Chapter 23: My Date with the Zombies

  The Imperial Envoy’s legs and waist had turned completely limp, every bone in his body melted into jelly by fear—he could not summon an ounce of strength. He could smell the stench of his own soiled trousers, but it did nothing to repel the old man approaching him.

  A third of the old man’s head was gone, sliced diagonally from his crown to his temple. With each stiff step he took, the grayish-white brain matter exposed beneath wobbled slightly. His eyes, a murky blend of black and white, stared blankly as he advanced toward the Imperial Envoy with slow, unwavering steps. The Envoy trembled, scraping his hands against the ground to pull himself backward, whimpering incoherently.

  Not far away, several cavalrymen were pinned down by a dozen corpses. To the undead, the soldiers were a delicious feast—they moved slowly, but scrambled to tear and bite, fighting over the flesh. The cavalrymen screamed at the top of their lungs, their limbs flailing wildly as their blood and organs were passed between the corpses’ hands and mouths.

  The old man closed in on the Imperial Envoy. Like a dear friend offering trust, he extended his rigid hands and clamped them onto the Envoy’s shoulders. He opened his mouth, revealing a handful of remaining teeth.

  Summoning every last scrap of courage and composure he had, the Imperial Envoy fumbled in his robe, pulled out a jewel-encrusted cross, squeezed his eyes shut, and shrieked: “In the name of the Heavenly God! Unclean creature, begone from this servant of the Lord! Or by the power of justice—” His words dissolved into hysterical sobs. He felt the old man’s teeth sink into his scalp, pierce his skull, and then—agony.

  Crack. A crisp, clean sound, like biting into a crunchy apple. It was the last sound he ever heard.

  Ethan felt goosebumps prickle across his scalp and the back of his neck.

  There was Levin the hunter’s wife—the woman who had once greeted him so warmly. Her face, once sharp and intelligent, had been split almost in two by a sword. White bone glinted through the torn flesh; one of her eyes had been sliced open in the blow, its optic nerve dangling crookedly down her cheek. She knelt among other villagers’ corpses, feasting on a cavalryman. Her remaining eye—bulging and fish-like—stared fixedly at the soldier’s abdomen. She reached in, pulled out a still-throbbing organ, and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing with a squelching sound. Dark red fluid dripped down her chin.

  Nearby, Brother Bumb—the portly villager—tore off a cavalryman’s arm and bit into it. His neck had been nearly severed; his blood must have dried up long ago, leaving his skin a chalky, deathly white. The contrast with the bright red liquid dribbling from his lips was sickening.

  Screams had become the meadow’s most “pleasant” sound—at least they came from living throats. All other noises were the rustle of a hundred-odd corpses shuffling about. Some had gaping holes in their chests, their organs spilling out; others carried their own heads in their hands like weapons. Still more were bloated and rotting—an arm might drop off as they walked, or putrid innards would gurgle out of their mouths, as if they were vomiting. Yet their clouded eyes stared fixedly ahead.

  Ethan had seen plenty of corpses before—he had even slept beside them in Sandro’s lair. But a corpse lying still was one thing; a corpse standing up and walking toward you was another. And the robed man stood just a few dozen paces away, watching him with apparent interest—as if gazing at a date he had been looking forward to. The gaze from those eyes reeked of death, stronger even than the stench of the hundreds of corpses around them.

  In the past, whether he was being chased through the desolate Lizard Marsh or facing other dangers, the greater the threat, the stronger his will to survive. His resilience was comparable to that of the toughest wild beasts.

  But what lay before him now was not merely a threat—it was the raw, unadulterated stench of death. No living thing could face it without trembling. The familiar smell of corpses, once mundane to him, now made his stomach heave. The stench pressed in from all sides, mingling with the robed man’s gaze—like invisible fingers crawling over his skin, pinching and prodding. His legs began to shake, and a desperate urge to run surged through him.

  Don’t run. Don’t run. Don’t run. Ethan screamed at himself in his mind.

  He knew well: the moment you turned your back on fear, you surrendered completely to it. Reason and resolve would be devoured in an instant, leaving only mindless, crazy flight.

  With his speed and agility, the zombies posed no real threat. But if he let fear overwhelm him—if he exposed his back to that hand made of bones and tattered skin—he would likely be blown to bits by a fireball.

  “Humans need to be full to have energy,” the robed man said, glancing around at the corpses feasting. His tone was that of a cat toying with a mouse as he looked at Ethan. “In fact, it’s the same for everything. Full bellies make work easier—don’t you agree?”

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  Ethan bit down hard on a small piece of flesh inside his cheek. The metallic taste of blood spread in his mouth. This long-forgotten sensation reignited the resolve that fear had nearly drowned.

  He stuck out his tongue, stained with a trace of blood, and licked his lips. Once his fighting spirit was kindled, it burned like a red-hot bayonet.

  Ethan took a deep breath, gripped his sword tightly, and tensed his body like a crouching cat. The robed man stared at him, shaking his head with that inhuman smile. His voice, thick with the stench of decay, said: “No need to be so tense. I only want to—”

  Ethan launched himself at the robed man.

