It began with a sound.
Not a loud one. Just a small crack. Like old wood giving in.
Then came movement.
A hand of bare bones, dry and slightly yellowed— twitched where it lay buried in dust. The fingers moved,stiff and slightly shaky. They scratched at the cold stone underneath, dragging dry dirt with it's every move. Then another hand joined it. Both pushed down, slow and clumsily.
A skeleton sat up.
It's bones clicked together as it moved. No skin. No muscles. Just bones, clean and bare, shifting like old gears.
A skull lifted, it's hollow eye sockets glowing faint blue, weak as dying embers. Its spine straightened with a sick crack.
It didn't breathe. It didn't need to.
It was already dead.
And yet surprisingly, it moved.
The skeleton looked around. The room was wide and cold. Stone walls, broken in many places.
Cracks stretched across the ceiling like veins. Sand blew in from above through a thin crack in the roof, carrying the whispers of the wind with it.
And everywhere… bones.
Piles of them.
Some still held weapons— curved swords, broken spears. Others had armor, rusted and falling apart.
The bones lay twisted, cracked and broken. Some ribcages had shattered, some skulls caved in. The skeleton sat in the middle of it all, like the last piece in a puzzle of death.
It looked down at itself.
Its body was no different— just bones, old and worn. Bits of cloth still clung to its frame, thin as paper, dry as ash. Something had once been tied around its neck, but the rope seemed to have snapped. Dust filled its ribs as sand clung to its legs.
It unconsciously reached up and touched its face.
Nothing was there but a boney feel. No skin. No flesh. Just it's skull.
It tried to speak. The sound was dry, like sand slipping through cracks.
"…Where…" The voice barely made it out. A rasp. A scrape.
Then came a noise from the side.
A clatter.
Something shifted in the nearby pile. A femur slid off a pile and hit the ground with a dull thud. A skull followed, rolling a little before stopping face-up, empty eyes staring at him.
The skeleton didn't move.
It listened, carefully.
It could feel something. Not air. Not life. Just… some sort of presence. Stillness so deep it pressed down like a weight.
He wasn't alone.
He didn't know who he was. Or how he got here. But he knew this place. Or rather, what it was.
A tomb. A forgotten one.
And not sacred. Not honored.
Just a dump for the dead.
He tried to stand. Bones creaked and scraped. He had to dig his feet out of the dirt with great effort. Sand spilled from his ribs as he rose while his legs nearly buckled, but he caught himself just in time. One foot, then the other. It was slow and shaky, but he was careful.
He reached down and grabbed a sword.
It was old. Blunt. Rust ran along its edge. But it felt right in his hand. His bony fingers wrapped around the hilt. The grip was rotten, but it held.
He looked at the blade. Then back at the room.
There were at least a thousand corpses here. Maybe more. All bones now. And all of it were silent.
Some had died with weapons in hand.
Others had crawled away, backs to the wall, their last moments full of fear.
Who were they? He didn't know.
Who was he? He didn't know that either.
He looked at his hands again. They didn't tremble. They couldn't. There was nothing left to shake.
But inside, something flickered. A small light.
Not hope. Not warmth. Just… motion. As if it's a need, his will— screaming at him to move. To go forward, even if he has to crawl out.
He looked up. A thin shaft of light broke through the roof above, barely strong enough to light the sand beneath him. Dust floated in its rays like ash. It didn't warm anything though. It just made the shadows worse.
He took a step. Then another.
Each step made the bones crunch.
He didn't feel sorry. He didn't feel anything.
And maybe that was better.
This world, whatever it was, felt long gone. No songs. No laughter. Just bones in the dark, and he was in the middle of it.
Just him and the tomb.
---
The skeleton moved through the tomb, sword in hand, his footsteps scraping against some dry stone. He passed the piles of bones, stepped over some shattered skulls, and kicked aside broken armor.
And then— he heard it.
A scrape.
And then another.
Followed by a clatter.
With his sockets, it caught some movement in the far end of the room, something was stirring.
More boney figures, like him, moved. Their spines twisted and arms jerked. A skull rolled out of the shadows, stopped against a wall, and a hand reached to grab it.
One by one, other skeletons were rising.
Some still half-buried in sand. Others slumped against cracked pillars. No words were spoken. No thoughts went through their skulls. It was just motion.
He stood still and watched, sword in hand.
A ribcage rose up beside a broken column. Its limbs found their place without care. It's bones clicked as the creature stood. It reached for a nearby weapon— a spear with a missing tip, it stopped then walked forward.
