Chapter Two – Army of the Dead
Clark rose from the ground, his body
stretching like a beast awakened from a long, violent slumber. His eyes swept the surrounding darkness with unease as he muttered:
"Where do we go from here? Don't you think it's strange to move through a place we know nothing about? Everything is veiled in mystery… and yet you act as if you know the way."
For a fleeting moment, something shifted in Gene's expression. His face turned to stone—stiff, unyielding—his eyes devoid of life, though behind them simmered a volcano, ready to erupt.
He tilted his head toward the sky.
---
Clark:
"I was born ready! Hahahahahahaha!"
He raised his blood-soaked sword high into the air, a manic grin stretched across his face, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight.
"In life, there's only one way—forward! We march and laugh at the world, trampling ants and filth underfoot. As long as we're getting closer to the goal, to the summit—what does it matter if we're vile? Hahahahahaha! We laugh, we bathe in chaos, and we climb to the top."
That grin remained—wild, defiant—as his sword caught the moonlight overhead.
Gene:
"I loved that speech. Then let's go!"
His eyes shimmered with reckless thrill, his face smeared with blood, yet a sardonic smile split his lips—bright and unbothered by the encroaching dark.
The tide of skulls surged toward them, but every slash of Clark and Gene's blades shattered bone and soul alike.
Clark lunged forward, kicking a soldier aside, his body twisting with fluid precision as he ducked a swift attack. Sweat streamed down his brow, mingling with the blood on his face, but he pressed forward without hesitation.
He swung his sword with fierce grace—cutting through legs, driving the blade through a gaping mouth.
Gene laughed maniacally, blood staining his face, eyes pulsing with madness.
Gene:
"Duck!"
He vaulted over Clark's bent back, slicing through the enemy like a dark comet, his eyes glowing with hate, his blade tearing into flesh.
Together, they fought like twin storms, their bodies soaked in blood, eyes lit with animal focus. Hair clung to their faces, heavy with sweat. Yet no fear, no hesitation, crossed their expressions.
Something was wrong. Neither of them noticed at first—but the summoner hadn't sent his entire army at once. It was as if he wanted to wear them down… not destroy them.
The numbers dwindled—from 200 at the beginning, now only 150.
Blood painted the earth. Their legs dragged through gore. Clark and Gene panted, faces dripping crimson, yet their eyes remained sharp—burning with something deeper than survival.
They advanced. Clark's eyes locked onto the summoner, who looked increasingly unsettled. Panic danced behind his commands. He poured forth troops, but they were torn apart all the same.
Then it happened.
Gene—exhausted—took a hit to the leg. A blade buried into his calf. Another soldier moved in to finish him.
But there was no fear in Gene's eyes—only a twisted grin. He knew who was coming.
A blade pierced through the attacker's helmet, exploding out the back. Blood sprayed across Gene's face as he booted the corpse aside.
Clark rushed to lift Gene—but another blade drove into his shoulder. His body shuddered from the pain.
Gene didn't hesitate. He retaliated, stabbing the assailant with raw fury in his eyes.
Gene (laughing):
"Hahahahaha! Got you back!"
His laugh was choked in exhaustion and rage—but defiant, proud.
Clark (grinning):
"Bastard! That wasn't the deal!"
His bloodstained face turned to Gene with the helpless amusement only comrades-in-war share.
---
Gene (laughing):
"But I saved you—just like you saved me!"
They stood together, barely standing, barely breathing. The summoner's army had thinned to sixty. But their bodies were broken. Gene limped, his leg barely holding weight. Clark's right arm hung wounded and limp.
Clark (noticing):
"Let's run. We can't win this. Your leg's gone, and I can't fight with my sword arm."
Their faces shared doubt. Escape seemed the only path. But Gene grinned again, shaking his head in stubborn joy.
Gene (laughing):
"Run? Where? This valley's a tomb—we're surrounded. You think you'll heal? No. We fight to the death. If they cut off your arms—bite them! If they break your teeth—kick them! If they take your legs—spit until they slice off your head!"
His laughter rang out again—gritty and bold, a laugh in Death's face.
Clark (smirking):
"So you want them to bury me in pieces, you madman?"
Gene:
"Who's going to bury us? No one knows us. No one cares. Two bastards facing a battalion—we fight, and we die! Don't make me laugh. FIGHT!"
His voice blazed with fire as he met Clark's eyes—waiting for the unspoken signal.
Gene dashed forward again, slicing down two enemies with brilliant finesse. He moved with brutal elegance—even limping, he danced. But time wore him thin. He was slowing.
Clark's eyes flared with pain and fury. He switched his sword to his left hand, gripping tight. He tossed away his shield.
Clark (through clenched teeth):
"Damn you! Don't rush in behind me. We fight together!"
His face twisted with exhaustion, but his will remained iron. With a snarl, he raised his left arm—bloodied but unyielding.
Gene (laughing):
"Good! Toss the damn shield! And since you're fighting with your left, I'll fight with my right—even though I'm left-handed!"
---
To be continued…