What transpired could hardly be called a battle—it was far too bizarre for that.
The sight of shields aligned and spears thrust forward appeared no different from scenes played out across countless nations, yet something universally indispensable, present regardless of country, race, or ethnicity, was missing from the battlefield.
The rally cries, raised by warriors in the heat of combat as they sought to survive by killing their foes, were absent.
The defending side shouted loudly, alerting comrades on either side and covering them, but from the attacking ranks came only an unbroken silence.
Haphazardly armored skirmishers, wrapped in rough plate and surcoats, gathered to advance along narrowing lines of approach, yet they pressed forward in utter stillness, emitting no sound other than the scraping of their armor and weapons. The rhythmic tread of their feet alone coiled together hauntingly, and not even the faintest trace of breath escaped their sealed lips.
Against this loosely-packed enemy, the defenders managed to hold the upper hand. Arrows fired from the watchtowers easily pierced the unprotected skirmishers—striking them as effortlessly as they might drive into training dummies in the courtyard of the Silver Snow Wolf Tavern. The sensation was much the same, differing little in difficulty or effect.
“Damn it, they won’t stop!”
“Piercing their torsos does nothing! Their heads are probably useless too!”
“How are we supposed to skillfully sever their limbs? I’m no lady!”
The animated corpses continued to move, paying no heed to the fatal blows they received. Having slipped through the defensive perimeter’s protective wards, they advanced, attacking and grappling in close quarters using thrown stones and arrows.
Whether arrows pierced their eyes to emerge from the backs of their skulls, or skewered their chests to pierce cleanly through their surcoats, they gave no care.
The line wavered at the sight of these dispassionate skirmishers. What was terrifying about the undead was the unnatural principle by which they were reanimated. Even if one were prepared for it, the sheer wrongness of it—the notion that they should not even exist—caused a primal scream of revulsion in the living.
Ghosts, in a certain sense, exist as a form of spirit and, while they can instill fear, have been, to some degree, accepted in the empire. This may stem from the empire’s radical tolerance for diversity—based as the realm is in the Triadic Empire of Rain—but it also owes to the fact that the grotesque form of a ghost still fits within the frame of a soul.
However, animated corpses are different. The empty husks of those whose lives have ended—remains which should be given proper rites of mourning to ensure the rest of the departed—should never be used as tools. This offensiveness is something that those who believe in the existence of the soul and the afterlife find insurmountable.
Had the corpses been animated by ghosts with some personal character, it might have been different. But for the living, the sight of bodies wandering aimlessly, driven by the spells placed upon them, was too overwhelming.
“Aaaaaargh!!”
A crack in the morale of the defense line was evident in the faltering of the spears’ thrusts, as one animated corpse, attempting to leap the line of shields with a dagger drawn, was pushed back onto its back with a shoulder check.
“Your spears lack spirit! Keep steady, damn it!”
It was their commander who roared, attempting to rally their flagging spirits and remind the hesitant spear-tips of their resolve. He spurred on their weakened morale, which had been worn down by the unreasonable resilience of the animated corpses, and recalled the lessons taught to him by an old friend, a sorcerer.
Focus on breaking the joints and limbs. For these mass-produced animated corpses, whose numbers are their strength, destroying any of their appendages will neutralize them.
“Take them down while you can! Aim for their shoulders and inner thighs!”
“‘Oooh, yes!’”
“Get ready! Thrust!”
“‘Yes!’”
At the commander’s exhortation, the spears followed their training, thrusting in unison with a single cry.
The endurance of the animated corpses was well known, but countermeasures were in place. But this was no foolproof ace up their sleeve—it was more like carrying a jacket over one’s head during a downpour.
Where possible, two or more people would target the same point. The thin formation of the enemy’s array, having slipped past the cluster of landmine runes, was sparse as it advanced, allowing the numbers advantage to manifest in specific spots.
Capitalizing on the momentary advantage, each animated corpse faced two or three spears driving toward them. Spears would be plunged into their weapon-holding hands or feet, focused solely on obliterating muscles and joints.
