Chapter 31: The Herald Answers

The sword sang as it split through rotted flesh. Again. And again. And again.

Reivo moved like a whirlwind, each breath drawn ragged from his chest. Twenty undead lay shattered and still in the ruined field behind him—some cleaved clean through, others missing heads or limbs, their foul essence staining the cracked earth. His leather armor was tattered, one sleeve torn, his left shoulder bleeding where a jagged claw had grazed him.

But he still stood.

Chest heaving. Blade heavy in his hand.

The whispers in his mind surged louder with each kill, like a choir of ghosts just beneath the surface of thought. They begged. They laughed. They hungered.

Another groan rose from the mist ahead.

His eyes snapped up. More were coming.

The necromancer hadn't moved from his place at the center of the armored ring, but now he raised a skeletal hand and pointed toward Reivo once more. Ten more undead shambled forward, dragging broken weapons and clumps of scorched flesh. Their eyes glowed faintly red—saturated with malice, or perhaps just the residue of the boss's will.

Reivo clenched his jaw. His legs ached, and sweat stung his eyes. The weight of the blade in his hand felt heavier now, like it was drinking more than blood with every swing.

He could kill ten more.

But then what?

Another wave? Ten more after that? Twenty? He'd bleed himself dry before the boss even moved.

His fingers twitched.

No. Not yet. This is what they trained you for. What you survived for.

But deep inside, he knew—it wouldn't be enough.

Not alone.

A drop of blood slid from his wounded shoulder, striking the dirt.

And something inside him stirred.

The whispers twisted into a chorus.

A different kind of hunger rose inside him now—not one of pain, but of command.

He looked down at his hand, flexing it once, then opened his palm to the sky.

"I didn't want to do this yet," he murmured.

He stepped forward, facing the oncoming undead. The wind tore through the broken village, scattering ash and smoke—but Reivo's voice rang clear, laced with something other.

Something wrong.

He raised his hand, fingers spread.

A single drop of blood fell from his palm.

It didn't vanish into the earth.

It struck the ground with a thud like a heartbeat, and from that point, the ground pulsed—once, then again—spreading outward in slow, rippling circles. The soil turned black. The ash curled away from it.

Then came the second drop.

And the world changed.

"Bleed for me, Verhen."

The ground split open—not like stone cracking, but like flesh being torn.

A circle of crimson ichor erupted beneath Reivo's outstretched hand, hissing and steaming as it boiled the air. From that roiling pool, a shape began to rise. Massive. Towering. The light dimmed, and even the groans of the undead faltered.

First came the blades—two jagged arms of rusted bone, scraping through the blood with the sound of meat tearing.

Then the figure.

Two and a half meters tall. Drenched in gore. Robes clung to its muscle-bound frame, black and red, torn and slick with rot. A thick iron mask sat upon its face, featureless save for the twin streams of crimson ichor that poured endlessly from the eye slits, pattering softly to the ground in rhythm with its breathing.

It dripped, even as it stood still.

Verhen, the Bleeding Herald.

The whispers in Reivo's mind went silent.

Then exploded in ecstatic wails.

The summoned being stepped forward, his bladed arms trailing blood behind him like war banners. The ichor hissed where it touched the earth, leaving pockmarks of decay in the soil.

The undead hesitated.

Verhen turned his head slowly to Reivo, awaiting the first order.

Reivo's mouth was dry, heart pounding like thunder.

The feeling that surged through him now wasn't fear.

It was power.

"You know what to do," he said.

The Herald moved.

Faster than anything his size should've been able to.

One step, and he closed the distance to the first ghoul. A sweep of his right blade-arm cleaved the creature in half diagonally, spraying black gore across the field. Before the halves hit the ground, he turned—his other arm slamming into another ghoul's chest, impaling it, then tearing upward.

Heads flew.

Limbs spiraled through the air.

The undead screamed.

But it didn't matter. Verhen danced through them like death incarnate, each movement a blur of steel and blood. He didn't roar, didn't speak. The only sound he made was the ceaseless drip-drip-drip of ichor from his mask.

The boss necromancer watched from his position behind the armored guards.

For the first time, he took a step back.

Reivo smiled, grim and blood-soaked.

Verhen finished the last of the ten in moments. Their bodies were left twitching in heaps, the cursed ground steaming beneath them. The Herald turned again to Reivo, waiting.

The necromancer hissed something and sent his hand down.

Now, the circle of armored undead began to move. They formed into two lines, flanking the boss like royal guards. Another wave—larger, almost thirty strong—emerged from behind them.

But this time, Reivo wasn't pressured.

He was exited. With a smile that sent shivers even in the walking corpses in front of him.

He raised his sword, nodded to Verhen, and took a step forward.

The whispers were stronger now.

Enchanted by the beat of war drums in his chest, in his blood, in the crimson-slicked ground beneath his feet.

"Let's end this. Verhen."