Stanford let loose another arrow. The black fletching looking like a visage of death- It hit a meaty corpse right in the center, the feathers still vibrating.

  It was an apocalypse down below. Endless waves of slumbering, salivating bodies ran without care. The palisades were long breached- Sharp logs reinforced with metal bands lay shattered on the ground, stopping very few of the undead monsters.

  Fortunately, there was a flicker of hope. Men and women of different races faced the horrors below. Knights in shining armor cleaved apart the tall, muscular forms of Revenants. Old and grizzled veterans took to the field: spellswords, skirmishers and guardians. All united for the same reason- To keep the walls standing.

  The stone, chiseled bricks were the only thing standing between innocent lives and a horde of creatures from another world. The wards were flashing bright; fields of force unfurling before anything could damage the walls.

  Skills were employed. Swords and axes shone in ethereal light. Fighters were suddenly invigorated; unseen hands of experience guided them. Wounds knitted faster than they should have.

  For now, they held. They kept most of the fleshy monstrosities away from the walls- The rest were quickly rebuffed by the town’s enchantments.

  It does not look good, not good at all. Stanford knew the fighters could hold on, but something else told him there was more to come. He nocked another arrow, infusing it with a skill; it made the shot faster, more precise. Most importantly, it made the arrow explode in a black light upon impact- Piercing many husks with fragments of metal and wood.

  After none of the harvesters came back from the forest, they expected a beast tide. No one foresaw this. So many undead gathering in one place meant one thing. A plaugebearer was among them, herding and collecting the invaders.

  The generals of the undead army brought many dangers with their presence. Usually, they were powerful warriors on their own, but something else made them much more intimidating. They had the ability to share their “gift” with other creatures of Epision; they turned biomatter into drooling troops incapable of thought.

  It’s planning something. It has to be, or it would have revealed itself already. Shrieks caused him to examine the field more clearly. His experienced monster-hunter ears picked up on others sounds beyond growling. Shrieks of terror, Stamping of hooves, and a serene melody.

  A harp played, sounding so beautiful... Stanford shook it off easily, his mind firm like an unbreakable wall.

  The sounds of struggle kept growing, soon reaching a critical point. Oh fuck me.

  “ANIMAL STAMPEDE INCOMING!”

  “Take cover! Go! Go! Go!”

  People scurried like insects away from the encroaching horde of panicked animals. Packs of beefalo trampled whatever was left of the palisades. Panicked lynxes pounced on everything that moved, slashing throats and flesh. Owl-Bears as big as entire homes burst out of the forest, wrecking havoc and sowing distraction. Everything turned into one big soup of bodies and screams; no one cared about protecting the walls anymore, just saving their own lives.

  Even though the undead should’ve been massacred by the beasts, most of them managed to get out of the way on time. As if something commanded them to act. The harp intensified, this time rousing emotion and despair instead of extinguishing it.

  It walked onto the battlefield, instantly locking eyes with Stanford. The creature had thick, scaly dark skin. Its veins pulsed in dim black light. As it walked down the field, it killed everything approaching with only disdain in its eyes. Long black horns jutted out of its head, giving it the appearance of an ancient demon of terror. On its back was a big harp; the shiny instrument created a contrast to the whole creature. The harp played on its own, untouched by the incarnation of wrath.

  Stanford squinted his eyes, fighting another effect meant to terrify him. He turned around to other archers or mages beside him, pointing at a young hunter. “You! Get the Baron here now!”

  Without missing a beat, the man ran towards the baron’s estate.

  How the hell am I supposed to hold it off? Stanford thought as he continued using all his skills, trying to thin the wave of monsters.

  Something caused him to stop for a moment. His methodical and steady firing stopped. He saw many things in his life, but this took the cake as the most surprising.

  He gaped in confusion as a young boy along with a wolf with a silver mane walked out of the forest. Their eyes were glassed over; they followed the harp with reckless abandon. Being still too far behind the lines of undead, they were safe- Though that would quickly change.

  “What the hell are they doing?” Stanford said quietly. Couldn’t they see the fight going on? I don’t get paid enough for this. He thought as he realized they couldn’t resist the charm.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He flicked his eyes to the Commander for a moment, seeing it getting held off by the baron. The tall noble wielded a long claymore, crossing blades with the commander’s long, razor-sharp claws. He’ll be fine for now.

  The teen with his familiar were closing in on the palisades, almost getting beheaded by a reckless swipe from an undead. Not if I can help it.

  To most people Stanford seemed like a grumpy old man, bitter and senile. While that may have been the truth, he had a soft spot for children and younglings. Deep inside his heart, he wanted to protect them- To help them realize their full potential. Because of this, he jumped off the safe city walls. The stone fortress walls were as tall as three houses stacked on top of each other. A fall like that would kill a lesser man- Except... he wasn’t lesser.

  His fall seemed to stretch for minutes, his eyes having the time to plan the optimal route to the boy. This was by design of course; his skill bought him the necessary time to think. With his perception of time altered, he was unstoppable.

