The three Deathless Sovereigns radiated an overwhelming presence—like gods walking the earth. They weren't just powerful; they were in a league of their own.

Meteorfall's heart sank the moment he saw them.

They really all showed up?

Suddenly, he felt like the entire Westmarch army was carrying a burden it was never meant to bear.

"Damn... if I'd known this was gonna happen, I would've shown up late too," he muttered under his breath. Behind him, the Zombie Horde tensed up, every one of them on edge, hearts pounding in their chests. They looked like soldiers staring down the apocalypse.

As Ethan arrived, followed closely by the three Deathless Sovereigns who'd been chasing him, the air grew thick with a deadly tension—like the calm before a massacre.

Hydrissa, standing off to the side, felt a chill crawl down her spine. Something was wrong. The fact that all three Deathless Sovereigns had shown up together? That could only mean something serious had gone down in their zombie nest.

Then Lilith, one of the three Sovereigns, spoke coldly, her voice like ice cracking across a frozen lake. "Your boss, Gorthas, has been assassinated."

"What?" Hydrissa froze, like lightning had struck her straight through the chest.

If anyone else had said it, she would've laughed in their face. But this was Lilith.

Gorthas... dead?

Meteorfall's lips curled into a smirk. Sure, he'd been sweating bullets a second ago, but that didn't stop him from twisting the knife. "What'd I tell you, freakshow? I said your boss was dead, and you didn't believe me!"

"You—!" Hydrissa's fangs clenched tight, fury boiling in her chest. If that was true, then there was only one thing left to do—avenge her leader.

With Gorthas gone and the three Sovereigns now on the field, Hydrissa no longer had to stay back and defend her territory. She was free to unleash hell.

"Crush them!"

At her command, the Zombie Horde behind her let out a collective roar, their hatred igniting like wildfire. They charged forward in a frenzy, throwing themselves into battle without a second thought for their own lives.

Meteorfall's thinning hair whipped in the wind, and a fierce glint flashed in his eyes.

Gorthas was dead. The plan had worked.

Victory was within reach.

"If someone's gotta walk through hell, it's gonna be me! Brothers, this is our moment—let's make history!" Meteorfall bellowed, his voice raw with passion. The zombies of Westmarch howled in response, their bloodlust unleashed.

They knew they were cannon fodder—and they didn't care.

The Westmarch zombies were a ragtag bunch, all shapes and sizes, half-starved and far from elite.

But they had nothing left to lose.

We're already broken—what's one more crack?

War always demands sacrifice. And the first wave? That was the suicide squad.

With grim determination, the Westmarch zombies surged forward toward Heartland.

That fertile land—they'd dreamed of it for years. Through countless nights of hunger and despair, they'd imagined this moment: the charge into Heartland.

They'd survived this long, barely clinging to life. But now, the dream was real. And if they died chasing it?

So be it.

The two zombie hordes collided like tidal waves, crashing into each other with savage force. What followed was pure chaos—mindless, brutal slaughter.

There was no strategy, no hesitation. Just raw, animal instinct. Even in death, they were determined to tear flesh from their enemies.

"Mega freak! You're dead meat!" Hydrissa snarled, her voice low and venomous. She'd had enough of Meteorfall's mouth. After all that trash talk, it was finally time to throw down.

Her eyes locked onto his, and a strange, eerie energy pulsed out from her—like twin arrows of psychic force, aimed straight at his mind.

Mental domination.

Among Gorthas's elite, most were known for brute strength. Hydrissa was the only one who'd mastered psychic warfare.

That made her the deadliest weapon in Gorthas's arsenal.

But Meteorfall wasn't some pushover either. He was the Overlord of Westmarch for a reason.

"You think I can't handle you?" he growled, eyes blazing with blue light. The energy surged out of him like a tidal wave, ripping through the air.

Their powers clashed—sharp as blades, fierce as fire.

The psychic assault met the counterattack head-on, and the two forces ground against each other, neither giving an inch. Energy exploded in all directions, wild and untamed.

For now, it was a deadlock.

Neither side could break the other.

The Deathless Sovereigns—Endless and the others—watched the Zombie Hordes clash with calm, detached expressions, as if the chaos before them was nothing more than a minor scuffle. Their eyes held no emotion, no urgency. The only thing that caught their attention was Ethan, standing quietly behind the opposing horde, seemingly catching his breath.

