Apocalypse: King of Zombies

But this wasn’t an isolated incident.

All across the northern front, the same eerie phenomenon was unfolding. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of elite zombies had already been silently infected by the pale worms. Only the higher-tier Zombie Kings, with their powerful constitutions and energy control, remained unaffected… for now.

Candlewraith’s psychic senses flared. He could feel it—something was off. The aura of his troops was shifting, subtly but unmistakably. And whatever it was… it was spreading.

”There’s definitely something wrong,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

He and Ironhorn moved toward the outer perimeter, where a contingent of elite zombies stood guard. As they approached, an SS-class Zombie King jogged over with a wide, eager grin.

”Bosses! You need something? Just say the word! No need to come all the way out here yourselves!”

”Frostmere’s undead may have already infiltrated this sector,” Candlewraith said grimly.

The SS-class zombie blinked, confused. ”Huh? What? Where? I don’t see any Frostmere scum around here.”

Candlewraith’s expression darkened. A vein twitched on his temple.

”This is your sector. You’re supposed to be watching it. And now you’re asking me where the enemy is?”

”Oh! Right, right! I’ll check it out right now!” the zombie stammered, then turned and let out a guttural roar, sending out a search signal.

”Alright, boys! Fan out! Find me any trace of Frostmere filth!”

But… nothing happened.

The horde didn’t move. They just stood there, motionless.

And some of them… looked wrong.

The elite zombies—usually brimming with aggression—were hunched over, twitching like they were sick. Their bodies trembled, spasming in unnatural rhythms.

”What the hell…?” Candlewraith muttered.

Even the SS-class zombie beside him froze, staring in confusion.

Not far away, one of the infected zombies was hunched over, arms dangling limply, swaying back and forth like a broken puppet. From its mouth, thick, dark-red fluid dripped steadily onto the ground.

The SS-class zombie stepped forward. ”Hey! You! Stand up straight! What’s wrong with you?”

”I… I don’t feel good…” the zombie rasped, its voice weak, barely coherent. It struggled to straighten its back, as if every movement was a battle.

The SS-class zombie squinted at its face—and recoiled in horror.

Beneath the infected zombie’s skin, tiny pale lumps writhed and squirmed. They were the size of rice grains, moving just under the surface. And as they shifted, their shapes became clear.

Worms.

”Ah, shit—”

Before he could react, the infected zombie let out a wet, gurgling sound—and exploded.

With a sickening pop, its body burst apart, spraying a cloud of wriggling white parasites in every direction like a grotesque firework.

Several of the worms splattered across the SS-class zombie’s face, immediately trying to burrow into his skin.

But he was a brute-force type—his flesh was thick, his resistance high. He staggered back, snarling, and slapped himself across the face with both claws, crushing the worms before they could dig in.

”WE’VE BEEN INFILTRATED!”

His roar echoed across the battlefield.

And just like that, the massacre began.

All around them, zombies began to scream—then explode. One after another, their bodies ruptured in bursts of blood and bone, releasing swarms of white worms into the air.

The sky filled with shrieks and howls. The ground was slick with gore.

”Frostmere’s undead are already here,” Candlewraith said coldly, his voice like a blade.

He unleashed a wave of psychic energy, a mental storm that swept across the field. His mind scanned the chaos, searching for the source—and then he found it.

A powerful undead presence, buried deep underground.

”There,” he said, pointing.

Far ahead, the earth began to churn. Something was moving beneath the surface, pushing upward.

Then, with a wet squelch, a grotesque figure burst from the soil.

Its entire body was milky white, slick with mucus and glistening fluid. It had no hair, no armor—just soft, pulsing flesh. Its skin looked almost translucent, like it could tear at any moment.

Its eyes were small, yellow, and beady—like soybeans—glinting with malice. Folds of wrinkled flesh lined its cheeks, twitching as it sniffed the air.

It was none other than Wraithshade’s twisted blood brother—Bloodleech.

A fusion-type Zombie King, Bloodleech had merged with a leech-type parasite, granting him the grotesque ability to breed and control parasitic organisms. He wasn’t just a freak—he was a walking biological weapon. There was even a record of him single-handedly wiping out a million-strong zombie horde.

