Echoed Lands

The relentless thump of thousands of footsteps echoed through the ruins, accompanied by the guttural groans of the undead. The sounds rang in Colm's ears, overwhelming and unceasing. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Every direction he looked, a tide of undead bodies surged toward him, as if a flood converging on his location.

The undead horde was an assortment of horrors. Some were barely more than skeletons, looking as if their brittle bones snapped under their own weight and the stress of the horde. Others were bloated with rot, their flesh falling off in wet chunks with every step. One, missing its legs, using its teeth and arms to drag itself closer, and its jaw snapping with hunger.

Its already too late. The thought of portaling to the Lucent Grove crossed his mind, but he dismissed it immediately. It takes too much focus. Too much time. One slip, and I'd have to start over. There's no chance.

Gripping his spear tightly, Colm smirked grimly. "Guess we're fighting, then."

Before the undead could completely encircle him, he sent Lance and Robin into the fray, their spectral forms moving with deadly precision. Their attacks cut through the horde making a path, but it was barely a dent—like a single drop in an endless ocean. Each movement forward sealed off their escape route.

"There are so many of them," he muttered, his voice tinged with both awe and despair.

Notifications flooded his vision, one after another, but Colm shoved them aside. There was no time to celebrate victories, no time to dwell on numbers. With a steady breath, he joined the battle, his spear slicing cleanly through the mass of rotting flesh and bone.

Carver stood at his side, a steadfast guardian, ensuring nothing got too close. Together, they fought the approaching horde, each swing and strike a desperate attempt to survive.

The battle had begun in earnest, and Colm steeled himself for the unrelenting storm of the undead.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as Colm danced between the grasping hands of the undead. Despite their low levels and sluggish movements, their sheer numbers were unrelenting. For every one that fell, three more surged forward to take its place. The growing piles of corpses that littered the broken ruins grimly showed the battle's intensity.

Through panted breaths, Colm muttered, "An AOE ability would've been really helpful right about now."

He spared a glance at his phantoms, each one a beacon of hope amidst the droves of undead. Robin kept close to Lance, the archer's deadly precision enhanced by the spearman's formidable reach. Lance's spear swiftly skewered any undead foolish enough to draw near, while Robin loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding its mark with incredible accuracy.

Colm forced his attention back to his own fight, his eyes flicking briefly to Carver. The Phantom Warrior cut through the horde like a scythe through wheat, its blade slicing through multiple foes with every swing. Yet even Carver's might could only create temporary gaps in the endless tide, each opening quickly filled by more ravenous bodies.

"The only good thing about this," Colm muttered under his breath, "is that they're so weak a single strike takes them down, and my spear keeps me out of their reach."

Colm's mind raced as he fought, a mixture of adrenaline and grim determination keeping him going. They just keep coming. There's no end to them. How many of these things can there possibly be? Despite the hopelessness clawing at the edges of his mind, he forced himself to focus. I've survived the Lucent Grove. I can handle this. After this maybe, I can finally figure out the whistling.

Thinking back to his days in the Lucent Grove, Colm felt a flicker of gratitude for the countless hours he had spent training with his phantoms, sharpening his combat skills and reflexes. That experience is paying off now. He could feel it in the fluidity of his movements, the instinctive way he adapted to the surrounding chaos. Even the knowledge granted by his Spear Mastery skill flowed through him, subtly guiding each strike with precision.

But there was no time to dwell on those thoughts. Colm shoved them aside, his focus snapping back to the present. His spear thrust forward, impaling an undead that lunged at him from the side. The creature crumpled lifelessly to the ground as Colm quickly repositioned himself. The fight was far from over, and he braced himself for the relentless wave still bearing down on him.

His expression hardened, his focus narrowing. The groans of the undead, the thud of countless footsteps, the distant clash of his phantoms' battles—all of it faded into the background. His world became singular: the fight was directly in front of him. Swing. Swipe. Dodge. Repeat. Over and over. This was his life now, a ceaseless rhythm of survival.

His spear, tipped with the Grove Stalker's claw, cleaved through the undead with brutal efficiency, its reach ensuring no creature came too close. Colm had no more time to monitor the other battles involving his phantoms—he trusted them implicitly. What mattered was the immediate threat, the foes surging toward him with unending ferocity.

The one small solace was the absence of any notifications signaling the defeat of his phantoms. As long as that held true, he had hope. His grip tightened on the spear, and with a sharp breath, he pushed forward into the horde, determined to endure.

Panting heavily, Colm stood atop a mound of corpses, surveying the carnage spread out before him. Bodies upon bodies stretched endlessly into the distance, a grim testament to the brutal battle he had just endured. Countless times throughout the swarm, the growing piles of the fallen forced him to reposition, to avoid being tripped.

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Taking in the grim sight around him, Colm stood amidst mounds of flesh and bone, their forms in various states of decay. Some were little more than shattered skeletons, while others still bore clumps of rotting flesh clinging stubbornly to their frames. The sheer carnage was overwhelming, but it was the stench that truly broke through his reverie.

