Ricky sliced through the undead horde like a ghost in the wind, weaving through the endless tide of death. Each step he took, each flicker of his spiritual field, reduced the nearest undead to clouds of ash and powdered bone. They collapsed in pieces—tens, hundreds, thousands—erased in the blink of an eye, their fragmented remains scattering into the wind.
Yet it made no difference.
The sea of undead surged endlessly, like waves crashing against a defiant cliff. For every creature he felled, a hundred more took its place—silent, relentless, and unfeeling. Some burned with eerie, baleful fire, while others growled with guttural rage, their eyes soulless and hollow.
Ricky's compound eyes flared with eerie brilliance, constantly shifting as he scanned the battlefield.
But no matter how much ground he covered, he found no trace—no signature, no spiritual pressure—of any undead princess.
What he did find, however, made his jaw tighten.
Humans.
