Apocalypse: King of Zombies

”I’m more than ready,” Ethan said, still wearing Boneclaw’s face—but there was a sharp glint in his eyes, something cold and lethal. He’d been waiting for this moment far too long.

Gorthas narrowed his eyes slightly. Something felt... off.

That tone—too serious, too focused. Not like Boneclaw at all.

This was supposed to be a friendly spar with Gravemount. Why the hell was he acting like it was life or death?

Gravemount, on the other hand, just grinned wider. His muscles bulged beneath his rotting flesh, his massive frame like a walking mountain. He was every bit the monster his name promised.

The air around him thickened with killing intent. The pressure of a Voidborn Undying radiated from him like a stormfront.

The other Zombie Kings tensed instinctively.

”Damn, Gravemount’s still a beast.”

”No wonder he’s been with the boss since day one—dude’s a war machine.”

”Been a while since he’s thrown down, huh?”

”Yeah, this is gonna be good...”

Under the watchful eyes of the undead elite, Gravemount suddenly lunged. His massive claw, thick as a steel hook, slashed toward Ethan with brutal speed.

But Ethan’s fingers twitched—long, lean, and pulsing faintly with a crimson aura.

If he was going to take down a Voidborn Undying, he’d have to go all in.

As the claw closed in, growing larger in his vision, Ethan’s hand clenched into a fist. He raised his arm and struck upward.

In that instant, power surged through him—raw, crushing force. His fist came down like a falling star, unstoppable and absolute.

The entire fortress shook with the impact. The walls groaned. The floor cracked. It was like a natural disaster had just been unleashed inside the hall.

Gravemount had expected a light spar. He knew Boneclaw’s strength—he figured he could handle him with one hand tied behind his back.

So he didn’t bother to guard.

Now, feeling the sheer force barreling toward him, his eyes went wide.

”What the hell—?!”

But it was too late.

BOOM!

Ethan’s fist, wrapped in blood-red energy, slammed into Gravemount’s chest. Bones shattered with a sickening crack-crack-crack, his ribcage caving in like wet paper. The impact bulged his back outward grotesquely.

The force tore through him, rupturing organs, snapping bones. Blood sprayed from every pore, thick and black.

Gravemount’s massive body was launched like a cannonball.

But before he could hit the ground, Ethan’s will surged outward—Domain of the Dead activated. The air froze. Time itself seemed to hesitate.

Gravemount hung there, suspended midair.

Then Ethan vanished.

In a blink, he reappeared behind him.

For three long seconds, everything was still. The world held its breath.

At Ethan’s fingertips, a crystal core shimmered—SSS-class, glowing with swirling energy.

BOOM—

Gravemount’s body finally crashed to the floor, a thunderous, wet thud.

He was wrecked. His bones were pulverized, his limbs twisted at impossible angles. His body looked like a sack of meat that had been stomped flat, soaked in foul blood.

And the crystal core was gone.

His life force—gone.

He was dead.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Not a whisper. Not a breath. You could hear a pin drop in the ancient hall.

The Zombie Kings stared, slack-jawed, frozen in place. Inside, their minds were reeling, screaming, trying to make sense of what they’d just seen.

”Gravemount... is dead?!”

”No... no way!”

”What the hell just happened?! Did Boneclaw evolve or something?!”

”Evolve my ass!”

”...”

Some of the more lucid Zombie Kings were already starting to realize—something was very, very wrong.

The real Boneclaw couldn’t have killed Gravemount. That was impossible.

Unless… Boneclaw was already dead.

And the one standing before them was someone else—someone wearing his skin.

The thought hit them like a bolt of lightning, sending a chill through their rotting bones.

Gorthas, meanwhile, stood frozen, his face darkening by the second. The pressure rolling off him grew heavier, more violent. The truth was too obvious now—even a halfwit could see it.

That crimson aura. That terrifying Domain of the Dead.

There was only one person it could be.

”You’re… Ethan?” Gorthas rasped, the name grinding out between clenched teeth.

”Oh? You even know my name?” Ethan raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. But he didn’t bother hiding anymore. With a flick of his will, the illusion melted away.

The disguise faded, revealing his true form.

White dress shirt, black slacks, tousled brown hair. Sharp, chiseled features. And those eyes—deep, cold, and unreadable. He looked like he’d stepped out of a dream… or a nightmare.

Handsome as hell. And deadly.

”You told me to come find you once I had all the tablets,” Ethan said, voice calm, almost casual. ”Well… here I am.”

As the words left his mouth, blood-red energy erupted around him, flaring like a storm. His presence surged, overwhelming, undeniable.

He didn’t have time to waste. This needed to end—fast.

Gorthas bared his fangs, jaw clenched tight. He took two instinctive steps back, boots thudding against the stone floor. For the first time in centuries, he felt it—real danger.

Then Ethan unleashed his Domain of the Dead.

The pressure exploded outward, a tidal wave of death energy that swallowed the entire hall.

”Scatter!” one of the Zombie Kings shouted in panic.

The fortress trembled violently. The massive stone blocks that made up the walls and ceiling began to float, then disintegrate midair, turning to dust and drifting like ash.

Gorthas felt the crushing weight of the domain, but his body—refined to the level of a Deathless Sovereign—held firm. He was built for this. His strength was in his flesh, his bones, his sheer physical might.

But then Ethan moved.

In a blink, he was in front of Gorthas, fist cocked back.

The punch came like a meteor from another world—like it had traveled across galaxies just to find its mark.

Gorthas’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t flinch.

He roared, unleashing his own blood-red aura. His muscles bulged, his skin cracked with power. He wasn’t going to dodge.

He was going to meet Ethan head-on.

BOOM!

Like two freight trains slamming into each other at full speed, the impact sent shockwaves through the earth. Cracks spiderwebbed across the floor, the walls groaned, and the air itself seemed to scream.

Gorthas staggered back, his feet skidding across the stone. His forearm throbbed with pain—deep, jarring pain.

He stared at it, stunned.

He’d lost in raw strength.

But there was no time to process it—Ethan was already coming at him again.

This time, Gorthas didn’t try to block. He twisted, dodging to the side.

”If I can just stall him long enough… Nightwraith and the others will arrive. Then he’s dead.”

”You’re strong, I’ll give you that,” Gorthas growled, ducking another blow. ”But you’re arrogant. Coming here alone? Into the heart of our nest? That’s not bravery—that’s stupidity.”

”You still talk too much,” Ethan muttered, not slowing down for a second.

Gorthas gritted his teeth and kept retreating, weaving, blocking, dodging. He raised his arms to shield his head, his ribs, his core.

The two of them clashed again and again, locked in a brutal dance of fists and footwork.

But time was slipping away.

And Ethan could feel it—other Deathless Sovereigns were closing in.

Gorthas was laser-focused now, watching every twitch of Ethan’s body, every shift in weight. He dodged by inches, barely avoiding the killing blows.

And when he could, he threw out taunts, trying to shake Ethan’s focus.

”Hmph! You might be strong, but you’re not killing a Deathless Sovereign in a few minutes. You should run while you still can… before it’s too late.”

He ducked another punch, smirking.

But then—Ethan stopped.

Just… stopped.

The white-shirted figure froze in place.

Then dissolved into a cloud of stardust.

Gorthas blinked.

And a voice, low and smooth, spoke behind him.

”I think… you’re the one running out of time.”

...