"What... How is he...?" The human stood up, pulling his own sword, but staring at the monster pulling the blade from the ground as if it belonged to him, with such familiarity that he wondered if it was possible.

  "Hey, drop that now." His voice was thick with incredulity and fear.

  Veron pulled the blade. It was an old companion, given by the hands of Blacksmith Abinal, forged in the Flaming Canyons, tempered in the Dark Valleys of Suapa, and finished in the eternal ice of Snowpeak Mountain Rescler—an unreachable place for any common human.

  It had been made as a gift for Strifer, the man who, kneeling before House Homun, swore eternal loyalty. But now, fate had taken a cruel turn, and that sword was back in Veron's hands.

  "Being a skeleton brought an old friend back to me." He tightened his grip on the sword hilt, feeling the cold texture of the metal between his bony fingers. "If you're here, Kitnes, then Strifer is gone."

  The human charged at him, running like a lunatic, sword in hand, roaring like a wounded animal. The skeletons around tried to stop him, but they were mercilessly shattered. Bones cracked, skulls split, and each strike tore different screams from the Lich’s legion, which remained motionless, merely observing.

  "This is life and death." Veron raised the sword and ran toward the human.

  The blades clashed, sparks flew into the air. The human was stronger, faster, trying to cut Veron at any opening, aiming for his head, his arms—anything that could bring him down. But Veron deflected the blows with impassive precision. Every strike was just a strike, every step just a step.

  Without flesh to weigh him down, without exhaustion to hinder him, he was pure focus and concentration. His oath came to the surface:

  "I will avenge every bastard who smiled at me that day."

  Suddenly, the human got close enough to grab Veron’s neck with his bare hand. But before the grip could tighten, Veron twisted his body, using his own back as leverage, throwing the man over him and slamming him onto the ground.

  Before he could rise, Veron's blade came down mercilessly upon his head. Blood trickled down his forehead, dripping into his ears, soaking the ground. The human's eyes became empty, capturing the last moments of his life as death took him.

  Some skeletons around stopped to watch the scene but soon continued their march.

  "Just another dead human," one of them muttered.

  Veron agreed. "Just another one I need to kill to get to them!"

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He turned, observing the white battlefield being torn apart by the humans. The snow, stained red, contrasted with the cold gleam of blades and the shattered bones scattered across the ground. If he was to take down that stronghold, if he was to destroy it, it would be on his terms.

  To the east, the trenches were filled with soldiers, a living fortress of steel and flesh, but that was not the true heart of the resistance. That was not the focus. If he tried to cross the battlefield to reach it, it would take hours—perhaps he would be taken down before even getting close. He needed to find an approach, a weak point.

  At the back of the enemy formation, Mages and Sorcerers moved their hands in healing rituals, Priests murmured prayers over the wounded, trying to save them from the inevitable. A key piece needed to fall for that line to break.

  A Commander had to die.

  Veron ran alongside the horde of skeletons that advanced without hesitation, throwing themselves onto the battlefield. He lowered his arms, concealing his weapon, blending in as just another among the undead. A skeleton, a monster, a creature forged to be commanded.

  But Veron Homun was never that kind of man. And he would not be that kind of skeleton.

  With a roar, he let his determination explode. The hidden blade gleamed in a cutting arc as he launched himself at the humans. One of the skeletons in front of him had his torso pierced, and the warrior on the other side locked tense eyes with Veron. This was the moment. Using Kitnes, his ancestral blade, he stabbed his own skeletal ally, piercing through him to reach the human’s throat.

  The man didn’t even have time to comprehend the strike. His life was taken before he could react. The blade was pulled back, and in the next instant, it was already lodged in another target. Veron carved his path, taking down two warriors in succession, breaking a small gap in the human wall. The soldiers recoiled, bitter, feeling the inevitable advance.

  Even the fallen skeletons moved again, reassembling themselves like a living wall. A white, eternal wall that always rebuilt itself.

  Veron slipped behind another ally, waiting for the right moment. A third warrior appeared, and he didn’t hesitate. He thrust his sword into the man’s shoulder, drawing a cry of pain.

  "Push him back!" a voice roared amid the chaos. "Stop trying to break the lines! Our mission is to hold these bastards back!"

  The other skeletons didn’t react. They didn’t change formation, didn’t shift their empty gazes. They simply advanced, indifferent to human strategies. They dragged one or two soldiers down, but there was no tactic, only the inevitability of numbers.

  Swords and spears from the fallen were recovered. Veron raised his head, searching for a specific figure amidst the carnage.

  "Amin!" he shouted, his voice swallowed by the confusion. "Amin!"

  "I'm here!" came the distant response.

  In the middle of a pile of swords and bodies, Amin fought against two humans, his movements precise but overwhelmed. He held firm, resisting. But then, a hammer strike came out of nowhere, hitting him square in the chest. Amin was sent flying backward, landed sitting, and got up angrily. Another skeleton had already taken his place, but he wanted to reclaim his spot.

  "Use the weapons on the ground!" Veron shouted. "Grab anything and stab those bastards!"

  Amin looked around, his lifeless eyes spotting a fallen dagger among the bodies. He picked it up, holding it for a moment, almost hesitating. His voice, though expressionless, carried a hint of shock:

  "Can I use this against them?"

  "You must." Veron did not waver.

  The battle left no time for doubt.

  Spinning, Veron brought his sword down on another nearby warrior, carving a deep gash in the enemy’s shoulder, forcing him to retreat. But his attack also drew attention. Some soldiers noticed his intent. Their eyes locked onto him. Now, he was no longer just another skeleton in the horde.