"These trash-tier zombies... get out of my way," Nightwraith muttered coldly.

His psychic energy surged outward like a tidal wave, sweeping into the ranks of the Westmarch undead.

In an instant, the air turned thick with a sinister, suffocating pressure.

The Westmarch zombies clutched their heads, howling in agony as searing pain exploded in their skulls. Their minds went blank—wiped clean by the psychic assault.

"Raaaghhh—!"

Their screams tore through the battlefield, raw and pitiful.

Then, like wheat under a scythe, they dropped. By the thousands. Tens of thousands.

Nightwraith didn't just attack—he harvested.

And Endless? He was even worse.

His Absolute Domain spread like a creeping plague. Wherever it touched, time itself decayed everything in its path. Zombies caught in the field withered in seconds, their flesh shriveling, their bones turning to dust. One by one, they collapsed into brittle husks, then crumbled into powder, carried away by the wind.

Not a single zombie could withstand the power of time.

With just two Deathless Sovereigns in motion, the battlefield turned into a slaughterhouse. It wasn't a fight—it was an execution.

"How many zombies does Westmarch even have?" Hydrissa sneered, riding high on the wave of destruction. "A few hundred thousand? A million? Ten million?"

With three Deathless Sovereigns backing her, she felt invincible.

How could they possibly lose?

She barked out orders, directing her horde to surge forward and fill the gaps left by the fallen Westmarch zombies. The Heartland forces pushed hard, gaining ground fast. At this rate, they'd punch straight through the enemy lines in no time.

Meteorfall's brow furrowed deeper with every passing second.

The consequences of facing three Deathless Sovereigns were becoming painfully clear.

"Looks like... it's time to pull out the big guns," he muttered.

He threw his head back and let out a guttural roar, sending a signal to the rear lines.

Hydrissa scoffed. "What, you've got a trump card? Please."

Everyone knew Westmarch was a wasteland. The fact that they were even still alive was a miracle. There was no hidden power, no secret weapon.

And with three Deathless Sovereigns on her side? Nothing he pulled out would matter.

But then, something changed.

The Westmarch zombies suddenly stopped their charge. The bloodlust in their eyes faded, and they began to move—quickly, efficiently—splitting to the sides like a well-drilled unit.

Then came the sound.

A harsh, croaking screech echoed from above. Carrion Birds—dozens of them—swooped in from the distance, each one clutching a massive oil drum in its talons.

The barrels were filled with a thick, black liquid that reeked like death itself.

And beneath them, the ground trembled.

A deafening roar rose from the horizon, and a sandstorm kicked up, blotting out the sky. Within the swirling dust, dark shapes began to emerge—hulking, twisted figures, charging forward like demons unleashed.

"What the hell is that?" Hydrissa's eyes narrowed, her voice tinged with unease.

Through the haze, she could just make out the outlines—dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of monstrous forms. They looked like nightmares given flesh.

She'd never seen anything like them.

Of course not. She was Heartland-born. She'd never encountered the Black-Skin Zombies.

Meteorfall hadn't exactly planned to bring them here. As the Westmarch horde swept through the region, they'd stirred up the local Black-Skin population. He'd killed a few along the way, spilled their blood, and let the Carrion Birds carry it in those barrels—bait, essentially.

The result?

A swarm.

The Black-Skin Zombies had gathered in staggering numbers—millions, maybe more—drawn by the scent of their own kind's blood.

Meteorfall had only wanted to confuse the enemy, buy some time.

But now?

Now he had the perfect cannon fodder.

Because if there was one thing everyone knew—it was that even Ethan had once gone out of his way to avoid messing with the Black-Skins.

As the Heartland elite zombies filled the gaps left by the fallen Westmarch troops, the sky darkened.

The Carrion Birds began to dump their cargo.

Thick, black blood rained down from above, splattering across the battlefield. The stench was unbearable—acrid, rotting, foul enough to make even the undead gag.

It was like the heavens themselves were bleeding.

A storm of black rain fell over the land, turning the battlefield into a hellish, reeking swamp of death and decay.

And in the distance, the Black-Skin Zombies howled.

They were coming.

...

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