—
A squadron of twelve knights rode through the rugged expanse of Forwin’s frontier, their silver-and-blue insignia, a pair of outstretched angel wings, gleaming faintly beneath the overcast sky. Their destination was the Labyrinthine Tomb, a yawning abyss carved into the earth like a festering wound, one that never truly closed.
Their mission was straightforward: assess the upper levels’ monster spawn rate and determine whether the kingdom’s bi-monthly culling expeditions needed to be increased to a monthly cycle.
It was supposed to be a routine task.
Three weeks had passed since the last culling. Typically, another wouldn’t be necessary for at least a month. Yet orders had come from Saintess Seraphina Lumielle herself, urging immediate reconnaissance.
That alone was enough to raise concerns.
Demonic Beast attacks had been increasing across the Forwin Kingdom, and the elite forces had been stretched thin dealing with the fallout. Rather than wasting valuable knights on what was likely a pointless errand, the kingdom had opted to send fresh recruits. The uppermost levels of the Labyrinthine Tomb were home to nothing more than Spawn-Rank Demonic Beasts, mindless creatures barely capable of forming proper packs. If the expedition determined the spawn rate remained stable, it would be nothing more than a low-risk exercise in monster avoidance.
A test for the rookies.
At least, that was the assumption.
Yet, standing at the gaping entrance of the abyss, Orion Bishop, second-in-command of the squadron, clicked his tongue in irritation.
"This is absurd," he muttered, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. His dark hair, neatly tied back, swayed slightly as a breeze rolled from the cavern's mouth—cold, damp, and rank with decay. "Just because the last culling had a few more kills than usual doesn’t mean the labyrinth’s spawn rate is spiraling out of control. This is a waste of time.”
Commander Paxion, a grizzled knight with a thick beard and a scar carving down his left cheek, remained silent as he reached into a satchel and withdrew a set of simple-looking bracelets. “Orion,” he said without looking up, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had no patience for complaints, “Do I need to remind you that this order came directly from the Saintess?”
Orion scowled but said nothing.
“Besides,” Paxion continued, distributing the bracelets to the squad, “we’re here to observe. No fighting, no unnecessary engagements. Just an evaluation."
The veterans weren’t thrilled to be here either. Both Paxion and Orion were 6th-rank knights, poised for promotion. Taking on such a menial mission wouldn’t do much for their standing. Still, completing it without issue would add another success to their record.
Orion sighed sharply and caught the bracelet Paxion tossed to him. "These things better work," he muttered, turning the trinket over in his palm.
The bracelet was unassuming, made of dull, tarnished silver. But closer inspection revealed faint, intricate runes carved into its surface.
Orion activated his appraisal skill.
[Appraisal]
[Relic of False Kinship]
Grade: Low
Type: Disposable Holy Relic (Single-use)
Description: A cheaply produced yet highly valuable relic crafted by the Holy Church. When activated, it distorts the perception of nearby monsters, causing them to register the user as one of their own.
Effect:
- Causes monsters to perceive the user as a member of their species or an acceptable variant.
- Effect lasts for two hours or when removed.
- Ineffective against creatures with strong resistance to mental interference.
"A disposable holy relic, huh?" Orion muttered under his breath, slipping it onto his wrist. "How generous of the Church."
“These will disguise the flow of our life force,” Paxion explained, fastening his own bracelet. “Most weaker monsters in the upper layers don’t attack their own unless provoked. So long as we keep a low profile, this should keep us unnoticed.”
The recruits fumbled with their bracelets, adjusting their weapons and checking their gear. Some looked eager, excited for their first real mission. Others were visibly nervous, gripping their swords too tightly.
Paxion took one last look at the looming abyss before turning to the group. "Let’s move," he ordered.
With that, the knights descended into the dark.
The descent was uneventful at first.
The labyrinth’s upper corridors stretched ahead in endless winding paths, their jagged walls lit by the soft, flickering glow of embedded glowstones. The knights moved cautiously, their footsteps echoing against the damp stone. The air smelled of earth, stale and heavy, carrying the lingering scent of decay—faint, but ever-present.