“It’s… tough!”
“If the spear sinks in, twist it! Destroy it!”
Without their weapons, animated corpses cease to be fearsome. Although they continue to crawl forward and even attempt to use their teeth as a final weapon, their armor and boiled leather boots cannot pierce through the cloth and hardened leather of the defenders. The fetters placed on their joints can tear the skin and rip flesh but cannot breach steel or boiled leather. What truly makes them monstrous is the blade that cuts without remorse and the strength to tear humans apart like birds on feast day.
The spearheads would find their marks in the joints, transforming the animated corpses from fighting machines into flailing blobs of flesh. Some rushed forward, intent on charging the shield wall at full speed, only to be bounced back by the braced line.
“Thrust until they’re crushed, or crush them and thrust! Don’t let their shields edge grip your arms—they’ll pull you down in a heartbeat!”
As the animated corpses continued to collapse under successive thrusts, the ground in front of the line became layered with their immobilized, fleshy remains. Even those trying to crawl away after being disabled were crushed from above by spears.
They were all aware: the bodies of felled enemies could become a defensive wall for the defenders—a barricade against the enemy’s charge.
The spectacle of many animated corpses impaled and disabled as they were caught on spear tips and riddled with arrows seemed overwhelmingly one-sided. Yet, their commander, Siegfried, felt rising anxiety.
The effort required to finish off each one was exceeding projections. Without flamboyant maneuvers, the defenders were left to thrust their spears repeatedly, enduring the relentless assault of the animated bodies, gradually depleting their strength.
To make matters worse, the blood accumulated within the corpses was viscous. Stagnated and murky, it clung more persistently than fresh blood, mingling with fat to dull the edge of their blades, while some blades were now showing signs of chipping due to forced penetration of the armor.
Spearheads were expendable in warfare. Their shafts could bend or break under stress, but the primary reason they were treated as expendable was their gradual dulling by blood and grease.
In this thin formation—where replacements could not be summoned, and with the manor’s initial reserves being insufficient—spares were nonexistent.
“Damn it, so this was the extravagant show they put on for.”
The scattering advance of the skirmishers, originally intended to be expendable, had opened the way and bought time, allowing multiple ranks of formation to align behind them. While the adventurers and local militia were desperately eliminating the skirmishers, the enemy had leisurely reorganized their ranks.
Ten and eleven in the first rank, with a total of three ranks containing thirty-three combatants, this formation was a harbinger of doom to the defenders.
In the front rank stood animated corpses clad in relatively decent armor, holding shields and spears. Behind them, though less adorned, the animated corpses still carried functional spears and shields. A textbook formation where shields were interlocked without gaps, spears extended horizontally from the front rank, and those from the second rank thrust between the shoulders of the first.
“Damn… they’re coming! Steady now! There’s no winning in a war of attrition!”
Though fatigue was beginning to set in for the defenders, they braced their shields and stood firm, awaiting the attack with the resolve of stones underpinning a fortress. There was no way out now. In such a situation, it would have been wiser to heed Siegfried’s earlier words and “go down with style.”
The chances of surviving were thin. A war of grappling with enemies who neither flinch at spears nor succumb to decapitation was no more than a cruel joke. Exhausted by an unwearied foe, they would be pushed back until their stamina broke and they were crushed.
Everyone understood this. And still, not a single soul opted to throw away their spear and flee for their life.
Reasons varied: the militia protecting their manor, a young man unable to get a certain woman’s face out of his mind, someone who fantasized about a grand epitaph on their tombstone reading “adventurer who fought gloriously”, or perhaps just pride and stubbornness that left no room for retreat.
The line of undead, utterly indifferent to the resolution of the defenders, began its forward march. Though the fallen, worm-like skirmishers strewed the path, impeding a charge, the momentum of the first collision meant little to them.
The initial blow was merely a tactic to end the battle swiftly—a strategy used by those who still valued their lives.
But these were reanimated bodies stripped of the concept of death.
“Come at meeee!!”
“Take thisss!!”
“AAAaaaargh!!!”