No direction. No goal. Just walking.
Another grabbed a shield that was more of a hole than steel. It shuffled forward, dragging one foot behind it.
More followed. Eight of them. Then twenty. Till he lost count. They didn't look at each other. They didn't even notice him.
He stood between two such skeletons as they passed.
They didn't seem to care.
He wasn't special it seems. He was just one of them.
Maybe the only difference was… he looked.
He observes everything with consciousness.
They didn't. They just walked.
He watched them shuffle off into the dark halls beyond the chamber. Some limped and slipped. Some dragged their swords behind them. One had no lower jaw, just a half-broken skull that bounced with each step.
They didn't attack. They didn't think.
They just existed.
He turned away in slight disappointment. No point following some brainless undead.
Instead, he went back toward the center of the room. There was a broken weapons rack there— wood long splintered and blackened. He picked through it.
Found a better blade— not sharp, but straighter.
Found a dagger— short, rusted, but still solid.
He tied the sheath to a piece of rope hanging off his side. It didn't fit right, but at least it held.
He found a small buckler, slightly dented and covered in dust and slung it over his back.
Didn't know why though. It was his backup just in case trouble finds him.
He found the doorway next— it was tall and carved from dark stone. It had no door, just a frame marked with strange carvings. He reached up and touched one. Felt nothing. Just a line etched in the rock.
He stepped through.
What lay beyond wasn't light.
It was more of a hallway.
Long and cracked. Covered in sand blown in from somewhere. More bones were here too. Slumped in some corners. Bent around the collapsed walls.
He remained indifferent and followed the hallway, slow steps were taken with his sword in hand.
After a while, he reached some stairs. He climbed carefully, step by step.
The steps were narrow. Steep even. Some had collapsed as if it had exploded. He found it weird but climbed anyway, grabbing stone when he had to, pulling himself up when his feet slipped on the dust.
It took time, but it was worth it.
At the top, there was light. Real light, from the sun.
He stepped out— and stopped.
The tomb had been buried in a hillside of stone and sand. The stairs led to a broken archway, and beyond it… the world.
And the world, was dead.
A desert stretched in every direction. Not golden. Not warm. It was gray and burnt.
Dry sand blew in endless lines, scratching against the rocks.
In the far distance, he could see buildings—barely. Tall and crooked towers, blackened by heat and war. Some leaned sideways. Others were half-buried. One looked like it had melted into itself.
Closer by, there were bones. As usual.
Scattered across the sand like trash.
Skeletons lay face-down in dunes. Some stuck upright, spears still in hand. Others were half-eaten by sand, only ribs showing.
Weapons poked from the ground like weeds.
The wind howled.
There were no birds. No animals. No sky worth looking at. Just a pale sun behind smoke-colored clouds, stuck high and angry. The air shimmered with a low howl like it didn't want to be breathed.
He stepped out, one hand on his sword.
Sand crunched under his feet. It stuck in his bones to which made him slightly uncomfortable. It got into the cracks as it scraped between his ribs.
He ignored the discomfort and walked.
Found nothing but more ruins.
An old tower. Collapsed.
A broken statue, missing its face.
A banner, torn and faded, barely hanging from a dead tree.
He saw words carved into stone at one point. Unfortunately, he couldn't read them. The language was wrong. Or maybe he was wrong.
Then he heard it again.
Bones crackling. This time, fast ones.
He turned. Three skeletons.
Not like the ones from the tomb.
These moved with purpose. Not intelligence— but hunger. Their bones were blackened. Weapons jagged. One carried a hooked blade. Another had a cleaver made from a broken sword.
They didn't shuffle like the normal ones, they ran.
He didn't speak.
So he raised his sword.
The first one leapt. He skillfully sidestepped and slashed— bone cracked. The skeleton stumbled, missing part of its spine as it fell.
The second came swinging wild. He blocked with the buckler. The metal screeched. He stabbed low and took out a leg.
They didn't scream.
But they did kept coming.
He backed away, waited for the right moment, then shoved one into the other. They tumbled with their limbs tangling with each other. He kicked a skull. It rolled comically.
He didn't know how he fought. His body, or skeleton, seemed to remembered more than his mind. Movements came in quick and efficient. No actions were wasted.
He stepped back. The third came in. He ducked then drove his blade into its ribs, twisted, then pulled.
It's bones scattered.
Silence again.
He stood in the dust, broken bodies around him, wind blowing hard.