They encountered a few monsters. Too few.
Paxion and Orion both noticed it, but it was Orion who voiced his displeasure first.
"See?" He scoffed, stretching his arms lazily as if he were already bored. "I told you. The spawn rate isn’t increasing—it’s decreasing. At this rate, we should be culling every three months, not two."
Commander Paxion didn’t respond.
He was deep in thought, his weathered face unreadable. Something felt wrong.
Then they saw it.
A corpse.
No—corpses.
A zombie, its body mangled beyond recognition, lay sprawled in the dirt. Another lay beside it. Then another. And another.
The squad halted, the tension among them shifting from mild alertness to something heavier.
“…Strange,” murmured Sir Aldric, the unit’s strategist, as he stepped closer to examine the remains. He nudged the closest body with his boot, turning it over. "Another monster probably attacked them, but..." He trailed off, his brows knitting together. "I don’t see any other corpses. No signs of struggle."
“Maybe a monster from a lower level came up and killed them?” one of the younger knights suggested hesitantly.
Paxion's frown deepened. "Possible," he allowed. "But if that were the case, we should see something—tracks, blood, remains of a fight." He crouched beside the corpses, inspecting the wounds. "Instead, these zombies look like they were systematically torn apart. Throat, joints, vital points. These aren’t wild attacks—" His gaze sharpened. “They were deliberate.”
The squad exchanged uneasy glances.
Paxion was troubled. If a higher-rank beast had surfaced from deeper in the labyrinth, it posed a real threat. Spawn-Rank Demonic Beasts were weak, easily culled before they could grow into anything dangerous. That was the point of these expeditions—to keep them from ever reaching their potential.
But the next rank up?
Fiend-Rank Demonic Beasts.
Creatures that could develop. That did grow stronger over time. That could kill even veteran knights if underestimating them.
Paxion had no intention of losing anyone to a mere scouting mission.
They pressed forward cautiously, their formation tighter now. The deeper they went, the more corpses they found. Not just zombies—skeletons, imps, serpentine beasts—all bearing the same kind of wounds.
Precise. Efficient. Lethal.
There was no panic in their final moments. No chaotic scrambling, no signs of a desperate fight.
Whatever had killed them wasn’t just strong—it was methodical.
Orion stopped.
“...Wait.”
His tone made the other knights pause, following his gaze.
At the far end of the cavern, half-hidden in the gloom, something stood among the bodies.
A zombie.
Unlike the others, it wasn’t moving.
It simply stood motionless, its dull, lifeless eyes locked onto them.
A tense silence stretched between the knights.
For a moment, the undead husk just… watched.
Without a sound—it stepped backward, fading into the darkness.
Orion's brow twitched. “…Is that zombie acting... strange?” He tried to keep his voice casual—too casual.
No one answered.
Because they all knew the answer.
Zombies didn’t hesitate. They didn’t watch their prey.
They weren’t capable of that.
Surely, it was just their imagination.
Right?
The knights moved on, shaking off the unease.
The corridors of the Abyssal Zone stretched further into darkness, the flickering glowstones casting long, distorted shadows across the walls.
Then, a zombie staggered into view.
Just another mindless husk dragging its feet in the same slow, vacant shuffle they had seen hundreds of times before.
One of the knights sneered, wrinkling his nose at the putrid stench of decay.
“Fucking undead should learn their place.”
He drew his sword in a smooth, practiced arc.
Schlikt.
The zombie’s torso split apart instantly, the upper half tumbling lifelessly to the ground. Its severed head bounced once, rolling a short distance before coming to a stop near the knight’s boot.
The knight snorted, raising his foot—
Crack.
The skull caved beneath his heel, bone fragments splintering into the dirt.
“In the dirt, where you belong.”
Some of the rookies laughed.