The scene was a cacophony of screams and the clash of metal as spearheads struck the armor, weapons deflected, and some, whether by luck or misfortune, pierced through the enemy array, drawing blood in arcs.
For the animated corpses, this scenario served as the optimal solution. While a single blow could crush the enemy formation, they relished the prospect of prolonged bleeding in a war of attrition. Should the initial clash scatter the defenses, it would require pursuit.
Still, by maintaining contact, given the existence of a separate unit, they would ultimately prevail in what was, tactically, a profitable engagement.
“Get your mouths off me!!”
“Aaaahh, I can’t see!!”
“Don’t fall! Even if you can’t see, sticking forward will make contact!!”
For every attack tenfold the defenders unleashed on the indifferent animated corpses, a single strike slipping through their defenses would drastically swing the advantage in favor of the attackers. Those slashed across the stomach would buckle under the pain, and those whose foreheads were cut by helmets through visored helms cried out as blood filled their sight.
In stark contrast, the animated corpses continued to exert a steady output mercilessly. As living organisms, the defenders’ hands began to weaken visibly.
“Damn bastards! Push, drive them back! There’s still a chance in close combat!”
“Ughhh, it’s heavy! Siegfried, we can’t hold them!!!”
“I can’t stand hearing excuses! If you don’t want all that sword practice wasted, tighten your asses and hold your ground!”
For adventurers, who were outclassed in both endurance and tenacity, their only hope of a reversal lay in bringing the battle into close quarters. Once the enemy ranks were disrupted, adventurers, skilled in the art of close combat, held the upper hand.
Cutting off the weapon-wielding hands and kicking the enemy to knock them down were tactics that could mitigate the overwhelming pressure of the undead if only they could maintain their backs to their allies.
A soothing fragrance swept through the battlefield, momentarily distracting its inhabitants.
It was the scent of magic potion released by the sorcerer—a product of the grassy compassion. From the shattered pottery, the volatile magic drug dispersed its aroma.
Kaya’s potions were often volatile, activated upon contact with oxygen and vaporizing explosively, delivering effects to those who inhaled them.
Generally, these potions were meant for large-scale healing at the encampment, as their effects would heal both friend and foe. Yet in this moment, they proved incredibly beneficial.
What the witch-healer’s potions generally did was not to instantaneously heal but to assist the natural recovery processes enhanced through magic. Many might assume that what happens underground is purely magical healing, but the truth was that many of these potions simply supported the innate human abilities.
Thus, the dispelled potion invigorated every last breath of the warriors who inhaled it. It closed their wounds with burgeoning flesh, prompted blood generation, and metabolized lactic acid—renewing energy throughout even their extremities.
This boon was only available to the living.
And with renewed vigor, the defenders found the strength to push back against the tide of the undead.
“Lady is the best!”
“Kaya’s the greatest!”
“You’re stylish! Marry me!”
“You! Do you even realize what you’re saying?! When this is over, if you’re still alive, I’ll kill you!”
At the crude cheers, the sorcerer momentarily forgot her surroundings and chuckled.
Kaya had been told to retreat after activating the arrow-deflecting wards, but she refused to leave the battlefield. Though she had decided to share in the final fate of the group, she resented being set aside as “irrelevant.”
She too had made her resolve. Her status as the lone scion of the revered healer in the manor had made her feel underestimated. She had known the risks, hardships, and the specter of death before ever setting out. Watching her mother heal the wounded, she understood the grim realities of adventuring.
And she understood the importance of her own survival for the future assistance it could bring to the manor.
Yet, after comprehending all this, she had still chosen to remain.
She didn’t want to show up late, merely to close the vacant eyes of the fallen.
Should the worst occur, she was prepared to be engulfed in all-consuming flames.
“Chargeeee!!”
“Thrusttt!!”
Empowered by the renewed spear thrusts, the enemy’s front line began to falter. The continuous attacks, drawing their blood repeatedly, brought individual animated corpses to their breaking points. Shoulders were dislocated, weapons dropped, hip or elbow joints broken, and their line began to disarray.
