Nearby, the battle was far worse.

Vermis moved through the field like death given form. Wherever she passed, men fell. Not always instantly, but inevitably. Her insects crawled through armor, into mouths, into wounds, turning every scream into something more desperate, more broken.

"Get away from her!"

"Don’t let her close!"

It didn’t matter.

She was already there.

A soldier swung at her in panic. She slipped past him, her fingers brushing lightly against his arm as she passed.

He froze.

Then dropped.

Another tried to run.

The swarm caught him before he took three steps.

Everywhere she went, the line thinned.

Morale cracked.

"What are we fighting...?" someone whispered, backing away.

"This is hell!!... let me get out of here!!"

"We can’t win this..."

The words spread faster than the fear itself.

And for a moment, it looked like everything would collapse.

Then, from the distance, a sound rose.

Faint at first, then become clearer.

Voss heard it first.

Even as he blocked another crushing strike from Carrion, his head tilted slightly, his eyes flicking toward the road beyond the battlefield.

"...You hear that?" he muttered.

Then someone shouted from the back lines.

"Reinforcements!"

The word spread like fire.

"They’re here!"

From the road leading into the town, a new force surged forward. Warriors in different armor, different banners, moving in organized waves. Some wore the colors of smaller sects. Others carried the rough gear of mercenaries. But they moved with purpose, with discipline.

Five thousand strong.

They crashed into the battlefield like a breaking tide.

Arrows flew first, cutting into the flanks of the undead. Then the front line hit, blades and spears driving into the already engaged skeletons, pushing them back for the first time since the battle began.

"Push forward!"

"Drive them back!"

Among them, ten figures stood out.

Body tempering practitioners.

They moved faster, struck harder, cutting through the undead with precision, targeting the stronger ones, stabilizing the collapsing lines wherever they went.

The pressure shifted.

Not completely.

But enough.

On the front line, Voss felt it instantly.

A small opening.

A breath of space.

His lips curled slightly despite the blood on his face.

"...Took you long enough," he muttered.

Then he stepped forward again, blade rising.

"Hold the line!" he roared. "We’re not done yet!"

Behind him, the Lost Bears tightened formation once more.

Carrion felt it the moment the reinforcements fully entered the battlefield.

Not just the numbers. The balance had shifted.

His blade met Voss’s again, steel ringing out as sparks scattered between them. For a brief second, the two locked in place, strength pressing against strength. Then Carrion’s gaze moved past him, sweeping across the battlefield with cold precision.

Carrion pushed forward once, forcing Voss to give half a step, then he pulled back instead of continuing the exchange.

Voss noticed immediately.

"...You’re pulling away?" he muttered, narrowing his eyes.

Carrion did not answer him.

His head turned slightly. Across the battlefield, the undead shifted.

Every single one of them received the same command at the same time.

Retreat.

"Fall back," Carrion said, his voice low, but it carried far beyond what it should have.

At first, the humans didn’t understand what was happening.

Then the front line of skeletons stopped pressing forward.

They began to step back.

"They’re... retreating?" one soldier said, confused.

"Don’t let them go!" another shouted immediately. "Kill them!"

The newly arrived reinforcements surged forward, trying to capitalize on the moment, blades cutting down retreating skeletons, spears thrusting through ribs and skulls as they advanced.

But then something strange happened.

The undead didn’t just fall back.

To everyone’s surprised the skeletons reached down, grabbing the fallen bodies. Not their own, but human corpses.

Even the wounded who had just fallen.

They were dragged back without hesitation.

"What the hell are they doing?" a mercenary shouted, his blade cutting through a skeleton’s spine.

The answer came a second later.

"Stop them!" someone screamed. "They’re taking the bodies!"

A soldier rushed forward, grabbing onto the arm of a fallen comrade as two skeletons tried to drag the body away.

"Let him go!" he shouted, pulling with everything he had.

The skeletons didn’t respond.

They simply pulled back harder, then another joined them, and more.

The soldier lost his grip.

His friend’s body was dragged away into the retreating mass.

"NO!" he roared, trying to chase after them.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, yanking him back.

"Don’t!" another man snapped. "You’ll die for nothing!"

Even some of the stronger undead lifted corpses over their shoulders as they moved back, their movements steady despite the attacks raining down on them.

Voss saw it.

And his expression hardened.

Voss’s grip on his saber tightened as he watched another body dragged across the blood-soaked ground, disappearing into the retreating mass of undead.

"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath.

His eyes moved across the battlefield, slower this time, taking everything in.

Bodies lay everywhere. Some twisted in unnatural angles. Some still, eyes open, staring at nothing. Some were missing entirely, leaving only blood and broken weapons behind to mark where they had fallen.

A soldier staggered past him, his armor cracked, his face pale.

"They... they took him," the man said, his voice shaking.

----

Far from the town, where the light of torches could no longer reach, the undead moved through the darkness like a silent tide.

Carrion walked at the front once more, his pace steady, his presence as heavy as ever. Behind him, the remaining undead followed in silence, their formation still intact despite the losses. Broken bones had been left behind, but not many. Most of what fell had been gathered.

The air grew colder as they moved deeper into the wilderness, until the outline of something unnatural began to appear ahead.

The fake base.

Rough structures stood between twisted trees, built from dark wood and stone that did not quite match the land around it. Watchtowers that no one manned. Walls that looked solid from a distance, but lacked the life of a real stronghold. Faint markings lined the ground, formations etched just deep enough to give off a subtle pressure.