It was common knowledge that Witherling Zombies didn’t attack their own race. Even if provoked, they lacked the intelligence to retaliate.
So there was no danger.
Or so they thought.
The knight barely had time to blink.
The shadow beside him shifted.
Suddenly, a clawed hand shot out from the darkness.
It ripped into his throat before he could even scream.
The knight staggered, his sword clattering to the ground, fingers clawing desperately at his gaping wound.
His mouth opened and closed uselessly, trying to breathe, trying to scream, but nothing came.
Thick, blackened rot spread from the slashes in his flesh, pulsing outward like creeping veins of death, sinking into his skin. His legs buckled, his body convulsing as his mind screamed for air that would never come.
He collapsed onto the cold stone floor, choking on his own blood.
His eyes were wide.
Filled with horror.
And the crushing realization that he was already dead.
A heavy silence filled the cavern.
Then—
The remaining knights turned sharply, faces twisting in alarm as they spotted the figure standing over their fallen comrade.
A single zombie loomed in the darkness.
It did not groan or lurch forward like a clumsy, mindless corpse.
It simply stood there, watching them.
Its sunken, lifeless eyes locked onto theirs, an unnatural menace radiating from its stillness.
Then it moved.
The moment the zombie moved, the air shifted.
It wasn’t a sluggish, mindless lurch.
It was fast—inhumanly so.
One moment, it stood among the corpses, a silent observer in the dark. The next, it was in front of them, lunging at the closest knight with an unnatural fluidity that sent a primal alarm through the group.
A blur of motion.
A single second.
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Its jaws unhinged, and before the knight could react—
Schlkkt.
The sickening crunch of bone snapping under force.
The knight’s head separated from his body in one clean, effortless motion.
A gargled scream—cut short.
The lifeless corpse convulsed, blood spraying in a fine arc, painting the stone walls in a deep crimson mist. The knight’s hands clawed desperately at the creature, his body twitching in its final death throes—
But the zombie held firm, its claws embedded deep into the torn flesh, wrenching through muscle, sinew, and veins with grotesque ease.
It didn’t hesitate.
It ripped through him, tearing apart meat and cartilage as if it were peeling apart overripe fruit.
The body dropped, collapsing into a twitching heap, its severed head rolling a few feet before settling at Orion’s boots.
The cavern fell silent.
A heartbeat.
Then—panic erupted.
“Fall back!”
Swords were drawn, boots scrambled against the stone, but Commander Paxion didn’t flinch.
His booming voice cut through the chaos, sharp and cold.
“CALM YOURSELVES!”
The trembling rookies froze at his words.
Paxion’s sharp blue eyes locked onto the zombie, his face twisted in a mixture of annoyance and contempt.
“It’s just a Witherling Zombie.”
He stepped forward, blade in hand, posture unwavering. The weight of his authority settled over the squad like an iron grip.
“Our fallen comrades were careless enough to let their guard down in an Abyssal Zone.” His voice was even, but laced with condescension. “If they were weak enough to die to something like this, then they deserved their fate. Let this be a lesson.”
His sword gleamed under the dim glowstone light.
“Watch me.”
Without another word, Paxion lunged, his blade aimed for the zombie’s head—
And missed.
Not because the strike was off.
Not because his form was flawed.
Because the zombie dodged.
It wasn’t an instinctive, jerky movement like a typical undead.
It was fluid.
Unnatural.
Almost like it had read the attack before it came.
The creature weaved past the blade, slipping through Paxion’s strike like a shadow parting in the wind.
Paxion stiffened.
Orion froze.
And then, a suffocating presence washed over them.
Like a creeping hand wrapping around their throats, squeezing, pressing down on their lungs.
An overwhelming, predatory killing intent that sent a visceral, primal terror surging through their bones.
The rookie knights trembled, their grips faltering on their weapons.
Orion’s pulse pounded violently in his ears.
A thin film of sweat rolled down his temple.
His instincts screamed. Appraise it.