“Well done! Push in!”
Spotting the wavering line, Siegfried recognized the opportunity. The strategy he and his companions had premeditated: exploit the weakness by a few breaking through while the remainder held the line to keep the pressure. This chance, if missed, would leave them to be gradually ground down.
Drawing back his spear and discarding it, he quickly unsheathed his old sword from when he first left the manor. Reflected in the intermittent flare of illuminating bolts, the gleam of the tarnished steel radiated his unyielding spirit.
Flanked by two members of the Sword Friends Association, seasoned adventurers adept at close combat, they carved their way into the undead formation. Dodging incoming spears, capturing them under his arm, Siegfried relentlessly battered the animated corpses, hacking at arms and legs. If they faltered, he would press them forward, depriving them of the room to fight.
“Gaaaahh!?”
A cry of agony rang out nearby. One of his companions—an adventuring human male named Renbeck—was clutching at his severed neck. A native of Marsheim, Renbeck joined the adventurers’ guild to help pay for his ailing mother’s medicine, being the second son who tried to fill his late father’s shoes and assist his hardworking older sister to marry well.
“Kkkuuu… Mom… everyone!”
Bleeding profusely from his neck, the young man, in his final moments, drove his sword into the ground, pinning an animated corpse. Before he could be struck by a spear, he willingly drove the blade deeper through his own body, sealing its motion—an act that sacrificed his own life to immobilize one enemy weapon.
From the backline, a cry of anguish echoed. A seasoned veteran of the militia, impaled through the chest by a spear that had pierced his shield, let his daughter’s name escape his bloodied lips. Summoning the last of his strength, he locked the shield into place with his body and knees, standing until the end, ensuring the line would not collapse.
As teeth in an old comb began to break, the deaths commenced. The moment the resolve struck that pressing forward was the only way to avoid defeat, the pressure on the front line diminished.
“Ah… Ah, you bastards!!”
The enemy had withdrawn their front rank to re-form behind, leaving the severely injured second and remaining first rank as a rear-guard. Having endured such a ruthless tactic, one that treated their units as expendable pawns, cracks began to show in the defenders’ morale.
“No! Don’t retreat! Damn it, damn it, get out of my way! Ghaaaah!!”
Attempting to pursue and maintain the melee, Siegfried was met with injuries from the relentless animated corpses. A short blade, wielded by an enemy who had discarded their spear and driven it through the visor of his helm, slashed through his left eyelid.
In retaliation, Siegfried swung his sword, hearing only the dull sound and an odd lightness. Upon inspection, his ever-trusty sword—its blade had been broken clean in half, lodged into the hollow spine of an animated corpse.
The greasy blood of the dead had dulled its edge, the sword having reached its limit against the reinforced bodies of the animated corpses.
As the sword had faltered, so too did the momentum of the reviving spirit. Blood streamed, vision blurred, and pain wracked his body as fear seeped in about damage to his eye. In the midst of his torment, the enemy continued to retreat.
Everyone braced themselves for the end. They felt the certainty of it—there would be no miraculous reversal; this was the moment to accept their fate.
In noble Knappshstein’s blood-soaked street, help was on the way—a flanking cavalry charge was expected to swing the battle decisively, allowing him to see victory even in death.
But the manor had no cavalry, no reserve forces. Those barricaded in the square had been sternly ordered to stay put, and even a modest increase in foot soldiers now would fall far short of turning the tide.
Should they call upon divine names, in an act of resignation? This thought vanished with the ringing call of a horn…
—
[Horn: A tool used to broadcast signals and commands over long distances without magical aids, it remains widely used from ancient times through today. In the Threefold Empire, it is primarily employed for military purposes, often signaling “Charge.”]
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On the GM’s whim, rolling with confidence, critical immunity enemies are a favored challenge.
Critical immunity, or a lack thereof, is a staple, as are support characters for area effects.
Or magical weapons dealing greatly reduced damage.
For these animated corpses: critical immunity, bladed and ranged weapon damage -5 points + normal armor values, perhaps.
