cheer was short-lived. For every Reanimate that was shattered, two more seemed to shammer out of the ever-advancing fog. The green mist itself was now lapping at the base of the walls, and the acidic smell was so strong it made eyes water.
This was not a battle of strategy or strength. It was a war of attrition. A test of endurance against an enemy that felt no pain, no fear, and whose numbers seemed endless. They were being worn down, their resources and their nerve steadily eroded by this silent, shambling horde.
Alistair tore his gaze from the grinding horror at the gate. He looked past the endless waves of dead, peering into the deepest, darkest part of the green fog. His Admin senses stretched, past the minor disturbances of the Reanimates, searching for the epicenter of this plague. And there, he found it. A single, concentrated point of immense, hateful power. It was a vortex of corruption, a cancer given form. It pulsed with a familiar, yet utterly perverted, energy.
He knew, with a cold certainty that settled in his bones, what was waiting for him in the heart of that mist.
Varg was out there. But the bitter, exiled warrior was gone. In his place was something new. Something that had willingly embraced a power that twisted life itself into a weapon. He had become a conduit for the blight, a general of the dead.
And Alistair knew, this first wave of corpses was just the beginning. The real enemy, the source of this nightmare, was waiting. And he was coming.