[Appraisal] Activated
Race: Demonic Beast
Species: Witherling Zombie
Rank: Spawn
Titles: Cannibal
Strength: 21
Intelligence: 16
Endurance: 17
Vitality: 15(+5)
Agility: 23
Skills:
Night Vision - Lv. 7
Wither’s Claw - Lv. 8
Inspect - Lv. 7
Unarmed Combat - Lv. 5
Mana Perception - Lv. 6
Fear - Lv. 3
His eyes widened in horror as the information flashed before him.
His mind couldnt even process the stats and skill before him because one thing caught his attention.
At the top of the status screen, a title stood out.
[Cannibal]
Orion felt his blood run cold.
“No…” He whispered, his voice barely audible.
Why?
Why does it have a title like that?
And then—he saw the stats.
His chest tightened.
These weren’t the stats of a regular Witherling zombie.
No.
These were stats dangerously close to an Fiend ranked undead. What was it doing this far close to the surface
Paxion, unaware of Orion’s revelation, charged in again.
The seasoned knight surged forward, his blade flashing in the dim cavern light. His movements were sharp, decisive—the reflexes of a man who had fought more battles than most could count.
His sword arced through the air, a deadly, practiced strike aimed to take the zombie’s head in one clean motion.
A perfect execution.
But the zombie matched him.
Steel met nothing.
The moment Paxion’s sword slashed forward, the undead reacted—not with the sluggish, mindless jerking of a typical Witherling, but with the fluid grace of a trained fighter.
It didn’t overpower Paxion. It didn’t outspeed him.
It read him.
The zombie twisted at the last second, stepping just outside the range of the blade, not wasting an inch of movement.
Then—
A counterattack.
Its claws lashed out, not wild, not desperate—but precise.
The swipes weren’t reckless.
They were aimed.
At the joints in Paxion’s armor. The soft openings where plates overlapped. The small weaknesses that only a warrior with kill-or-be-killed experience would instinctively exploit.
Paxion gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance.
He had fought monsters faster than him before. He had fought beasts stronger than him.
He had years of training, countless battles, victories against enemies that should have killed him.
But this was different.
The zombie wasn’t just fighting.
It was hunting.
Blow for blow, strike for strike, they moved at the same speed.
But the difference between them was clear.
Paxion fought like a knight—trained, methodical, skilled in the art of battle.
The zombie fought like a survivor—ruthless, instinct-driven, experienced in the reality of battle.
And that difference was fatal.
In a flash the Zombie vanished.
“…Where—?!”
A gut-wrenching sensation coiled in Orion’s chest.
A whisper of movement.
A fleeting shadow.
“BEHIND YOU!”
Orion’s voice cracked with urgency.
A blur.
A flash of motion.
The zombie emerged from the darkness—not with the jerky lurch of an undead, but with the measured swiftness of a predator that had done this a thousand times before.
Claws raked across Paxion’s exposed face.
A soundless scream—
Then a sickening rip of flesh tearing apart.
Pain exploded through Paxion’s skull, a blinding agony that shot down his spine, spreading like wildfire through his nerves.
His vision swam.
His legs buckled.
Rot set in instantly.
The deep, black sickness spread from the wound, coiling through his veins like writhing tendrils, burrowing deep into his nerves, twisting, consuming.
His body froze.
His sword slipped from his numb fingers, clattering uselessly against the stone.
His lips parted—trying to speak, trying to command, trying to breathe—
But nothing came.
The zombie loomed over him.
For a brief moment, Paxion saw its face up close.
It was not empty.
It was not lifeless.
It was studying him.
Those dull, sunken eyes weren’t blank—they were assessing.
Observing.
It was as if the zombie wasn’t just killing him.
It was using him to grow.
And then—
It moved.
One final, merciless slash.
Its claws pierced through his armor—through his flesh, through his spine.
The sensation of his body splitting open.
The taste of iron filling his mouth.
Paxion’s body jerked once.
Followed by stillness.