  Tumbling on impact, he used the momentum to propel himself forwards. He flicked his hands, long serrated knives appearing in them. With decades of experience, he plowed through the battlefield like a specter. He eliminated everything on his path. Tall revenant brutes fell from his blade, along with other monsters with long fangs, sharp claws or other natural weapons.

  With the use of his other skills, he reached the boy in an instant. There was no time for pleasantries. Slapping the boy, he shook him hard. The trance broke, eyes turning aware and panicked.

  Perytos looked up. His senses were confused. One moment he was standing in the forest, the next an old man with fair grey hair stared him down. He noticed where he was- Sounds finally caught up to him, along with the smell.

  “AHHHHH!” “What the hell is that!”

  The smell of a thousand unwashed bodies caused him to gag and bend over, vomiting on his feet. Perytos’ instincts screamed at him from all sides. It overwhelmed him. His mind tried to catalogue every possible danger, but that was impossible. He focused only on the nearest ones, paying attention to them.

  Your skill(Survival instinct) has reached level 2-5

  “There is no time, get your familiar and GO!” The old man insisted.

  Perytos raced to Mercel, pulling on his tail. The pain awoke the wolf instantly, breaking the mental compulsion. “We have to go.” He whispered, terrified for his life.

  Their cloaked savior raced ahead, making the path for their escape. His precise movements made killing the undead a breeze. He showed how precise control allowed for ruthless efficiency.

  Somewhere in the distance two giants faced off. A long, radiant claymore clashing with spindly black claws. The authority rolling off them seemed to cover the entire battlefield, the sounds causing bursts of wind to howl and tear nearby people apart.

  Perytos’ escape was easy and hard at the same time. They just had to follow behind, but they were massively unprepared for braving the sea of animals, warriors and monsters.

  Skills that caused big explosions or large-scale destruction made traversing the field a nightmare. Perytos sidestepped an arrow going for the undead behind him; it barely penetrated the hard skin.

  The monster ripped the arrow out of its chest, roaring in pain. The jagged notches of the steel projectile ripped chunks of its meat on the way out. In moments the wound was sealed by black tar that hardened with exposure to air. The monster would have crushed Perytos’ ribs if the old man hadn’t thrown a knife straight into the beast’s yellow eye.

  “Hurry up!”

  A few encounters later, Perytos stood at the gate with small wounds building up on his body. The lines of red sealed in moments. Despite that, the pain wasn’t leaving him.

  The hunter whistled sharply. The sound cut through the clamor. A rope was quickly let down the sides of the stone walls. Perytos didn’t think; he tied the twisting cord around Mercel’s frame. As it was being hoisted up, he held onto it with his strong hands. His oath resonance gave him the grip strength to hold on.

  Your skill(Oath resonance) has reached level 11-12

  Meanwhile, Stanford scaled the walls with ease. His deft fingers found even the tiniest notches in the stone, allowing him to put his whole weight on tiny cracks.

  Looking around, Perytos stared in awe. Combined with the way the older man handled the barbaric undead, Perytos realized something. I want to be like him someday. To control where my enemy steps, to make them play to my whims. I want to move like the wind itself. Where nothing would stand on my path.

  “Now that you’re safe, seek shelter. I’ll talk with you later. I have a plaugebearer to kill.”

  Before he could ask what the hell a plaugebearer was, the man disappeared again. Only the whistling of arrows indicated he was somewhere on the field of battle.

  Where the man stood, a black pouch remained. It was filled with some money- So much in fact, Perytos had never seen more. His eyes widened while he wondered who the hell that was.

  “First time talking to the huntmaster Stanford?”

  The man who asked the question smiled sadly.

  “He does that sometimes. Appear out of nowhere, save your life and leave without a word.” At Perytos confusion, he held out his hand.

  “My name is Robert. I would happily talk with someone who was saved by the huntmaster, but the siege won’t break itself.” He grimaced. “It's a nightmare out there. Take care of yourself kid.”

  With that, the man continued shooting from his long black bow. His arms tensed, straining the limbs of the bow.

  Perytos stayed like that for a moment. Mercel accompanied him, still shaking from fear and stress. They needed rest; today’s events left him drained of any strength. He would rather not think about what was happening below, but the sounds forced him to keep listening. Shouts and shrieks and growls and clinks. It was all too much. He just wanted to rest, to fall unconscious on the hard bricks. Something kept him awake.

  He watched the siege conclude for the next few hours. The defenders of Netcore held on. The beast tide shook them all, but they prevailed. The giant demon-like creature managed to escape in the end. Its harp briefly stunning even the baron for a few precious seconds.

  Without their commander, the undead didn’t know how to work together. From then on, it took only a few minutes for the last of the undead to end up with a bolt of magic between the eyes.

  Countless bodies were left in the aftermath. Most were of monsters and beasts, but a few of the armored defenders fell as well. It was a grim reminder that the safety of the innocent wasn’t free- It was a price paid in blood and tears. How many towns have to hold on like this? How many are fighting to their last breath, even now? Perytos didn’t know, but the possibility left him dizzy and nauseous. I have to be stronger. Living on the mercy of others, asking someone to pay that price for me- It's unacceptable.