It hit him like a blow, sharp and nauseating, causing his eyes to sting and his stomach to churn. The bile rose in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him as he stumbled back, desperate to escape the grotesque scene. He turned away, forcing himself to focus on anything else, anything to push the horrifying image from his mind.

His gaze shifted to his phantoms. They were still finishing stragglers, their spectral forms moving with precision as they dealt with the remnants of the horde. The fight wasn't entirely over—hundreds of undead were still making their way toward him—but the tide had shifted. It was no longer the endless onslaught it had been before. The gaps left by the fallen weren't being filled as quickly now, and for the first time, the horde felt manageable.

Sweating and exhausted, Colm swiped his brow and let out a weary sigh. "Shit. I got lucky," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the groans of the remaining undead. "They were all lower-level, easy to avoid. If I hadn't gotten so strong in the Grove…" He trailed off, shaking his head. I'd be dead right now.

His mind replayed fragments of the fight, focusing on the close calls. There had been moments when slightly stronger versions of the undead had caught him off guard with their sudden, unexpected movements. He'd avoided them, but only barely. The memory sent a chill down his spine.

If even one of them had gotten a hold of me. The thought hung heavy in his mind. He shuddered, the old zombie movies he'd watched growing up flashing through his memory. A scratch, a bite—that could've been the end of me.

He clenched his spear tightly, his knuckles white. There's still too much I don't know about this place, about the undead, he thought grimly. His eyes darted toward the horizon, where more stragglers emerged from the forest. But I know one thing—I'm not dying here.

With a moment of reprieve, Colm decided it was finally time to check his notifications. The battle had been long and grueling, but he could feel the growth coursing through him—a tangible reward for his relentless effort and endurance. His hands trembled as the adrenaline faded, exhaustion settling in. With a swipe through the air, he began scrolling through the flood of notifications, his tired eyes scanning until he finally reached the summary at the end.

Spear Mastery (Level 5) has increased to Spear Mastery (Level 6)

Spear Mastery (Level 6) has increased to Spear Mastery (Level 7)

Spear Mastery (Level 7) has increased to Spear Mastery (Level 8)

Spear Mastery (Level 8) has increased to Spear Mastery (Level 9)

Spear Mastery (Level 9) has increased to Spear Mastery (Level 10)

26,723 Undead Walkers Defeated. No Experience Gained.

[ Achievement Earned ]

Bane of the Undead - You have vanquished thousands of undead, avenging the fallen humans of this cursed land. Your relentless efforts have honed your power against these abominations, making your attacks and abilities significantly more effective.

Stat Boost: Increases damage dealt to undead by 10%.

Spear Mastery is now Level 10. That makes sense. I could feel how the skill influenced me during the fight, how it subtly guided my blows, refining each strike. Colm frowned thoughtfully. I'll need to figure out more about these skills—see if they can continue to rank up beyond this point.

His thoughts wandered to other abilities, particularly Sprint Mastery, which hadn't budged in rank despite being at Level 10 for some time. Same with so many of my other abilities. What triggers a skill to rank up? he wondered. It feels like it's more than just levels or gained experience. This fight alone proved that—I didn't earn any experience, but Spear Mastery still improved.

Pushing the thought aside for now, Colm shifted his focus to the next notification, curiosity driving him forward.

The Bane of the Undead has a nice ring to it, he thought wryly. Though in this fight, it would not have made much difference—everything had already fallen in a single hit. Still, the bonus isn't something to dismiss lightly. It'll probably come in handy down the road, he mused, his grip on the spear firm as he considered what else might await him in this cursed world.

As Colm stared at how he got the achievement focusing on the numbers displayed before him, his eyes locked on the achievement and the staggering scale of his actions. "Holy shit," he muttered, barely audible. The realization hit him like a wave. It has to be over 40,000 by now. Maybe even 50,000.

He sat down heavily, reeling from the weight of it. "That's… so much death," he whispered, the enormity of it sinking in. Colm's mind raced as he tried to comprehend the scale. He pictured the largest stadiums he'd visited back on Earth, their stands packed with people, trying to match that image to the staggering number of undead he had slain. The thought turned his stomach.

Months ago, he had never even taken a life—not even an animal. Now, he'd killed tens of thousands of creatures. This is too much, he thought, his breathing shallow. What kind of person does this make me?

The moments dragged on as Colm sat in silence, his phantoms continuing their work. Spectral forms darted across the battlefield, slaying the last remnants of the horde.

And then, suddenly, everything grew still.

The footfalls of the undead ceased, their heavy groans fading into silence. The oppressive noise that had plagued the ruined city for so long was gone.

Colm's head snapped up, his senses on high alert. "Are they all gone?" he muttered, disbelief heavy in his voice. The silence that followed felt unnatural, almost surreal, as though the city itself had listened. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no groaning, no shuffling, only the distant rustle of the wind.

But this wasn't relief—it was different. The abrupt end of noise felt wrong, the mounds of corpses around him serving as grim evidence of why the quiet had come. He understood the silence, knew the undead had finally stopped, but something about it unsettled him. It wasn't peace. It was foreboding.

As Colm absorbed the eerie stillness, a sound sliced through the quiet, sharp and distinct, like a pin dropping in an empty classroom.

A whistle.