His eyes, wide, unfocused, unseeing, stared up into the void.
Commander Paxion was dead.
And the zombie?
The zombie simply tilted its head, observing its fallen prey.
Then—
It turned its gaze to the others.
Orion felt his heartbeat thunder in his ears.
Throughout the battle the other knights had avoided getting involved afraid that there clumsy actions might be disadvantagous to the commander. They thought they would sit back and watch their commander secure a victory. But instead they stood paralyzed by fear as they watched there commander die.
It moved with the same brutal efficiency, its clawed hand slicing through the air before another knight could even react. Its fingers dug deep into his gut, and twisted.
A wet, sickening squelch.
The knight’s body seized up as his mouth opened in a silent scream, his intestines spilling out like a ruptured wineskin. He trembled for a moment, his hands feebly clutching at the shredded remains of his abdomen, trying to push everything back in, as if he could somehow undo what had just been done. He collapsed before he could even finish processing his own death.
The zombie was already moving.
Another knight tried to flee, only to be caught in its path. A blur of motion—then a deafening crack! The knight’s helmet caved inward like a tin can, his skull crunched beneath the raw force of the zombie’s strike. Bone shards tore into his brain, and his body crumpled to the floor before his mind could even register what had happened. A grotesque wheezing sound left his throat—a final, instinctive gasp for breath—before he was still.
The third knight tried to fight back. He swung his sword, his stance solid, movements disciplined—he was not a rookie, but a trained soldier. It didn’t matter.
The zombie slipped under his guard like a phantom. A single swipe.
Flesh parted. Blood sprayed.
His right arm flew into the air, the stump at his shoulder festering instantly, black veins spider-webbing through his skin as the rot spread like wildfire. He barely had time to scream before his body convulsed, his face contorting in agony as the infection twisted its way into his spine. His legs gave out. He hit the ground in a fit of violent spasms before his breathing hitched, then stopped.
One by one, they died.
Screams rang through the cavern, bouncing off the walls in a symphony of death. But those, too, faded into silence, until—
Only Orion remained.
His sword trembled in his grip. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, barely controlled. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that it drowned out the wet, choking gurgles of his fallen comrades. The acrid scent of blood hung thick in the air, clinging to his armor, his skin, his lungs.
His squadron—his men—had been slaughtered.
And the thing that had done it stood before him.
It was covered in gore. Its claws dripped with the remnants of torn flesh and shattered bone, pieces of human meat clinging to its rotting fingers. The stench of putrefaction mixed with fresh blood, creating an unbearable, nauseating stench that filled the air. But more than anything—more than its terrifying efficiency, more than its unnatural strength, more than the cold precision with which it had ended the lives of his comrades—one thing filled Orion with a creeping, paralyzing dread.
The zombie was staring at him.
It didn’t lurch forward like a mindless beast. It didn’t growl or snarl. It didn’t attack.
It was just standing there… MENACINGLY.
Orion’s throat tightened.
This thing—it was thinking.
Zombies did not think.
Undead were creatures of instinct, drawn to the living like moths to a flame, their only purpose to feed, to spread, to kill. There was no intelligence, no hesitation, no consideration.
And yet—
The longer the silence stretched, the clearer it became.
Orion’s hands trembled. He tried to steady his breathing, but his lungs refused to cooperate. He had trained for years, fought through dozens of battles, slain countless monsters—but he had never encountered anything like this.
A heavy silence pressed down on them, thick and suffocating.
Slowly—the zombie tilted its head.
A human gesture. A mimicry of curiosity.
Orion couldn’t take it anymore.
With a sharp movement, his trembling hands shot to his wrist, yanking off his enchanted bracelet. The holy artifact, still glowing faintly with divine energy, clattered to the ground, rolling through the puddles of blood.
A desperate hope burned in his chest.
Maybe… maybe that was why it had attacked. Maybe the artifact had masked their life signatures, making them appear undead. Maybe, just maybe, if he showed that he was human, it would—
The zombie’s crimson eyes flickered.
