THE HERO'S SON IS A MONSTER-Chapter 49: Death Army

The Death Knight had just set foot in a village.

His menacing shadow and malevolent aura had corrupted the ground beneath him, filling the air with such dense negative energy that it became suffocating. The atmosphere was heavy, charged with a sinister presence, while silence reigned supreme over the ruins of the lives extinguished in an instant.

The macabre spectacle of a harbinger of death wandering among the living was met with the oppressive muteness of the corpses scattered around him.

Before the Death Knight, everything had become vanity and ephemeral. The torn-apart houses, the bodies frozen in postures of terror, the ashes floating in the air like remnants of a shattered existence... Nothing escaped his emotionless gaze.

He stood there, motionless, at the center of the devastated village, trying to gather his thoughts. He observed the carnage he had wrought, neither with satisfaction nor regret, but with a cold curiosity. Why? Why had he exterminated these people? What was so special about them that, in this world shrouded in spectral white, their silhouettes appeared as ink-black stains?

"Who am I?" he wondered.

"Why did I do this? Who were they?"

Questions without answers, riddles that no soul could now solve, for those who might have held a semblance of truth lay lifeless at his feet, their mutilated bodies and faces frozen in expressions of indescribable horror. But their torment did not end there.

The negative energy suffusing the place forbade their souls from finding rest. Already, corruption was seeping into them, twisting what remained of their human essence.

Instinctively, the Death Knight knew what to do. As naturally as breathing, he unleashed a shamanic spell. A dark wave spread outward, embedding his curse into the corpses.

The dead of the village trembled before rising with abrupt, disjointed movements. Farmers, hunters, women, children... None escaped their new fate. All had become undead, damned for eternity.

The creatures began to wander aimlessly, stumbling over the debris, completely ignoring their executioner. He observed them for a moment, fascinated.

"I see... I have merely accelerated the process... Unlike those who dwell in my shadow, these do not recognize me."

What was he supposed to do now? Something within him had changed. After killing and transforming all these beings, he felt a new desire. An insatiable need grew within him, a dark hunger gnawing at his core.

"I want more..."

Why did this thirst for destruction feel so foreign, as if it were recent, born of a force he did not yet fully comprehend?

"I must know..."

One thing was certain: he wanted more. This growing power intoxicated him, and he knew he would soon need it.

He clenched his fist. Gradually, he was beginning to understand the mechanics of this negative energy and the laws governing his own body. He was not a mere undead. He was an irregularity.

The flame in his eyes flared, glowing with a spectral light, a promise of a grim fate yet to be written.

What was true in life remained true in death. Even as an undead, he was an anomaly.

The flame burning in his eyes flared with newfound intensity. An uncontrollable urge echoed through his damned soul:

Kill... More... I want to kill more... Always more, until I find him.

But who?

The Death Knight felt his determination renew, an invisible thread pulling him toward a still-unclear goal. Lost in thought, he quickly reached a conclusion: the stronger he became, the more his condition improved. The more powerful he grew, the more fragments of memory resurfaced. He might not have a future, but he could tear his past from the darkness of oblivion.

Thus, the course of action was surprisingly simple: Kill.

He raised his gaze to the horizon, searching for a new target. He instantly knew where the nearest gathering of humans was. His instincts, sharpened by death and hatred, guided him with inhuman precision. That was his next destination.

He swept his surroundings with a cold gaze. The desolate moor stretched endlessly, littered with rotting corpses—the remnants of an ancient battle. Soldiers’ carcasses lay scattered, their armor tarnished by time and rust. Crows circled overhead, croaking their eerie melody.

A shudder of disdain ran through him. He could have raised these dead to swell his ranks, but he saw no point. They were weak, broken, devoid of will. He needed more. Better.

An idea took root in his decayed mind.

I must lead the horde.

The primitive thought slowly took shape. He, a rare and powerful undead, could sense the presence of the living. It was likely that other creatures of his kind, though weaker, possessed similar abilities on a lesser scale. If he gathered them, if he led them to the next village, he could turn them into something greater.

This plan would not only satisfy his hunger for carnage but also allow him to test humanity’s resistance. He needed to know how prepared they were to face the inevitable.

Because the inevitable... was him.

