Athena's General Reincarnated in Another World

Nathan Evenhart:

In the dead of night, they emerged from the forest.

A tide of corpses—once human—now little more than walking husks, armed with rusted weapons or bare hands, frozen mid-step as they stared at us in absolute silence. And from every direction—trees, roads, shadows—more kept coming.

I knew what they were. Not quite like the Corrupted I'd fought in the tunnels beneath Nikolaus Wolves. These were different. These were dead. And far more terrifying.

"What the hell is this?" Grand Duke John growled.

One by one, the nobles pulled themselves up from the rubble, eyes widening as the unnatural cold crept through the air. My aunt raised her hands, clearly ready to hurl a spell at the Grand Duke in irritation—but she froze. Everyone did.

"Are they... dead?" one of the dukes asked.

As if in response, one of the corpses stepped forward. The sound of its footfall echoed unnaturally across the ruins. Another followed. Then another.

And then—they all screamed.

"AAARRGH!"

A bone-chilling, guttural howl in unison.

And they charged.

From the trees, from the grass, from the very soil—they poured out. Hundreds, maybe thousands. An endless swarm.

"This—this can't be real!" stammered King Charles, struggling to his feet.

Ahead of us, a lone soldier stood frozen, sword raised. He didn't even get the chance to swing.

Over fifty of them pounced in a single instant, burying him beneath a mass of rotting flesh. All we heard was a scream—then silence.

It felt like eternity passed. But it was only a second. One second—and we all understood.

"Positions!" Grand Duke John roared, lightning crackling in his hands as he hurled bolts into the oncoming horde.

My aunt followed with a barrage of ice, barriers rising in a desperate attempt to slow them. Other mages conjured spikes from the earth, impaling corpses mid-charge, flinging bodies into the air.

But they just kept coming.

The ice shattered under their weight. The walls broke. The spells faltered.

And still—they advanced.

I surged forward in a burst of lightning, propelling myself into the swarm. My hand gripped the Cursed Blade as I struck, carving through bodies in clean, brutal arcs. Thoughts blurred. My mind raced. Every direction—more. Endless.

A massive surge of water exploded across the field. I leapt instinctively.

My aunt's spell—buying me space. I responded with lightning, electrifying the flooded earth. The undead twitched, froze, convulsed. Some collapsed. Others staggered… only to rise again.

Fireballs burst overhead. Arrows rained like falling stars.

Still they came.

I dashed between them, cleaving with precision and force. A wind blade surged from my palm, slicing through torsos—yet even bisected, they crawled, dragging themselves forward.

I stepped over one, drove my blade through its skull. It stopped moving.

"Dead…" I muttered. "I had to be sure."

'They are called Draugr…'

The voice echoed in my mind—familiar and cold. Jormungandr.

'Cursed warriors of the old world. Bound by malice, they return even in death to serve their master…'

'They are the creation of Nidhogg—necromancers in the form of gods.'

Chloe Evenhart:

"Ice Art: Graveyard of Bones!" I shouted, mana surging through my arms as the snow around me began to stir. Frost gathered in clusters, swirling into skeletal forms—brittle bones sculpted from enchanted ice. My army rose and charged.

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Dozens of skeletal warriors made of gleaming frost stormed toward the abominations emerging from the treeline, striking with jagged ice blades as chaos erupted before the mansion.

"Lady Chloe!"

Martha's voice cut through the noise like a blade. With a snap of her fingers, needles of water formed midair and launched like arrows, piercing through rotting flesh and dropping the undead in droves.

"Give me a few seconds!" I called, as maids and soldiers struggled to hold the defensive line. My ice-born skeletons clashed with the undead, buying precious time. I knelt, placing my hand against the ground and focused. Frost bloomed from my palm. Ice began to spread.

The earth froze beneath us, transforming into a deathly white battlefield. A thick mist curled along the ground. Trees of pure ice grew from the soil, their limbs crackling, and heavy snow began to fall like a curtain. The undead staggered. Their footing failed. They slipped, tripped, tumbled over one another.

Then—figures emerged from the trees. Knights sculpted from ice, wielding frozen blades, burst from the woods and crashed into the horde like living statues of war.

"We need to fall back!" Martha shouted, leading a strategic retreat toward the mansion. Earth-elemental maids began chanting, hands glowing as walls of stone erupted to form protective barricades. I reinforced their spells, layering them with jagged frost and barbed ice.

Inside, it was no better. The chaos had followed us in. Soldiers scrambled to barricade doors and windows with furniture and stone. Panic rippled beneath the surface of every command.

"What are these things? Where did they come from?" Martha asked, her voice tight with dread.

Before I could answer—BOOM.

