newbobooks Chapter 11 The Fallen Undead
Chapter 11 The Fallen Undead
In the next cycle, Scáthach led Arthur deeper into the wasteland.
The fog here is no longer grayish-white, but dark gray, like solidified smoke and dust.
A sense of oppression permeated the air, not from monsters, but from something older and heavier.
The very scent of death itself.
"This is the 'old battlefield' of the Land of Shadows."
Scáthach stopped, her wine-red eyes gazing into the darkness in the distance:
"Long ago, a war between gods took place here."
The souls of those who died in battle cannot be reincarnated, nor can they find release. They remain forever on this land, twisted by curses and resentment into what you are about to see.
Arthur gripped the sword in the stone tightly, his emerald green eyes scanning his surroundings warily.
Are they Heroic Spirits?
"No." Scáthach shook her head:
"Heroic spirits are heroes who ascend to the Throne of Heroes."
Here... are the abandoned, forgotten, and dead who cannot return home.
They are not heroic spirits, but they were once heroes.
Her voice was soft, carrying a weariness that Arthur had never heard before.
"The Land of Shadows is filled with cursed, twisted, lingering, and incapable undead, evil spirits, fallen warriors, and even gods."
They are trapped in the gap between life and death, unable to escape.
Arthur remained silent for a moment.
"And what about you?" he asked.
"Are you also cursed and trapped here?"
Scáthach turned her head to look at him, a complex light flashing in her wine-red eyes.
"I am the gatekeeper," she said.
"The difference between those who guard them and those who are guarded... isn't as big as you think."
She didn't say anything more, turned around and continued walking deeper into the wasteland.
After walking for about fifteen minutes, they came to an open area.
Broken armor, broken weapons, and scattered bones lay on the ground.
A strong smell of rust filled the air, like congealed blood wailing silently.
"They're here." Scáthach stopped in her tracks, her wine-red eyes narrowing.
In the darkness, figures began to emerge.
Not just one or two, but a group, a dozen or more, or even more.
They have different shapes.
Some were wearing tattered armor, some were naked, and some had broken arrows and swords stuck in their bodies.
Their eyes were empty white, and dark red liquid clung to the corners of their mouths.
Their skin has an unnatural grayish-black color, like leather that has been charred and then soaked in sewage.
What Arthur found most alarming was their expressions.
There was no anger, no hatred, not even madness.
There was only one kind of despair that went deep into one's bones...
It's like being trapped in eternal darkness, with no hope in sight.
"These are soldiers who died in battle," Scáthach said, her voice calm to the point of being indifferent.
He served a king during his lifetime and died on the battlefield.
But their king failed, their country perished, and no one came to collect their bodies or to mourn their souls.
They were forgotten here, corrupted by the magic of the Land of Shadows, and turned into what you see here.
Arthur's throat tightened.
"Can they still be saved?"
"No," Scáthach said.
"Their souls have been corrupted too deeply. The only thing that can be done is to let them dissipate and end this endless suffering."
She took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Go, show no mercy. For them, 'death' is a relief."
Arthur took a deep breath, gripped the sword in the stone, and charged forward.
The first undead rushed forward, holding a rusty longsword with nicks and chips on the blade.
Arthur dodged to the side, simultaneously thrusting his sword toward its throat, where there was a clear "death line".
The blade pierced through, and the undead's body trembled violently before turning into black ash and dissipating into the mist.
In the instant it vanished, Arthur seemed to see the corners of its mouth turn up slightly, as if it were smiling, or as if it were saying "thank you".
But Arthur had no time to think, as the second, third, and fourth undead rushed up.
He swung his sword, parried, thrust, and dodged.
The sword in the stone drew silvery-white arcs in the grayish-white mist, each strike precisely piercing the "death line" of a dead soul.
One by one, the dead turned into black ashes and vanished into the air.
But there are too many of them.
A ghost pounced from behind, its claws tearing through Arthur's leather armor and leaving three deep, bloody gashes on his back.
Arthur, in pain, turned and beheaded the undead with his sword, but two more undead pounced from the side.
His breathing became rapid, his arms began to ache, his wounds were bleeding, and his vision began to blur.
"Arthur," Scáthach's voice came from behind, calm and clear: "Don't use brute force, use what you've learned."
Arthur gritted his teeth and activated the "Star Trail" in his emerald green eyes.
The world has changed.
What he saw was not a dozen or so dead spirits, but a dozen or so complex webs of "death lines".
These nets are intertwined, densely packed, like some kind of eerie pattern.
But at the intersection of these networks, there is a common node.
A point where all the dead ends converge.
