Two elite zombies crept up to the shack, hesitating at the door. One of them reached out a claw, just about to push it open—

when with a creak, the door swung open on its own.

Peanut's unmistakable face appeared in the doorway. "What the hell are you two doing?"

"Uh, n-nothing, sir," one of the elite zombies stammered. "We just wanted to check if… if everything was okay with you."

"What could possibly be wrong with me?" Ethan, now disguised as Peanut, swept his gaze past the two elites to the horde of zombies standing behind them. His voice sharpened. "Why are you all just standing around?"

"Didn't you tell us to gather here?" the zombie replied, confused. "You said zombies from other regions of Necroterra were gonna attack, and we needed to be ready for battle."

"They're not coming anymore," Ethan said casually. "Everyone can disperse. Go find something to eat, hunt a bit, do whatever you were doing before."

The zombies blinked in surprise, then broke into grins.

They're not coming?

Seriously?

That's the best news they'd heard in days. Standing around here was nothing compared to the smell of fresh meat.

In an instant, thousands of zombies scattered, heading off to rest, hunt, or just do their own thing.

Ethan hadn't wiped them all out—too risky. If the numbers on the outskirts dropped too fast, it'd raise suspicions and mess with his bigger plan.

Now that he'd taken out Peanut and assumed his identity, he had the status of a Zombie Leader. That meant more freedom to move around.

Leaving the shack behind, Ethan headed deeper into the heart of the zombie nest, scouting the area.

Before long, he emerged from the forest into a stretch of yellowed, barren land. The ground was littered with rusted scraps of alloyed steel, corroded and forgotten.

The terrain was rough, pockmarked with deep craters—clear signs of past bombardments from Crystal Core Blasters.

He could sense a dense concentration of zombies up ahead.

Ethan looked up—and froze.

Not far in the distance stood the massive wreckage of a starship, its twisted metal frame towering like a fallen titan. Rust and corrosion covered every inch, but even in its ruined state, the ship's former glory was unmistakable.

"A Dreadnought-class Starcruiser?" Ethan muttered, eyes narrowing.

He knew exactly what this place was.

This was the battlefield from thirty years ago—when humanity launched its assault on Heartland.

That wreck? It was one of the Dreadnought-class Starcruisers that had been shot down during the war.

The battle must've been brutal. The once-fertile lands of Heartland had been scorched into this wasteland, and even after three decades, the scars still hadn't healed.

Beneath the wreckage, bones were piled high—layer upon layer of the dead. No telling how many had fallen here.

Each skeleton might've once been a genius of human civilization, a prodigy, a family's last hope. But once they stepped onto Heartland's soil, they became nothing more than nameless dust, buried forever in this cursed ground.

And now, with another war looming on the horizon, Ethan couldn't help but wonder—was history about to repeat itself?

The ship's weapons and tech had long since been stripped away, leaving only the hollow shell—and the zombies that now roamed its remains.

This wasn't the outskirts anymore. The zombies here were more evolved, stronger. They clustered around the wreck like they were paying tribute to a long-lost era of glory.

Among them were several Zombie Kings—each one radiating power.

Ethan spotted one in particular: tall and gaunt, nearly ten feet high, leaning against the wreckage. Its limbs were freakishly long, claws dragging along the ground. Its yellow eyes gleamed with bloodlust and savagery.

Perched atop the wreck was another—a fusion-type Zombie King with avian traits. Thick wings wrapped around its body like armor. Its nose was sharp like a beak, but its mouth was filled with rows of razor-sharp fangs.

Both of them were SS-class monsters. And neither looked friendly.

Before Ethan could even get close, they turned toward him, eyes narrowing, low growls rumbling from their throats.

The message was clear:

You're from the outskirts. You don't belong here.

"Alright, alright, I get it," Ethan muttered, stopping in his tracks.

Inwardly, he rolled his eyes. So this 'Peanut' guy really didn't have much clout. Couldn't even get a peek at the core zone.

He made a mental note:

Not as useful as Big Ears.