  “Young people are always so impulsive,” the robed man murmured. He lifted his emaciated hand slightly, as if making a casual gesture. A tiny green flame flickered from his claw-like fingers and fell to the ground.

  Mid-run, Ethan dropped to his hands and knees, pushing off with all his strength to roll sideways. The muscles in his limbs ached from the abrupt, violent movement. He had been watching the robed man’s every move—his charge had never been about attacking; it had been about dodging.

  The moment the small green flame touched the grass, it exploded into a towering green fire pillar, as tall as a man. It raced in a straight line toward the direction Ethan had come from, narrowly missing him as he rolled on the ground.

  Like a wild horse, the fire pillar charged toward the zombies behind him. The moment it touched one corpse, the flames erupted, growing wildly. The soaring fire lifted several corpses into the air—but halfway up, they dissolved completely in the green light, leaving no trace behind.

  Ethan did not look back. He leaped into the air, aiming straight for the robed man.

  He knew magic himself—he understood that casting spells required time to gather energy and prepare. The gap between two spells was the only window for attack.

  But this time, he was badly mistaken.

  The robed man lifted his other hand—also a skeleton wrapped in tattered leather. Yet this hand, devoid of any trace of flesh, was ablaze, burning brighter than any torch. It was as if it had been forged from the oil of hell and the sulfur of a volcano.

  Ethan realized his mistake: he should never have jumped. Suspended in mid-air, he had no way to change direction or brace himself. He could only watch as the flame in the robed man’s hand took the shape of a massive firebird, spreading its wings and hurtling toward him.

  Ethan channeled all his magical power into a fireball and hurled it at the bird. The fireball vanished silently into the firebird’s blinding glow. In an instant, his vision was filled with the golden brilliance of the sun. The bird, made of searing flames, flew toward him in an embrace—determined to melt him in its fiery hold.

  He was powerless. All he could do was act on animal instinct: he curled into a tight ball, covering his head, drawing his legs in, and protecting his body as best he could.

  The firebird caught its prey and wrapped around it, twisting and churning wildly in the air—unleashing its immense magical power, vowing to reduce the thing in its grasp to dust.

  A sword fell from the chaotic ball of fire. The moment it hit the grass, a hissing sound erupted—every blade of grass it touched scorched black.

  “If you hadn’t forced my hand, I would have liked to leave you with a body,” the robed man sighed, sounding slightly strained. The two rapid spells had taken a toll on him. He looked up at the sky. An arc-shaped shadow was devouring the sun’s light at a speed visible to the naked eye; the sky was darkening.

  With a wave of his hand, the firebird twisting in the air shot toward Whispering Woods. It turned into a fiery rainbow, crashing into the trees with a deafening boom and exploding into a burst of red light. The robed man nodded, then waved at the zombies behind him. “The gate is open. Let’s go in.”

  Ethan had seen many strange things—but nothing compared to the absurdity of his current situation.

  He was alive. Not only alive—he hadn’t even singed a hair. The only injury was a burn on his palm, from where he had been holding his sword.

  When he had curled into a ball and been caught by the firebird, the sword in his hand had grown scalding hot, forcing him to drop it. He could feel the magic and flames swirling wildly around him; as a fire mage himself, he knew how powerful the magical energy surrounding him was. By all rights, even if he had been a block of iron, he would have melted into liquid. But he had felt nothing but heat—not even a hint of a burn. No matter how violently the flames raged, not a single spark had touched his skin.

  Then, he felt himself flying through the air with the firebird. The roar of an explosion rang in his ears, the magic and flames around him dissipated, and his back slammed hard into something solid.

  When he finally opened his eyes and unclenched his hands, he found himself in a charred tree hollow—or rather, a cavity of ash. It was a massive ancient tree, so thick that a dozen men linking arms could barely encircle it. The firebird had burned a hole through its trunk; the wood around the hole was completely carbonized.

  Ethan jumped down to the ground. All around him stood similar ancient trees, their branches tangled overhead. Thin mist swirled between them, and not a single bird chirped or insect buzzed.

  This was indeed Whispering Woods—the same forest he had glimpsed from outside. The majestic ancient trees and ethereal mist remained, but the overwhelming sense of awe that had stunned him earlier was gone—replaced only by a quiet sense of mystery.

  Ethan walked deeper into the forest. He had no idea why he had survived that terrifying fire spell—maybe the robed man had shown mercy, or maybe there was another reason. Whatever the case, he had no desire to go back and face the robed man and his horde of zombies. And from the robed man’s words earlier, it seemed Whispering Woods opened only once in a lifetime. He had to find the World Tree while he still could.

  Not a breath of wind stirred in the forest. It was like standing in an empty void—the only sound was his own footsteps crunching on grass and fallen leaves. There was no trace of any living thing. The silence was unsettling, almost terrifying.

  Ethan followed faint tracks on the ground deeper into the woods. They had been left by the few cavalrymen who had fled the zombies and run into the forest. Sticking to their path would let him know early if something was wrong ahead.

  But he didn’t have to walk far before he realized—something was very wrong.