A window reinforced with magic and stone shattered violently as a massive rock punched through, smashing furniture and soldiers alike. A towering undead orc stepped through the breach, dragging a metal shield, its decayed snarl twisted in grotesque fury. It raised a massive club and slammed it to the ground with bone-shaking force.

We were thrown back.

"Ready yourselves!" Martha commanded.

Arrows whistled through the air—useless. The orc raised its shield, shrugging off the barrage as it barreled forward, smashing through walls like paper.

I gathered my magic. Ice surged to my fingertips and I blasted his right leg, the frost clinging fast and locking the limb mid-step. As it reared to strike, I countered with a blast of wind, sending the beast stumbling back. But more were coming—undead orcs, clawing through breaches in every corridor. Every room we passed became another front in this losing war.

"We can't hold them here," I shouted. "If I unleash full power, I'll take all of you with it! Fall back—now!"

They hesitated—just for a moment—before obeying. Another impact shook the mansion.

Part of the wall collapsed. And through it came something worse.

A monstrous orc, four times the size of the others, forced its way inside. Its roar shattered glass and made the very ground tremble. The temperature dropped, but its presence brought nothing but dread.

And then—ROOOOAR.

A deafening roar tore through the air. Flames engulfed the monstrous orc, lifting it off its feet and slamming it against the far wall in a crash of fire and splinters.

From the sky, through the broken wall—she landed.

Glittering scales shimmered in the fractured light. Her wings spread wide, casting shadows across the room.

Cylla. In full draconic form.

With no hesitation, she let loose another torrent of fire, reducing the undead into ash with terrifying efficiency. She roared again—fierce, protective, furious, and the battle shifted.

Nathan Evenhart:

I rushed back toward the nobles. Stone walls had risen around them—makeshift ramparts forged by earth mages, holding the line for now.

"What are those things?" one of the dukes asked, voice strained with panic. Everyone was firing spells over the barricade when they noticed it—
The undead had begun to climb.

Clawed hands and broken fingers dug into stone, desperate for blood, mindless in their hunger for destruction.

"We have to fall back!" a soldier shouted.

"No!" Grand Duke John snapped. "We need to find the others. There are members of the royal family in the city! Alice, Agnes, Melina—"

"My mother—my sister!" Duncan gasped, eyes wide with realization.

My aunt and I locked eyes. And I felt it too.

"My mother," I muttered. But it wasn't just her.

Kinue. Chloe. Hugo. Adrihna. Natty. Catty. Everyone still trapped in that burning city.

"Chloe's near the mansion," I told my aunt.

"Then we're going to her," Margaery said without hesitation.

"If you abandon your king now, that's considered high treason," the Grand Duke growled.

"You already accused me of treason and said I'd be imprisoned," I replied, flat. "I guess I've already crossed that line."

He grabbed my wrist—

But then—

"Enough!" a voice boomed.

King Bartholomew emerged from the smoke, his tone cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"Enough of this bullshit! Look around you!"

We all turned, corpses were scaling the walls. Magic was flying everywhere. People were dying.

"I'm prioritizing survival!" the Grand Duke barked. "Staying together gives us the best chance!"

And then, the wall cracked.

A deep rumble echoed as fractures split through the stone.

Marquis Caelan and Eldric arrived at a sprint, hands glowing with mana.

"They're breaking through!" someone shouted.

"Prepare yourselves!" Grand Duke John roared.

The barricade gave way. And the dead poured in.

Undead leapt over the broken stone, crawling over each other like insects. Spells of thorned vines shot upward, tearing through the front lines, but more kept coming. They trampled the fallen, climbed over their own, hungry for living flesh.

My aunt and Marquis Caelan raised their arms, summoning a massive wave of water and hurling it backward, sweeping dozens away. The Grand Duke and I unleashed a volley of lightning, crackling through their ranks. Duncan summoned explosive stone orbs and hurled them into the chaos.

Soldiers surged forward, weapons ready, striking down anything that made it through. We fought shoulder to shoulder, unleashing everything we had.

And then—

WHOOOOSH—

A colossal gale ripped through the air. A single gust—violent, focused—slammed into the undead. They were sliced in half. Dozens of them exploded in midair, limbs flying, blood evaporating into mist.

From above—

A man descended.

Sword in hand.

Eyes calm.

Presence undeniable.

Beside him, a winged horse landed with a thunderous flap, its mane glowing faintly in the dark.

The man straightened, cracking his neck as if arriving late to a casual meeting.

"Looks like you needed backup," he said with a crooked grin. "For those who don't know me…"

His blade gleamed, glinting off shattered stone and broken corpses.

"Name's Leonhard Olarion," he said, raising his sword. "Inquisitor."