Silently, he stepped into the mist covering the plain. Each footstep echoed like a funeral bell, heralding the storm about to descend upon the world of the living.

Night had fallen by the time he reached the edge of a gloomy forest. The air was thick with the scent of mold and damp earth. He halted, closing his eyes to better sense his surroundings.

Yes... There were dead here. Dozens, perhaps more. Some stirred weakly, trapped in a limbo between torpor and awakening. Others wandered aimlessly, their consciousness reduced to mere remnants of primal instinct.

With a single gesture, he invoked his power. A wave of darkness rippled from him, spreading through the night like creeping poison. Slowly, shadowy figures emerged from the gloom. The dead lifted their heads, their vacant eyes turning toward him. He could feel them... He could control them.

A sinister smile stretched his withered lips.

"Come to me."

A whisper, barely audible—yet it resonated as an absolute command. The reanimated corpses began to move, drawn by his call. A dozen, then twenty, then fifty. A tide of decaying flesh, of twisted and mutilated bodies, now marched under his command.

A shiver of satisfaction coursed through what remained of his soul.

"We march toward the living."

The zombies groaned in response, their guttural moans forming a macabre symphony.

The attack was about to begin.

The village of Rivenwald slept peacefully under the cold glow of the stars. Torches flickered along the wooden ramparts, casting trembling shadows over the worn cobblestones. A few guards patrolled lazily, weary of their monotonous night watch. They had no idea of the nightmare approaching.

In the darkness, the horde stretched like a churning sea of shadows. The Death Knight stood at its head, a sinister aura clinging to him like a burial shroud.

"Break the gates."

The first undead hurled themselves against the barricade, clawing at the wood with mindless frenzy. The planks groaned under the increasing pressure. A guard’s voice rang out in alarm, his cry slicing through the night like a death knell.

But it was too late.

With a deafening crash, the gate gave way. The horde surged forward, a wave of death crashing into the sleeping village.

The Death Knight advanced slowly, watching the chaos with cold satisfaction.

Flames were already rising into the night sky, illuminating the bloodstained streets. Screams echoed between the houses a chorus of agony and despair.

As he beheld his handiwork, a shiver ran through his being.

A memory.

A name surfaced from the abyss, a whisper long buried by time.

"Chreois..."

He stopped, troubled. Who was that? Why did this name resurface now, in the midst of slaughter?

He clenched his fists, the flames in his eyes flickering for an instant.

He had to know.

And to do that... He had to keep killing.

Somewhere in this world, someone held the answers he sought. Someone who knew who he was.

And he would find them.

Another village had just fallen. Deep inside, the Death Knight had a feeling that, from now on, things wouldn’t be so simple. He didn’t know why, but it was an instinctive conclusion drawn from fragmented memories. Even if he couldn’t remember, he knew one thing, the living wouldn’t let him continue his work unchallenged.

"The next one..." But before he could finish his thought process, something came to his mind.

He sensed that something was following him, something terrible. It was only after becoming as powerful as he was now that he had started to feel it. He had traced this sensation back to the moment he left the cave.

Something was tracking him. And though it was the greatest danger to him, he himself was unaware of it. He couldn’t gauge his adversary.

Meanwhile, in the distance, a woman walked alone.

It was the Saint.

A pipe rested between her lips, and she drew in the smoke slowly, setting herself in a certain mood.

The mood was good.

A stunning woman, the kind rarely seen, with a unique and special character. She came to a halt, her face devoid of a smile as she thought about her upcoming meeting with the Hero.

"I really hope he keeps himself in check before his departure for Sunkush." 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

He was still too weak.

The real reason why the Saint’s extreme beauty was so little known wasn’t because she rarely appeared in public. No, it was because she was always on the road, fulfilling her duty.

"I must keep cleansing the continent of entities that could become a problem. Raw strength isn’t enough there are beings here whose true selves are difficult to touch..."

"Until he’s capable of handling it himself, I must clear his path."

She never shirked her duty. In truth, she didn’t have much hope for the Hero. Deep down, she even pitied him.

"In any case... I’ve found you."

She cut her thoughts short.

She had spotted her next hunt.

Her gaze locked onto a distant figure, yet it was as if the being she looked at was standing right in front of her.

She focused her intent firmly on the target.