Apocalypse: King of Zombies

”They’re dead... all of them are dead.”

The elite undead scouts from Heartland stood frozen, horror etched across their faces as they stared at the mountain of corpses and the rivers of blood. The stench was overwhelming.

Nyssara and Abyssion lay among the dead, their heads pierced clean through by blades—brutal, merciless kills. Even the distant Clearwater Lake had been stained red with blood.

It was a massacre. A complete and utter slaughter.

”How the hell did this happen?”

”Even Lady Nyssara’s dead?!”

”We need to report this to the boss—now!”

Without wasting another second, the undead scrambled back into their aircraft and took off in a panic, racing back toward Heartland.

At the very heart of the Necroterra continent—where the undead population was densest—stood the domain of the Five Warlords of the Heartland.

In one of the zombie strongholds, a palace-like structure rose from the ground. Unlike the crude stone piles of lesser dens, this one was built from jagged slabs of blood-red crystal and obsidian, gleaming with a dark, ominous luster.

It was massive. Intimidating. Regal in the most terrifying way.

The walls and pillars were etched with ancient symbols and battle murals—records of the Overlord’s conquests, the enemies he’d slain, the wars he’d won.

A young-looking man stood before one of the walls, arms crossed over his chest, silently studying the carvings. His record was nearly flawless—almost no defeats.

”So boring...” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Suddenly, a subordinate burst into the hall, breathless and wide-eyed. ”Boss! Bad news—something’s happened at Frostmere!”

”Oh?”

The young man turned around, revealing a strikingly handsome face. His eyes glowed a deep, unnatural red—sharp, intense, and impossible to ignore.

The subordinate quickly bowed and reported, ”The zombies at Frostmere were wiped out. Even Clearwater Lake’s been contaminated. I saw Abyssion myself—dead in a pool of blood, his skull pierced clean through... it was brutal.”

”I see...” the young man replied, his expression unchanged. He’d already suspected something was wrong when Frostmere stopped sending shipments of blood and flesh. This just confirmed it.

As for Abyssion’s death? Not surprising. The guy was a psychic-type, sure, but weak as hell. He’d only held power because of the young man’s support. A puppet, nothing more.

”And Nyssara? Wasn’t she overseeing Frostmere? Where the hell was she?”

”R-reporting in, sir...” The subordinate’s voice trembled now. ”Lady Nyssara... she’s dead too.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the entire hall fell silent.

Everyone knew what Nyssara meant to him. She wasn’t just a subordinate—she was his right hand, his most trusted lieutenant. She’d been with him since the beginning, fighting by his side through every war, every conquest, until they stood at the top of Necroterra.

According to Wraithshade’s intel, Nyssara’s role in Heartland was irreplaceable—just like Laura was to Ethan.

The young man stood still for a moment, then his expression finally shifted. The calm mask cracked.

A wave of pressure exploded from him, shaking the entire palace.

The subordinate below him dropped to his knees, trembling violently, head bowed so low he nearly kissed the floor. He didn’t dare look up.

The wrath of a ruler leaves nothing but corpses in its wake.

There was no doubt now—this man was one of the Five Warlords of the Heartland.

Nightwraith.

”Who did it?” he asked, voice low and calm—but laced with a fury that could level cities.

The subordinate stammered, ”It... it might’ve been Wraithshade—the two of them had bad blood before.”

”No,” Nightwraith said flatly. ”Wraithshade doesn’t have the strength to kill Nyssara.”

He was certain of it. He’d heard about the Frostmere drama before—just petty squabbles, nothing serious. He never imagined it would escalate to this.

The subordinate fell silent. He didn’t dare guess further. Whoever had done this... he wasn’t about to say the wrong name and end up as the next corpse on the floor.

Nightwraith’s crimson eyes narrowed, deep in thought. Something didn’t add up.

With Nyssara’s strength, there were few in all of Necroterra who could pose a real threat to her—aside from the other Overlords of Heartland, of course. Outside of that elite circle, no one should’ve been able to take her down.

