Apocalypse: King of Zombies

The bulk freighter loomed on the horizon, groaning as it slowed down, its massive frame swaying slightly with age. The thing looked ancient—definitely a relic from thirty years ago, maybe more.

Still, it was a hell of a lot better than that fish-hauler Bloodveil had shown up in before. At least this one didn’t reek like a rotting seafood market.

Packed inside were five thousand elite zombies, all under the command of a towering brute of a Zombie King. He was massive—thick slabs of muscle wrapped in layers of fat, the kind of build that screamed raw power.

He was shirtless, his tiny eyes sunken deep into folds of flesh, and two jagged tusks jutted from his mouth like an orc straight out of a fantasy novel.

His name? Ravager. One of the top enforcers under Gorthas, the Deathless Sovereign of Heartland. He was the same guy who’d once tried to teleport to Earth, only to get smacked in the face with a stone tablet by Ethan and sent flying back through the portal.

”What a dump this Westmarch is,” Ravager grumbled as he stomped down the ramp, eyeing the surroundings with disdain. Black-Skin Zombies shuffled around in the dust, and the whole place looked like it hadn’t seen a decent resource in decades. ”I wouldn’t take this place if you paid me. Might as well move to the Exile Zone…”

”C’mon, boss, cut it some slack,” one of his zombie underlings muttered. ”We’re only here ’cause Lord Gorthas told us to be.”

Ravager didn’t respond. Truth was, if it weren’t for Gorthas’s direct orders, he wouldn’t have set foot in this backwater region.

With a heavy clang, the freighter touched down, kicking up a storm of dust and debris.

Through the haze, Ravager and his squad emerged—hulking, menacing figures radiating pure intimidation.

He was easily two heads taller than Meteorfall.

Behind him, five thousand elite zombies stood in formation, their presence like a wave of silent fury.

Meteorfall tilted his head, sizing up the newcomer. His eyes narrowed. This Zombie King looked fierce, sure—but his power? Meh. Not even close to Bloodveil’s level.

”So you’re the Overlord of Westmarch, Meteorfall?” Ravager sneered, looking down at him with those beady little eyes.

”Yeah, that’s me.”

”Damn, you’re ugly,” Ravager blurted out.

”...” Meteorfall stared at him, speechless. He took in the guy’s face—those squinty eyes, those ridiculous tusks.

You think I’m ugly? Meteorfall thought. You look like a half-melted orc with a gland problem.

Another mental note: Even worse manners than Bloodveil.

Still, he let it slide and asked, ”So, Ravager, what brings you to my turf?”

”Don’t play dumb,” Ravager snapped. ”You think I came here for fun? This dump? Our boss sent me. Word is, the Zombie Kings in Southvale are planning a rebellion. Gorthas wants them wiped out.”

”So you’re here looking for Southvale’s zombies?” Meteorfall asked, feigning surprise.

Ravager waved him off. ”If I was looking for them, why the hell would I come to Westmarch? Heartland’s Deathless Sovereign has been tearing through the other regions of Necroterra. Those Southvale cowards ran off ages ago. According to our intel, they might’ve fled to Xenorift.”

”Ohhh…” Meteorfall dragged out the sound, not really reacting.

Then Ravager got to the point. ”I’m here to give you a heads-up. If you spot any of Southvale’s horde, wipe them out. No questions.”

Meteorfall frowned slightly. So now they want my help? he thought. They ignore me when things are quiet, leave me to rot in this wasteland, and now they come knocking when shit hits the fan?

But Ravager shook his head, as if reading his thoughts. ”No, no. Not asking you to join Heartland. We want you to swear loyalty to our boss—Gorthas.”

”Huh…” Meteorfall rubbed his chin, thinking. On the surface, it didn’t sound much different. But the way Ravager said it… something felt off.

Is Gorthas planning something?

Ravager gave a slow, satisfied nod. ”That’s more like it. Knew you were a smart one. No one becomes an Overlord by accident.”

”But what if…” Meteorfall’s tone shifted, the deference in his voice fading into something colder, sharper. ”What if I say no?”

Ravager’s expression froze. His beady eyes locked onto Meteorfall’s face, unblinking.

The air between them thickened, tension crackling like a live wire. The temperature seemed to drop, the silence pressing in like a weight.

”I didn’t come here to give you a choice,” Ravager said, voice low and dangerous. ”To Lord Gorthas, you’re nothing. Replaceable.”

”We could kill you right now and slap a crown on the next Zombie King we find. Westmarch wouldn’t even notice.”

”…”

His words dripped with menace, and the killing intent in his eyes was unmistakable.

Meteorfall slowly lifted his lumpy, misshapen head, a few wisps of hair fluttering in the wind. ”Sorry to disappoint you,” he said quietly. ”But I’ve already made my choice.”

The moment the words left his mouth, a deafening roar erupted behind him. Dozens—no, hundreds—of zombies surged forward, pouring in from the shadows.

Ravager’s eyes widened in disbelief. ”Meteorfall, do you even know what you’re doing?”

”Of course I do,” Meteorfall said, his voice steady. ”And with your strength? You’ll make a fine offering to prove my loyalty.”

He’d been on the fence. If Heartland had sent someone truly powerful, he might’ve flipped—betrayed Ethan and Bloodveil, and thrown in with Gorthas. But now? Ravager was a joke. There was no future in siding with him.

Meteorfall struck without warning. The bulging growths on his head began to glow, energy pulsing beneath the surface. The light surged toward his eyes, then exploded outward in twin beams of searing blue.

Ravager barely managed to dive to the side.

But the zombies behind him weren’t so lucky.

The beams tore through them like paper, slicing bodies in half, vaporizing limbs, dropping dozens in an instant.

”RAAAHHH—!”

The rest of the Heartland zombies roared in fury and charged, their bodies honed by years of flesh-feeding, their strength terrifying.

But Meteorfall’s own forces weren’t backing down. His loyal undead burst from the ruins behind him, meeting the Heartland elites head-on.

The battlefield erupted into chaos—zombies slamming into each other, clawing, biting, tearing. Screams and snarls filled the air, a symphony of violence.

But it was clear from the start—Westmarch’s undead were outmatched. Starved and under-equipped, they were no match for Heartland’s elite. For every ten they threw into the fight, only one held their ground.

”Westmarch dares to resist?” Ravager snarled, eyes blazing. ”You’ve got a death wish.”

Just then, one of Meteorfall’s elite zombies came sprinting through the fray, waving frantically.

”Clear out! Move!”

The others turned, confused—until they saw what was chasing him.

A pack of Black-Skin Zombies, fast and relentless, were tearing after him like wild dogs. The elite zombie clutched a massive stone bucket, sloshing with thick, black liquid that reeked so bad even the undead flinched.

Whoosh—!

He swung the bucket wide, flinging the entire contents across the Heartland zombies. Not a drop was spared.

The Heartland troops recoiled, furious.

”What the hell is this?!”

”Smells like death!”

”Ugh—what is that?!”

”Wait—!”

They didn’t get to finish.

From the shadows, the Black-Skin Zombies lunged.

They were mindless, fearless, and utterly savage. No pain, no hesitation—just pure, unfiltered aggression. They didn’t care if they died, as long as they took a chunk of flesh with them.

The Westmarch zombies knew what was coming. They’d seen it before. They scattered, giving the Black-Skins room to do what they did best.

”Since you’re so tough,” Meteorfall muttered under his breath, watching the carnage unfold, ”why not help us clean up the Black-Skin problem…”

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