Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

Run, flee, escape, hide away, do not move, do not make a noise, do not peek out, stand still and pray, pray that you remain unseen, unnoticed. Read latest chapters at empire

Hold your breath, slow your heartbeat.

The people unprotected by pyramidal barriers went by these words now, the first week had been chaotic, some people ran, panic taking control of their every thought and movements.

Others were left standing still, unknowing of what to do, was it best to move away? Leave everything behind? Would the undead come so far, would they spare a glance in their direction? Nobody knew, but they soon came to.

Those who stood their grounds were reminded of their weakness, trampled, minced, cleaved, impaled or moulded into mounds of rot and lakes of blood, armies were besieged by the forces of the one known as Son Of Dragon, as for the villages, towns, cities, the regular people trying to put up a resistance, trying to survive, to fight, to flee.

They were instead hunted down by small groups of undeads, scouring the plains, spreading the vile rot as they went, as a week became a month since the initial wave of fear that spread throughout the living, lost wanderers of the unshielded citadels learned exactly why the dead should be feared.

Hometowns were torn to the ground, uprooted as bastions were set up instead, an undead put up as the ruler of these castles, miasma would soon come leaking out of these constructs.

This was not all, fortresses were not the only thing that came to replace old nesting grounds for the living, deep chasms, lakes of bloods and rotten vegetations, all erected in record times, witnesses came to notice a particular undead that was always present, be it for creation or destruction, an undead wearing a helm with a bar-like visor dressed in a fine dark mantle, the collar as high as it could possibly be.

Dark leather-like gloves, most certainly fashioned out of an undead hide, the same went for the boots, which were deceptively clean despite the amount of time they had crushed skulls and jaws, the pants were a somewhat lighter shade, some sort of dark greyish-blue.

The only portion of armour visible, the helm, was made out of a dark metal, production of the undead empire, awfully clean and tidy in spite of spreading misery and decay, this was the attire of an official, to the people, this undead was the face of the forces of death, personification of a tyrannical king of massacres.

A sword always tied to his waist, right hand always on the handle of a polearm, a war scythe with a particular banner floating in the wind attached to it, when one could catch sight of it, it depicted some sort of dark sun surrounded by moons and constellations.

This sun was the center-piece, leading all of the rest.

Four moons were to be seen, one burning a bright red, most would mistake it for a sun as well.

One was bright, but pale green, appearing sickly.

One was lush with dark blue vegetation, seemingly inhabited by beasts and monsters.

One was a pale silver colour, melting downward, looking more like an eye than a lunar body.

Amidst the moons, two constellations decorated the banner as well, one seeming to close in on the people looking at it, as if reaching for them, meteors raining down from it.

The second constellation was breath-taking, even as a mere representation on a piece of fabric, it called for all focus from onlookers, making one's eyes dull as they did so.

Lastly, a star of incredible brightness, yet, filled with holes and seemingly hollow.

The people did not know what these represented, but it looked like an ill-omen to them, the fact that the executioner proudly carried this banner on his gruesome tool of murder was enough to convince them that these mere symbols were to be feared and respected.

Today, just as the first thirty days since the rise of undeath, the executioner was once again overlooking the construction of a bastion, accompanied by draculian infantry, two knights flanking him from each side, one with thin sword, which thin blade length surpassed that of the knight in person, ignited with burning blood, a sword meant to thrust and impale.

An elite knight of Dracula, red eyes gleaming within the helm.

The other knight, an unusual sight, carried a tall cleaver, blade covered in blood fuming with toxic smoke.

Sight of this trio, surrounded by infantry arranged in a stalwart formation, equipped with a variety of weapons, they protected other undeads as they advanced, carriages pulled by vampire horses, bringing the necessary materials, all getting to work with remarkable efficiency.

It was like watching ants, only that they truly never stopped at all, and were equipped with agile limbs, of course, the vampires could only move in the dead of night, or where sunlight could not reach.

The congregation was close to Tamaris, up on a ledge of a nearby mountain, seemingly heightening the threat they were putting on the country lately, as this fortress was the latest of a series in recent times, Tamaris had yet to do anything in response to those advances.

Milo was looking from safety, using a spyglass, his mana reinforcement was amongst the best and as such, empowering his eyes and the special spyglass, he could see things in great detail from impressive distances.

The executioner, as the refugees that had managed to reach Tamaris called him, was an especially disturbing character, Milo could not help but feel a sense of familiarity with this one, which only added to his static demeanour.

'What's up with those two knights?' the ones with burning weapons were common, vampires of this kind were everywhere, they had castes and ranks, as such, Milo could tell that this one in particular was higher ranked than other knights.

But the one with the cleaver-like polearm was more attention grabbing, Milo had never seen any undead like this one, he could sense power of a greater level than even that elite-looking other one.

The executioner seemed to be a high-ranking member of the undead empire, spearheading the expansion and creation of bastions and such, some said that he might be a gravelord, but he did not appear strong enough to fit the role.

Powerful or not, this undead clearly held a special position…

'What are they doing?' Milo blinked a couple of times, but no, he was not mistaken, the executioner and his two knights were walking up to the edge of the barrier, the two knights stopped at one point, but the executioner continued for twenty more meters.

"Are they… Is this an offer for negotiations or something?" the executioner turned to him, nodding his head.

"Oh shit, hum, hold on a moment, would you? I'll fetch someone-" Milo raised his arms and waved, assuming that this walking corpse could actually hear him, but the undead did not further acknowledge the young man's existence.

He simply stood still in the same position, waiting, supposedly, for someone to come and speak, about what Milo could not even begin to guess.

Did the undead want to establish trading? Ludicrous.

An alliance? Ridiculous.

No, he could only imagine that this was going to be an ultimatum.