It's not in a particular spirit, but in the "gaps" between them.
Arthur understood.
Although these spirits are individual, their "curses" are interconnected.
They were bound together by the same despair, forming a whole.
Killing one or two is pointless, because the curse will be replenished from other undead.
He must simultaneously sever the "death line" of all the dead.
Arthur took a deep breath, gripped the sword with both hands, and raised the Sword in the Stone above his head.
In the emerald green pupils, the location of that common node became increasingly clear.
At the very center of all the dead, a point of nothingness.
He brandished his sword.
It's not about stabbing at a specific undead, but about slashing at that "point of nothingness".
The blade of the sword in the stone drew a huge arc in the air, and the silvery-white sword light bloomed like a new moon.
In that instant, all the movements of the dead froze.
It was as if time had been frozen.
Then, they began to dissipate.
Not just one or two, but all of them.
A dozen or so undead spirits simultaneously turned into black ashes, which slowly drifted away in the mist.
The ashes fell to the ground like black snowflakes, silent and poignant.
Arthur knelt on the ground, panting heavily.
Blood was flowing from his back, his arms were trembling, and the webs between his hands were split open, with blood dripping from the hilt of his sword onto the ground.
But he did it.
With a single strike, he killed more than a dozen undead.
"Okay." Scáthach walked to his side, looked down at him, and a hint of satisfaction appeared in her wine-red eyes:
"You've grasped the 'node of the curse,' something many people never learn in their entire lives."
Arthur looked up, his emerald green eyes filled with sweat, but his gaze remained clear.
"Are they... free now?"
Scáthach remained silent for a moment.
"We're free," she said. "They won't be trapped here anymore."
Arthur nodded and stood up, supporting himself with his sword. His legs were trembling, but he did not fall.
"Let's go back." Scáthach turned and walked towards the castle. "Your injuries need treatment."
Arthur followed behind her, limping along.
On the way back, neither of them spoke.
Only grayish-white mist flowed slowly around them, as if bidding farewell to the departing spirits.
Back at the castle, Scáthach had Arthur sit on a bench in the training room and began tending to the wound on his back.
"Wounds caused by the undead are more troublesome than those caused by monsters."
She said she was applying ointment to her wound with her fingers:
"Because they carry a 'curse,' if you don't clean them properly, the curse will seep into your blood and slowly erode your body."
Arthur sat on the bench, a sharp pain shooting through his back, but he didn't make a sound.
"Scáthach".
"What?"
"Those spirits... what kind of people were they in life?"
Scáthach's fingers paused slightly.
"An ordinary person," she said.
"Like you and me, I have family, friends, and things I want to protect."
They were simply born in the wrong era, chose the wrong side, and died in the wrong place.
She continued applying the ointment, but with gentler movements than usual.
"The Land of Shadows is such a place."
The dead cannot be reincarnated or freed; they remain there forever.
It's not because they did anything wrong, it's just because they were "forgotten."
Arthur remained silent for a long time.
"When I become the true king," he said softly.
"I will not let my soldiers be forgotten."
Scáthach's fingers paused again.
"Then you have to live long enough," she said calmly.
But Arthur sensed something beneath that calm surface.
Something that feels like both "expectation" and "worry".
"I will."
Scáthach did not respond. She finished bandaging the last wound, tied the bandage, and then stood up.
"Alright, go and rest. We'll continue in the next cycle."
Arthur stood up and turned to look at her.
"Scáthach".
"What?"
"Thank you for letting me see this."
Scáthach glanced at him, a fleeting, indescribable emotion flashing in her wine-red eyes.
"You're welcome," she said. "I'm just teaching you 'how to be king.'"
She turned and walked into the shadows.
Arthur watched her retreating figure, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"What you taught me was not just how to be a king," he said softly.
Then, he turned and walked towards his room.
At the highest point of the castle in the Land of Shadows, Scáthach stood on the terrace, her wine-red eyes gazing at the distant gray-black wasteland.
Countless spirits once roamed that place; now, fewer do.
"Relief..." she repeated Arthur's words softly, a slight smile playing on her lips. "That child truly believed that 'relief' was possible."
She raised her left hand, and the stone with the "Guardian" rune appeared in her palm.
A pale golden light shimmered faintly in the darkness, like a tiny star.
"Maybe... he really can change something."
She gripped the stone tightly, turned, and walked back to the castle.
On the terrace, the deep purple magical flowers swayed gently in the magic.
On the petal of one flower, there was a drop of black ash.
Those are the traces left behind when the dead dissipate.
Scáthach stopped and gently brushed away the drop of ash.
Then, she walked into the darkness.