The real obstacle to getting moving was the new employees.
David’s undead retinue stood off to one side of the clearing, not doing much of anything. Seven subjugated creatures—most of them dead, yet upright, and three of them gargantuan.
The living passengers were not fans. A wide, empty circle of grass separated them from the undead. A young girl clutched her Scottish Fold cat so tightly its face was a flattened circle of feline disapproval. Mia looked like she was trying to hide inside her own jacket. An older man—a survivor who David had not yet spoken to and mentally tagged as ‘Pensioner’—had the glazed look of someone waiting for a particularly nice nurse to tell him this was all a side effect of the new medication.
They’re scared of the furniture. This is going to be a problem.
A low argument was brewing near the plane’s accidental landing-induced fuselage exit. The elderly man, the pensioner, still looked like he was waiting for a taxi to arrive and had been stabbed along the way, was waving a hand at the zombies. “We can’t travel with… with those things! They’re an abomination! They could turn on us at any moment!”
Harris, the businessman in a torn shirt, was nodding so hard his head looked loose. “I hate to say it but he’s right. What if the magic wears off?”
David watched for a second. Here we go. Time to sell the brand.
David walked into the middle of the circle, his footsteps quiet. People stopped talking and looked at him. Evans and Corbin, who had been having their own low conversation, turned their attention his way.
“They’re not going to turn on you,” David said, his voice flat. “The zombies are ours. Mine and Mara’s.” He jerked a thumb towards Mara, who was leaning against a broken and dislodged seat discarded on the grass, her face unreadable. “It’s the same… skill tree. They’re tools—like a sword or a shield, and they’re on our side.” Beautiful. ‘Skill tree.’ Makes it sound like a perk. Or a reward. Takes the edge off the ‘raising the dead’ thing.
He sent a quick, silent order down the tether to Mara.
Without a word or even a glance, Mara made a small, subtle gesture with two fingers. The zombie hobgoblin archer, its movements stiff but precise, smoothly drew an arrow from its quiver and set it against the bowstring, holding the pose.
A few people gasped. Harris shut his mouth.
See? Totally under control. Nothing to worry about.
David sent another, private thought to Mara.
A wave of searing, contemptuous fury flooded back at him before she locked it down, “you think I’m an idiot?” she said.
Mara gave him the rundown. Her skill level was too low to get the big undead wargs working at full strength—they were only about half as strong as they used to be, couldn’t use their super-smell, and saw about as far as a regular person. She’d presumably have to level up the skill to fix that. The rest of the undead, the hobgoblins and the colossal, were running at full strength because their levels were closer to hers. She’d split her points between having enough mana to raise them and a second equally important stat.
David watched her. So the zombie monster trucks are running at half capacity but they’re still monster trucks, just without wolf-vision, or super-noses. The size will ruin our stealth, but the strength and numbers should compensate. If we run into real trouble, they’ll be the first distractions, or a getaway car. David considered Mara’s previously announced stat allocation; she had focused on constitution and mana. The necromancer built a bunker. Mana to make more undead friends, toughness to survive the play date. He looked at Mara, at her tired face. She is a walking disaster. If she had raised seven of those ninja hobgoblins at full power… He saw it clearly: a normal-looking woman with a small, personal army of the things that were currently trying to kill them and were pretty good at it.Yeah. She’s way too overpowered. If I hadn’t chained her down, I would’ve had to put a spear through her throat. No other way.
He turned his attention to his group’s lineup. His lineup. Seven pet monsters.
Alright. Nobody goes in alone.
The goal was to find the enemy’s weak spot, hit it with more force than it could handle, and don’t give them a chance to hit back.
David’s thoughts were quick and direct.
Through the tether, he felt a spike of cold resistance, a ripple of protest. Mara’s head jerked up. “That’s not how my skill works. They don’t coordinate like that. I just raise them and—I don’t—”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The protest in the tether flattened into a hard, resentful silence. She gave a single, sharp nod, her jaw clenched. She understood it wasn't a suggestion.
The group arrangement happened around him. Evans and Corbin took charge of the logistics, herding people based on who had what weapon and who looked like they might faint.
“Alright, listen up,” Evans said, his voice the steady, calm one in the chaos. “We’re splitting into two groups. Stays within sight, but spread out. One big cluster is a target.”
Corbin nodded, his hand resting on his holstered pistol. “Group One will be David, Rhea, Son, Jamie, myself, Theo, and Henderson.” Interesting. He put himself in my group. Survival instincts? Suspicion? Or just wants to be where the firepower is? Either way, it hardly mattered.
“Group Two,” Evans continued. “Will be myself, Mara, Harris, and the four of you.” He pointed at the remaining four, the pensioner, Mia, Chloe, and the cat-girl.
Heavy hitters in one group, and a mixed bag in the second. Makes sense—barely— if it’s to give them experience, but the only way this works is if they supplement the weaker groups with a more powerful zombie thread.
Now for the asset allocation. Everyone looked at David. He was the ex-holy man turned ‘necromancy guy’. This was his department.
“Group One gets these three,” David said, pointing to the left-hand cluster. “The living hob with the sword. The imp. And the adult zombie warg.”
“Group Two gets those five,” he said, pointing to the right. “The other zombie warg. The zombie archer. The zombie axe wielder. The big colossal one.”
