Far North City, the border city of the northern frontier.
The city walls were packed with battered, defeated soldiers.
Some leaned against the battlements, gasping for breath. Some sat on the ground, bandaging their wounds. More simply stared blankly southward.
The sky there was dyed red by fire, thick smoke billowing upward. Their former homeland was burning.
The king stood at the highest point of the gate tower, both hands braced against the wall, staring blankly into space.
He had not closed his eyes for three days.
Behind him, more than a dozen ministers crowded into the narrow gate tower. No one spoke.
Only by relying on the border troops from several frontier cities had they barely survived until now. But the border troops had been nearly destroyed as well.
Everyone knew this vital city would not last much longer.
A faint rumble came from the distance.
Everyone knew what it was: the footsteps of the undead.
They were advancing. Slowly, but without ever stopping.
A scout staggered up the city wall and collapsed at the king's feet.
"Your Majesty! The south... the south is completely gone! The undead have breached the thirteenth line of defense. At most, they will reach us in two days!"
The ministers erupted in alarm.
"Two days? How is that possible? That line had thirty thousand defenders!"
"Thirty thousand?" Another minister gave a bitter laugh.
"Those thirty thousand held out for a day and a night. Not one escaped. Do you know how many of those monsters there are? Too many to count! They cover the mountains and plains, they're everywhere!"
The king said nothing.
He continued staring south, at that sea of fire.
That was... the magnificent land left behind by his ancestors.
"Your Majesty." An elderly minister stepped forward, his voice hoarse. "The