Sure, she could lose a fight. But to be killed? That was another matter entirely.

Nyssara’s stealth and disguise abilities were top-tier. Her speed and power weren’t lacking either. Whoever managed to kill her had to be someone terrifying.

”Who the hell could’ve done this...?”

But Nightwraith wasn’t the type to sit around guessing. He didn’t need to. There were only a handful of Zombie Kings in all the other regions combined who could pull off something like this—maybe five, tops.

So why not just kill them all?

Simple. Brutal. Effective. And exactly the kind of solution an Overlord of Heartland would go for.

Since the incident happened in Frostmere, that’s where he’d start.

”Send out my command,” Nightwraith said coldly. ”Unleash the zombie horde. I want Frostmere wiped clean. Anyone who resists—kill them all.”

”Uh... y-yes, sir!” His subordinates hesitated for a split second, then scrambled to obey, rushing out of the grand hall to relay the order.

Now alone in the opulent palace, Nightwraith stood silently, staring toward the massive doors. His glowing red eyes were like twin abysses—bottomless, unreadable.

”It’s been a long, long time... since anyone dared challenge my authority.”

He turned and walked to a blank section of the wall, then raised a finger and began to carve.

For the first time in ages, something worth recording had happened in Heartland.

This event would go down in history under a single name:

”The March of the Heartland Horde.”

And in the ages to come, it would be remembered as the beginning of something far greater—

”The Dawn of the Final Epoch War.”

From the depths of Heartland, the zombie horde began to move.

They were evolved, powerful, and had been dormant for far too long. Now, they were hungry for blood, eager for carnage.

Wherever the Heartland horde passed, it was like a swarm of white-hot locusts—nothing survived. Their bloodlust was unmatched, their savagery absolute. Anything that wasn’t undead was torn apart and devoured.

All of Necroterra began to tremble.

Exactly the kind of chaos Nightwraith wanted.

But the moment his horde began to move, it didn’t go unnoticed.

To Nightwraith’s surprise, it wasn’t long before a signal lit up on his receiver—an encrypted message from one of the other Overlords of Heartland.

”Heard your people got wiped out?”

The sender? Another of the Five Warlords of the Heartland—Gorthas.

The same Gorthas who had once crossed paths with Ethan... and had the misfortune of getting smacked in the face with the Star Map tablet. Their grudge ran deep.

Nightwraith replied simply: ”Yeah. Nyssara’s dead.”

Gorthas responded: ”I know who did it.”

”Oh???”

...

Meanwhile, far to the south, in the Southvale region of Necroterra, Ethan and his crew had already returned to their central zombie stronghold.

The five hundred Guard Mechs were docked and recharging aboard the massive Dreadnought-class Starcruiser.

Near one of the outer walls, a pile of hay gave off a faint but unmistakable stench of pig shit. Big Ears and the rest of the Overlord Squad had wandered back to their favorite hangout—the pig farm.

”Hank, check this out!” Big Ears said, grinning ear to ear as he pulled out a gleaming weapon. ”Crystal Core Hand-Cannon, baby!”

Hank glanced at it and nodded. ”Yeah, that’s a Crystal Core Hand-Cannon. I’ve seen one before.”

”Wrong!” Big Ears wagged a finger. ”This is the Big Ears Special—my very own Crystal Core Blaster!”

”Oh... right.” Hank rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny it—an S-rank Crystal Core weapon was nothing to scoff at. He was a little jealous.

”Hey, you ever had fish before?” Big Ears asked, changing the subject.

Hank shook his head so fast he looked like a bobblehead. Ever since he’d gained sentience, he’d been stuck on the edge of the Exile Zone. He’d never even seen a fish, let alone eaten one.

”Fish? What’s that?”

”Well, since you’re my bro, I couldn’t let you miss out. I brought you some—straight from Frostmere!”

”No way. For real?” Hank’s eyes widened. He looked genuinely shocked.

”Of course it’s real.” Big Ears grinned, then reached into his pouch and pulled out... a fishbone.

”Here! Dig in!”

”...”