It paused. Blinked.
For a moment, its expression shifted—just slightly. A flicker of surprise.
It turned its gaze to the discarded artifact. Then, slowly, it looked back at him.
Orion felt his stomach drop.
Nothing changed.
Just silent, unbroken staring.
His last, desperate plan had failed.
His hands clenched around the hilt of his sword, but he barely noticed. The last shred of control he had slipped through his fingers. His knees wobbled. His breath hitched. His body refused to listen to him, every instinct in his mind screaming, RUN, RUN, RUN—
The zombie took a step forward.
Orion flinched.
It wasn’t a lunge. It wasn’t an attack. It was just a slow purposeful step.
Yet Orion could do nothing but stare, frozen beneath the weight of its presence.
Every subtle motion, every shift of its stance, sent Orion in frenzy.
Orion’s fingers tightened around his sword until his knuckles turned white. He could still fight. He had to fight. Even if it was futile, even if his odds were nonexistent, he had to try.
His foot slid backward, his body instinctively trying to create distance. The zombie’s gaze tracking his movement with the same eerie patience.
Something changed.
The expression on the zombie’s face flickered.
It wasn’t something as simple as aggression or interest.
It was hesitation.
A brief, fleeting pause—just enough to make Orion second-guess everything.
Then the zombie turned away.
Orion blinked.
It… walked away?
His body refused to move as he watched the undead turn its back on him, its blood-streaked form fading into the shadows of the labyrinth as though he wasn’t even worth finishing off.
Orion should have been relieved. He should have felt gratitude, should have fallen to his knees and thanked every god in existence that his life had been spared.
But he didn’t.
Instead—
He felt sick.
Because as he stood there, drenched in the blood of his comrades, surrounded by shredded corpses and severed limbs, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the zombie had made a decision.
That it had chosen to let him live.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
His body remained frozen long after the creature was gone. His legs refused to move, his instincts screamed at him that if he ran now, it would come back.
But he couldn’t stay here.
If he stayed here, he would lose his mind.
Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, Orion forced his body to move—slowly at first, like a man trapped in a nightmare, then faster, his boots splashing through the blood pooling on the cavern floor as he turned on his heel and ran.
He ran like death itself was chasing him.
Every breath was shallow, every footstep too loud in the deafening silence of the upper levels. His mind played tricks on him, convincing him that at any second, he would hear the sound of bare, bloodied feet dragging against the stone behind him.
He imagined the zombie changing its mind, imagined it rushing after him, its rotting hands closing around his throat, its teeth sinking into his flesh.
He imagined dying here, just like the others.
His vision blurred with panic, every shadow morphing into something that could kill him.
The exit felt so far away.
His body screamed in protest, exhaustion threatening to overtake him, but the thought of stopping was unthinkable.
The smell of blood clung to him, his armor was soaked, his hands still shaking from the battle he never even fought.
He ran.
He ran until the shadows thinned.
He ran until he saw the faint glow of moonlight.
He ran until he burst out of the Abyssal Zone’s entrance, nearly collapsing onto the ground outside.
He didn’t stop.
Not until he was far, far away.
Only when he could no longer see the abyss did he finally fall to his knees, gasping for breath.
Then, at last—
Orion began to scream.
Chapter End...
Akashic Record
Name: [][][][][][]
Race: Demonic Beast
Species: Witherling Zombie
Rank: Spawn
Class: None
Level: 9
Titles: Cannibal
Strength: 21
Intelligence: 16
Endurance: 17
Vitality: 15(+5)
Agility: 23
Stat Points Available: 3
Skills:
Night Vision - Lv. 7
Wither’s Claw - Lv. 8
Inspect - Lv. 7
Unarmed Combat - Lv. 5
Mana Perception - Lv. 6
Fear - Lv. 3
######### of ###### - Lv. Locked (Remnant - Unusable)
Traits:
Undead Body - Lv. 8
Blood Nourishment - Lv. 2