Chapter 138 – The Cold Fog Toward the Throne of Bones
Cloudy skies accompanied their journey. The dim sunlight was trapped behind heavy gray clouds, casting a dull blue hue over the vast land blanketed in fog. The wind blew gently but bitingly cold, carrying a chill that pierced to the bone as if the world itself was holding its breath in anticipation of the coming war.
In the sky, a massive zombie dragon flew slowly, its broad wings gliding with steady flaps. On its back, Sylvia sat toward the rear, clad in black and violet robes, eyes narrowed as she gazed at the gray horizon. In front of her, Sofia sat silently in her white-and-gold battle attire, calm but not tense. To the side, Zark stood holding a chained map, occasionally glancing down to ensure the troops followed the correct path.
Behind them flew the others an elite force of high-ranked zombies from various races, rune-robed zombie mages, and well-trained humans who had pledged loyalty to Sylvia. Though they numbered fewer than a hundred, each of them was battle-tested not just in strength, but in loyalty. Some were survivors of old cities, former hunters or former slaves who had now found their place under the banner of the Dark Queen.
"The land below used to be a small village named Loria," Zark said, eyes still on the map. "It was quiet. Even before the major outbreak, the people there lived as though they had vanished from the world."
Sofia looked down, where a stretch of ashen brown terrain lay. Withered trees stood like shadows, and dilapidated homes resembled skeletal remains of buildings. No bird songs. No animals. Even the wind passed through without stirring anything.
"This place..." Sofia murmured. "It doesn’t just feel cold. It feels dead."
Sylvia nodded. "It seems every Zombie King leaves a certain mark on their domain. This one... kills the very sense of life."
They continued without much conversation. With every passing minute, the fog below grew denser, until even the land’s silhouette began to vanish. Their dragon descended gradually, nearing the boundary known by the scouts as the Dead Zone an area about five kilometers from the enemy’s stronghold. No magical signal could penetrate that region, as though the world itself refused to record anything within it.
As they breached the thin cloud layer beneath the gray sky, a stench began to rise. Not just the smell of rot, but something metallic like old blood mixed with damp earth.
They landed on a low plateau surrounded by crumbled stone towers and wooden posts from old structures. The soil was infertile gray, cracked, and sound-absorbing. Not far off, bonfires were lit by undead who had arrived earlier via land route.
Tents were erected small but sturdy, covered in magic-resistant cloth and modified scrap metal to form makeshift defenses. Zark arranged perimeter guards, while humans set up observation posts in the nearest ruined tower, each using communication crystals to relay movement updates regularly.