Chapter 10 The Path To Power II

Damien lunged forward as the first zombie closed the gap, its twisted, rotting face illuminated by the pale moonlight. Its milky white eyes locked onto him, jaws snapping hungrily as it let out a guttural moan.

His grip tightened on the sword, and he swung it in a wide arc, aiming for its neck. The blade connected, slicing through decayed flesh and brittle bone, sending the creature's head tumbling to the ground. Damien staggered back, momentarily surprised at his own success.

But there was no time to celebrate. Two more zombies were already closing in, their uneven gaits betraying a disturbing hunger.

"Okay," Damien muttered, shifting his stance. "One down. A lot more to go."

He steadied his breathing, trying to remember the few lessons Aria had shared during their time together. Keep the blade level. Watch their movements. Don't let them get too close.

Easier said than done.

The second zombie lunged at him, its filthy hands reaching for his neck. Damien ducked, narrowly avoiding its grasp, and thrust the sword upward. The blade pierced through its ribcage, and he twisted it violently, sending the creature collapsing to the ground.

The third zombie, however, was faster than he anticipated. Its hand clawed at the air just inches from his face. Damien reacted instinctively, sidestepping and swinging the sword upward. The blade caught the zombie's jaw, splitting its head open with a sickening crunch.

But the noise of the fight was attracting more.

From every direction, zombies shuffled toward him, their groans growing louder. Damien's chest heaved as he realized the full extent of what he'd done. He had underestimated just how many were lurking in the shadows.

"Fantastic," he muttered under his breath, adjusting his grip on the sword. "This was such a brilliant idea."

---

The next wave came at him in a chaotic frenzy. There were five of them this time, their decayed forms closing in from multiple directions. Damien cursed, backing up toward a crumbling wall to limit the angles of attack.

The first zombie reached him, lunging with its arms outstretched. Damien swung the sword horizontally, severing its arms at the elbows. The creature stumbled but didn't stop, its head snapping forward as it tried to bite him.

"Not today," Damien growled, driving the blade through its skull and yanking it free just in time to face the next one.

This one was missing half its face, its exposed teeth gnashing in a grotesque display. Damien aimed for its legs, slashing at its knees to bring it down. The zombie collapsed, but its hands still clawed at him, forcing him to stomp on its head to finish it off.

The remaining three zombies were relentless, their rotting bodies pressing forward despite their grotesque injuries. Damien swung wildly, his arms burning with the effort. His movements lacked precision, each strike draining more of his energy.

He managed to decapitate one of them, but the effort left him off balance. Another zombie lunged at him from the side, its filthy nails scraping against his jacket. Damien barely twisted out of the way in time, his heart pounding as he realized how close it had been.

"Too close," he muttered, shoving the creature back with a desperate kick.

"Wtf, I was better than this when I was fighting the evolved... Maybe because I was in danger then..... Fuck!! my life is in danger now too. Why is my body slower."

---

The fight became a blur of motion and desperation. Damien's strikes grew sloppier, his breathing more ragged. He had no formal training, no refined technique—just raw instinct and sheer determination.

He swung the sword in a frantic arc, managing to keep the zombies at bay, but their numbers were growing. For every one he took down, two more seemed to emerge from the shadows.

The sound of their groans filled his ears, drowning out everything else. The stench of decay was overwhelming, and his muscles screamed in protest with every swing of the blade.

He stumbled over a fallen zombie, barely catching himself before he hit the ground. A cold sweat dripped down his face as he realized he was surrounded.

"Great," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just what I needed."

The zombies pressed in closer, their movements slow but relentless. Damien's hands shook as he gripped the sword, his mind racing. He couldn't afford to let them touch him—not even a scratch.

He slashed at the nearest one, cleaving its head in two, and spun to face the next. His strikes were wild and uncoordinated, but they were enough to keep him alive.

For now.

---

The horde seemed endless. No matter how many Damien killed, more kept coming. His arms ached, his vision blurred, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. Blood and ichor covered his clothes, the sword in his hand growing heavier with each passing second.

And then, as he stood there amidst the carnage, he realized the truth: he was outnumbered, outmatched, and utterly unprepared.

The zombies' groans grew louder, their forms pressing closer, and Damien's grip on the sword faltered.

"Maybe," he said, his voice hoarse and filled with bitter humor, "this isn't such a good idea after all."

---