He didn't feel alive.
He didn't feel dead.
He just existed. Like them.
Whatever this place was, it didn't seem to want him to survive.
But something inside him— deep in the bone— refused to fall.
Not yet, at least.
---
The wind picked up.
It carried more than sand now. It carried the smell of something evil. Burned bone and dry blood. Heat that had never cooled.
The skeleton stood in silence.
He looked out past the broken stones and saw them coming.
More skeletons. Dozens. Maybe a hundred.
Their bones were dark— blackened, twisted by fire and time. Some dragged weapons behind them. Others had spikes jammed into their backs, or pieces of rusted armor nailed to their ribs. Their skulls were cracked and scorched, and some even glowed faint red inside, like coal left in the ashes.
They didn't walk like the others, so they were enemies.
They ran faster than the last.
It was not aimless as they were running straight towards him.
He backed up and assessed his situation. His feet dragged through the sand as he gripped his sword tightly, but it was no use. He wanted to fight but there were too many.
So he turned to run—
Then, more footsteps.
'...Behind?"
From the tomb, to which he came from.
More skeletons emerged— new ones. Like him. Fresh from the dust. Their bones were pale, and their movements were slow and confused.
Dozens of them stepped into the open light. Some carried swords. Others had shields, spears, even broken bows. A few had no weapons, just fists and cracked helmets. All of them looked lost.
But one among them was different.
Taller.
Wearing some light blue armor.
Only scraps here and there— but it was enough to mark him. A chestplate dented and dry. A helmet, missing its visor, pressed down onto a bare skull. On his hip, a sword still in its sheath. Seems to have not aged.
It stepped forward and then stopped.
The blackened skeletons were still rushing forward, dust flying behind them, weapons raised.
He was stuck in-between blackened ones and the newly risen.
The armored one turned his head slowly. His glowing eyes narrowed as if sensing something.
Then as if he had confirmed the said something— he opened his mouth.
And a deep, black miasma, poured out.
Not breath. Not voice.
Smoke like tendrils.
Thick and foul, writhing like something alive. It bled from his ribs too, from the gaps in his armor.
Then the words came.
Not spoken— screamed word for word with it's coarse voice.
"…ENEMY…"
The ground seemed to shake.
"…DEFEAT…"
He pointed forward with one bony hand.
"…KILL…"
The skeleton army behind him froze for a second.
Then he screamed one more word:
"…MARCH!!!"
And like that, they moved.
The pale skeletons, fresh from the tomb—charged forward as if something ancient snapped awake inside them. Feet slammed into sand. Blades rose. No hesitation. No thought.
War.
The blackened skeletons met them halfway.
The first clash sounded like metal being torn in half.
Swords against bone. Shields splintering. Screams, if they could even be called that—rose into the air. Not human, not some beast. Just the noise of battle.
The armored one led the charge. He swung with both hands, cleaving through three black skeletons at once. His sword glowed faint blue with a tint of red now, as if something inside it remembered too.
The main skeleton, the one who had woken first—stood still for a moment. Watching all of this in wonder.
He didn't understand it. Not fully at least.
But he knew what this was. This was war.
Old as it burned into the land.
And now, even in death, it played out again.
He didn't wait long too, he joined with some excitement.
A blackened skeleton came for him— rusted axe swinging wild. In return, he ducked and cut upward, splitting its spine.
Another came. He turned without looking and slashed across its ribs, knocking its skull clean off.
Around him, bones flew in pieces.
Fleshless bodies locked in some senseless combat. Some were immediately knocked down and shattered. Others kept fighting even with missing limbs. One skeleton crawled forward with no legs, stabbing the enemy with a broken dagger.
There was no order.
Just killing. Just pure bones.
He fought because he had to, or at least that's what he thought.
Because if he didn't, he'd be part of the sand again.
He ducked under a spear, rolled through dust, stabbed low into a kneecap. The bone cracked and fell. He moved on, no time to watch it die for a second time.
Behind him, the armored one let out another roar.
"THE MARCH SHALL NOT BE STOPPED!!!"
The words echoed across the battlefield like thunder.
Some of the newer skeletons seemed to stand taller as they raged. Others screamed in return, wordless but full of fury. The blackened ones didn't speak at all— they just fought harder.
The wind howled through the ruins watching the boney figures fighting their blackened selves. Sand flew in every direction as if cheering. Bones shattered without any care as dust painted the sky in a brown hue.
It was chaos. It was death. And it wasn't over till one side completely dies out.
---