Ethan's gaze drifted past the wreckage, toward the distant horizon—where a range of mountains loomed, their peaks piercing the clouds.

That was the Origin Mountain.

Shrouded in mystery. The birthplace of every legend.

And the summit Ethan was destined to reach.

The entire Origin Mountain region was the beating heart of Heartland—the core of it all. The territories of the so-called Five Sovereigns of the Heartland were spread out around its base like satellites orbiting a star.

Ethan pulled his gaze back from the distant peaks and turned his attention once more to the Zombie Kings lingering around the wreckage.

They were surrounded by elite Heartland zombies, and there wasn't a clean shot to take them out without drawing attention. No good opportunities—at least not yet.

So, Ethan turned away and headed in another direction.

If the core was off-limits for now, then he'd check out the outer edges of another Deathless Sovereign's nest.

Time to play the part of a "model" Zombie Leader from the outskirts.

Gorthas's zombie nest bordered the territory of Nightwraith. The two domains were separated only by a narrow river, its source flowing straight from the Origin Mountain. The water was surprisingly clear—almost pristine, untouched by the usual rot and decay.

Ethan couldn't help but wonder: Heartland's abundance of resources had to be connected to the Origin Mountain somehow.

He walked up to the riverbank and looked across. On the other side, zombies wandered in loose packs. Nightwraith's territory had its own share of outer-zone Zombie Leaders, and of course, they recognized Peanut on sight.

"Hey! What're you doing over here?" one of them called out, flanked by a crew of elite underlings. "Aren't you supposed to be guarding your own damn nest?"

"Guard it from what?" Ethan—still wearing Peanut's face—shrugged. "Might as well spend the time hunting for some fresh meat."

"For real?" the Zombie Leader across the river looked surprised.

Everyone knew the zombie hordes from the other Necroterra regions were closing in on Heartland. A massive war was brewing.

"You're not worried they'll attack while you're off screwing around?"

"Worried?" Ethan scoffed. "Look at my guys. They're out hunting, resting, doing their thing."

He gestured behind him.

The zombies on the other side squinted across the river. Even from a distance, they could see Ethan's crew lounging in the shade of the trees, completely relaxed.

Occasional zombie howls echoed from the woods—signals of successful hunts, full of excitement and satisfaction.

The elite zombies on the far bank exchanged glances, visibly envious.

They'd been on edge for days, constantly bracing for an attack. Compared to the chill vibes across the river, their own situation felt like a pressure cooker.

"Maybe we should stop guarding too…"

"What if the higher-ups get pissed?"

"Then we just go back to guarding. No big deal."

"Yeah… that makes sense."

"..."

And just like that, Ethan wandered from one neighboring zombie nest to another, making "friends" wherever he went. He played it cool, casual—just another laid-back Zombie Leader from the outskirts.

But all the while, he was gathering intel.

He probed for details on zombie horde distributions, the number of Zombie Kings in each area, and any signs of weakness.

As for his plan to take down Gorthas? No rush.

The zombie hordes from the other four Necroterra regions were still converging on Heartland, but it would take time—especially Wraithshade from Frostmere, whose progress was crawling at a snail's pace.

...

Meanwhile, deep in the heart of Gorthas's zombie nest, a massive structure loomed—part fortress, part lab.

Inside, rusted equipment and outdated instruments lined the walls. It looked like a lab from another era, long past its prime.

Gorthas sat on a stone throne, radiating dominance. His posture screamed authority—this was a Sovereign who ruled with absolute power.

In front of him stood his inner circle: powerful Zombie Kings, each one a force to be reckoned with. Among them were two terrifying figures—Voidborn Undying, both at SSS-level strength. Their presence alone warped the air around them.

And then there was another Deathless Sovereign.

He looked like a teenage boy—delicate, almost ethereal. But his aura was anything but innocent.

This was Nightwraith, Gorthas's neighbor across the river.

"What do you want?" Nightwraith asked coldly, his voice like frost on steel.

"Nothing much," Gorthas replied with a faint smile.

"I just thought we should talk… about how we're going to deal with the other four regions' zombies."

...

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