Evans laid out the rules. Evans himself placed David in charge of combat for Group One, which was a surprise. Corbin was in charge of Group Two, primarily because he had the only other gun and the authority people were used to obeying. If they made contact, the zombies engaged first. Everyone else was support. The groups would move ten yards apart and take turns having point for each engagement.
Nobody argued. Not even Harris. When Evans said David was leading a group, people just accepted it. Even Corbin didn’t argue; the survivors all nodded in understanding as if placing the curse-breaking zombie-creating warlock-killing elite-killing hob-raid-rejecting group ‘monster hunter’ over someone with a gun was logical. They think I’m a holy man. Or a curse-breaker. The distinction is pretty blurry when you have a pet zombie army. As long as they follow orders, they can think I’m the tooth fairy.
As people shouldered their packs and the zombies lurched into motion, Corbin approached. He had that firm, ‘we need to conference’ look on his face. “David. We need to talk. Later.”
David’s face was blank. We really don’t. You have nothing to say I need to hear, and no idea that the conversation you want is hours too late and entirely pointless. David looked right through him. “Sure,” he said, the word as meaningful as a sigh. He turned and started walking towards the tree line, his living hobgoblin thrall falling into step beside him like a dutiful, murderous golden retriever.
He had avoided openly engaging with Corbin’s entrapment because he hadn’t held any immediate use for Corbin outside of combat, but it made no real difference if Corbin knew. If he wanted to find out how fucked he was, David would tell him.
David checked his stats.
[Name: David Carter
Level 8
Demonic Realm: Floor 1/???
Difficulty: Impossible
Time left until forced ejection: 4y 363d 11h 12m 32s.
Primary Class: Locked
Sub-class: Locked
Strength: 9
Dexterity: 7
Constitution: 28
Mana: 28
Demonic Energy: 44
Skills: Battle Sense Lvl 3, Calm Mind Lvl 1, Energy Affinity Lvl 3, Demonic Energy Lvl 2, Demonic Energy Mastery Lvl 3, Portal Magic Lvl 1, Infernal Thrall Lvl 1,
Free points: 0]
Demonic Energy's winning. Good. That's the stuff that actually does things. He looked at the numbers. Forty-four. That's the one that matters.
He needed more capacity. More skills. But if the demonic energy could make portals, enhance him, and make an ogre teleport, it could likely supplement all his stats. Pumping up his Strength or Dexterity with points was a temporary fix. He wasn't trying to be a well-rounded hero. That sounded like a lot of work for a participation trophy. He was trying to become a walking embodiment of death. Much simpler job description. 'Cause of demise: me. His goal was to be the last thing in the forest that anything else ever saw. Preferably while it was thinking, no freaking way.
And with that clear image in mind, he decided to go all in on demonic energy. He started to practice constant demonic energy circulation—constant strengthening—while keeping his mana and heat energy separated in the little power factory in his chest as emergency reserves. The mana was a calm, cool pool. The heat energy was a buzzing, excited current. The demonic energy was the angry, live wire running through the middle of it all, getting a little thicker with every encounter.
It was a little draining mentally, like reciting a mantra as you walk, and do the dishes or something. No pain, no gain. And the gain here is not getting turned into paste by the next ugly thing that walks out of the woods. He kept at it, the constant, low-grade effort settling into the background of his mind.
David walked, one foot in front of the other, his eyes on the trees. In his chest, the little power factory hummed.
He focused on the demonic energy. He pulled a steady stream from its source and pushed it into the production center in his chest, not the core, the factory, where it churned and condensed before sending it back out on a circuit through his limbs. Constant strengthening. Like a bypass for my cardiovascular system, if my blood was angry and wanted to stab things.
He experimented. He reached down the tether to Mara and pulled a thin, careful thread of her power into the mix. It was cold and resentful, but it merged with his own current. He pushed an equal amount back out to her, a forced exchange. Keeping the pipes clean. No buildup.
He practiced the flow. A high surge made his muscles hum with a dangerous, twitchy power. A low hum was just background reinforcement, like wearing weighted clothes. He had to get used to the feedback—the way his strength jumped with a surge, the way his skin felt tighter, the way his bones didn't feel like they’d break if he punched a tree.
[Demonic Energy Lvl 2 ? Demonic Energy Lvl 3]
[Demonic Energy Mastery Lvl 3 ? Demonic Energy Mastery Lvl 4]
The [Demonic Energy] skill was his engine—it controlled the raw rate, speed, and recovery of the power, how fast he could bring it to bear from the total pool provided by his stats. The [Demonic Energy Mastery] skill was his steering wheel and toolkit—it turned the process from trying to force a bull through a gate into guiding a flow of corrosive water, and dictated what he could actually make that water do.
He managed. It was like learning to drive a car with the gas pedal wired directly to his nerves. A little push and he was idling. A shove and he was redlining. The trick was finding the cruising speed between 'potential victim' and 'spontaneous combustion.'
The pressure in his mind eased. The energy surged through the circuit, smooth and willing. It became much easier to maintain the flow, almost self-sustaining. Well that's new. He felt a slight, almost negligent drain on his demonic energy reserves, a tiny, constant leak. Some of its just… staying in there. Seeping into the pipes. Into my cells? He wasn't sure. But he was strengthened. Empowered. Constantly. This might be it. The trick. He’d have to practice this, walk this tightrope.
It probably came with risks—burnout, corruption, turning into a seventy-foot snake or puddle of angry goo. He’d need to see where it led.