Story 653: March of the Deathless

The metallic groan of rusted catwalks echoed through the abandoned factory as General Viktor "Bloodfang" Kruger stepped forward, his combat knife glinting under the faint, flickering lights. His red beret was tilted slightly, casting a shadow over his cold, predatory eyes.

The air reeked of oil, decay, and gunpowder. Somewhere below, the distant growls of the undead rumbled like a storm waiting to be unleashed.

Kruger’s enhanced senses caught movement. A sudden blur in the shadows. His grip on the knife tightened.

"Still relying on brute force, General?"

A taunting voice echoed from above.

Kruger didn’t look up. He knew who it was.

Sergeant Darius "Hellhound" Rook.

The elite mercenary dropped down from a steel beam, landing smoothly a few feet away. His scarred arms flexed, the burned insignia of a long-forgotten battalion visible beneath his tactical straps. His rifle rested lazily against his shoulder, but his stance was coiled—ready to strike.