”You’re sharper than I expected,” Bloodleech growled, crouched low on all fours. His beady yellow eyes locked onto the Heartland zombies with a predator’s hunger. ”Didn’t think you’d catch on this fast…”

Candlewraith’s lip curled in disgust. ”What a revolting creature.”

But before he could say more, a thunderous roar erupted behind him.

The Heartland zombie horde—tens of thousands strong—had been waiting for this moment. Now, fully activated, they surged forward like a tidal wave of death. The northern front had officially ignited.

But behind Bloodleech, a dark, suffocating aura began to roll in like a storm cloud.

It wasn’t just him.

A second wave of undead was approaching—Frostmere’s main force.

They came in all shapes and sizes. Some sprinted on two legs, others crawled on all fours. Their bodies were twisted, mutated—some had five eyes, others had mouths running down their torsos, filled with jagged teeth.

Leading them was a hulking Zombie King with six muscular arms, each one twitching with anticipation.

Above them, the sky darkened as flying corpse-beasts zipped through the clouds like missiles, their elongated bodies slicing through the air with terrifying speed.

”Wait a second…” Candlewraith frowned, eyes narrowing. ”Frostmere doesn’t have aerial units. At least, not according to our last intel.”

Ironhorn squinted up at the sky. ”Candlewraith, what the hell are those things?”

”…Seagulls?” Candlewraith muttered, half-joking, half-serious. The distance made it hard to tell.

”Doesn’t matter what they are,” he snapped a second later. ”What matters is killing them. Get ready!”

”Hell yeah!” Ironhorn roared, his aura exploding outward.

With a snarl, he charged forward like a berserk bull, his massive frame tearing through the battlefield.

Candlewraith stayed back, his mind expanding outward, scanning the field and directing the flow of battle. ”Ironhorn’s charging in. Unless they’ve got something stronger than a six-armed freak, nothing’s stopping him.”

But even as he spoke, his mind was racing.

Where the hell is Wraithshade?

The two-headed bastard was nowhere to be seen. And that was a problem.

Candlewraith knew better than to underestimate him. Wraithshade’s abilities were bizarre, and worse—he had a natural edge against psychic-types like Candlewraith.

So far, everything was playing out too cleanly. Too conveniently.

And just as he feared, Ironhorn was tearing through the Frostmere horde like a chainsaw through wet paper. The Voidborn Undying’s pressure was overwhelming—he was a walking fortress, and with his mutated bone armor, nothing could touch him.

But the real threat wasn’t the front line.

It was Bloodleech.

His parasites were the true nightmare—silent, invasive, and nearly impossible to detect mid-battle. And while the chaos raged, Bloodleech had already slithered far back, crouched low in a shadowy corner of the battlefield.

His gill-like cheek folds opened wide, and from within, a torrent of white parasites spewed forth, flooding the ground like a living plague.

”That sneaky bastard…” Ironhorn growled, eyes glowing red. He’d had enough.

He turned and charged straight at Bloodleech, determined to end the threat at its source.

With his Voidborn Undying body, he was practically invincible against the lesser zombies. He bulldozed through the horde, leaving a trail of crushed corpses in his wake.

But Bloodleech wasn’t stupid.

The moment he sensed Ironhorn’s monstrous aura closing in, he bolted—his slick, leech-like body slithering away at high speed.

”Running, huh?” Ironhorn snarled, giving chase.

He plunged deeper into Frostmere’s horde, but his sheer power kept him untouched. No one could stop him.

Back on the ridge, Candlewraith’s eyes narrowed.

Something felt off.

Ironhorn was getting farther and farther away. The battlefield ahead was a mess of movement and noise, and soon, Ironhorn vanished from his psychic range.

”Wait a second…” Candlewraith muttered, his mind clicking into place. ”This feels like a damn diversion.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Wraithshade still hadn’t shown himself. And knowing that two-headed bastard’s personality, there was no way he’d miss the opening act of his own ambush.

This was classic Wraithshade—bait Ironhorn out, get him far enough away from Candlewraith’s psychic field… and then strike.

”Goddamn rat bastard…”

Candlewraith cursed under his breath, but he didn’t call Ironhorn back.

Instead, his eyes gleamed with cold calculation.

Fine. You wanna play dirty?

Then let’s play.

Two can play that game.

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