The air was thick with rot and gunpowder. General Viktor "Bloodfang" Kruger stood amidst the wreckage, his crimson beret tilted slightly, shadowing his cold, calculating eyes. His combat knife, slick with darkened gore, reflected the flickering fires that licked the edges of the ruined outpost.
Behind him, the remnants of his Necro-Brigade twitched, their reanimated bodies adjusting to their unnatural existence. They were silent, awaiting orders, while the Flesh Revenants—Wolfe's abominations—had been reduced to twitching piles of ruined flesh.
But Kruger knew the battle wasn't over. Wolfe was still out there.
He adjusted his grip on his knife, its weight familiar, reassuring. This was no ordinary blade—it was custom-forged, its serrated edges capable of tearing through both living and undead flesh with terrifying ease. A weapon worthy of a warlord.
A faint shuffle in the distance caught his attention. His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the sound.
Then—a blur of movement.
Kruger barely dodged as a Flesh Revenant Berserker burst from the shadows. This one was larger, stronger, its veins pulsing with the corrupted strain of Wolfe's virus. It wasn't just a mindless husk; it had strategy. It was waiting. Hunting.
The beast swung a jagged combat blade, aiming for Kruger's throat. He barely twisted in time, the blade slicing across his vest instead of his flesh. Snarling, he countered, his own knife slashing a deep gouge across the Revenant's bicep.
It didn't even flinch.
It lunged again. Kruger ducked low, driving his knife into its gut, but the creature caught his wrist, its grip like iron. It lifted him with unnatural strength, slamming him against a crumbling wall.
Pain flared in Kruger's ribs, but he thrived on pain.
With a brutal snarl, he wrenched his arm free and buried his knife deep into the Revenant's temple, twisting savagely.
Kruger exhaled, shaking the gore from his blade. His comm crackled. Sergeant Darius "Hellhound" Rook.
"Boss, we've got movement on the northern perimeter. Wolfe's got reinforcements coming."
Kruger grinned darkly, rolling his shoulders. "Good. Let's welcome them properly."
He turned toward his Necro-Brigade, their decayed faces expressionless, awaiting his command.
"Lock and load," he growled. "Tonight, we paint the battlefield red."
As the distant echoes of Wolfe's undead forces grew closer, Kruger stood unmoving, his knife still warm with fresh blood. The war wasn't over.
It was just beginning.