Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

Chapter 321 Fear The Night : Countdown

Molc had taken post in a decrepit room that gave him access to many openings, with a wide view upon the battlefield, his hold upon his weapons was steady and confident, but his heart was beating quickly, he could see how his allies were being easily pushed back and defeated by the weakened Loimos, he felt at ease that none had died yet, even if they failed, they could always run away.

Knowing that running was only delaying the inevitable, he gritted his teeth, putting down his trusty crossbow, its pulling force enough to shoot bolts capable of stopping a charging bull on its own, but it was severely lacking, but snapping a piece of wood covered in runes, he called forth something greater, a proper ballista.

Covered in sigils and runes, coated in enchantments, its bolts laid on the floor, similarly geared, coated with life force, he felt like cursing Thanatok, that fool was too preoccupied by himself to even deign them with his own life force, otherwise, his bolts would have had a much greater effect.

Even at this distance, Molc was afraid, Loimos was not being pushed back in a corner, he was luring out the livings closer, if he was going to be struck by an attack anyways, then he was going to make the most of it and set up a trap.@@@@

In just this one move, he had been able of quickly dispatching Msir and Menhirel, two very competent warriors, but the crossbowman knew, being highly skillful was not enough, they were lacking, they were supposed to overwhelm him with numbers.

Rosemary, Pierre-Ornée, Bough and Syklon, one of them would have probably been well enough to defeat the undead in his current state, but that could not happen, with the threat of the gravelords, bringing any of the Tamarisian champions away from the kingdom would spell disaster.

Loading up the tool of siege, aiming it squarely at the undead, Molc was not going to wallow in despair, he had to convince himself that victory was assured, they were going to stand victorious without any casualties, Loimos, Death's Chosen Champion was going to fall today.

"Steady... Steady... Keep still..." unknowingly muttering under his breath, as if he was caught under the sun in summer, every pores of his body expelled sweat, his attire was drenched like he had just come back from a swim.

In just a few instant of pure focus, all of his strength and stamina was poured out.

'Eight' using the stolen sword to block a sneaky strike from Griar, the young noble seemed a bit out of breath, seemed like the attack from earlier had knocked the air out of his lungs, spells began raining down once more, only two people were left to occupy Loimos at close range.

Milo tackled into the undead, Griar struck with his hilt at the back, allowing his ally to land a good hit directly against Loimos's face.

The helm felt brittle, falling apart entirely as the undead tilted his head back, revealing a most revolting sight, a skull covered in rotten growths like fungus, maw filled with sharp, pointy fangs, a good portion of it missing, the uppermost portion on the right, half of the hollow socket missing, leaving only a much wider hole, putrescence filling the inside, swinging his head forward, Loimos bit into Milo's neck, his pestilence-ridden teeth sunk in, tearing out a chunk of flesh.

Neck twisting around, chucking the bloody piece of gore in Griar's face, shoving fingers into the former's fresh wound, and kicking back at the latter's crotch, a strong blade of wind hit him right in between two vertebrae of the neck, Helena's strike failed to cut through, and so did Alosfit's, Neige's, Forven's and Marl's, no one seemed to possess the necessary output to overcome his outlandish defences.

Marl abandoned charged attacks and sent a hail of holy life in hopes, of keeping Loimos in place to little effect, punching Griar in the throat, Milo managed lands consecutive hits in that small window, his neck bleeding profusely, gold trying to mend the wound, but the bite was deep.

Allowing the living to attack, Loimos brought his free hand up against the pommel of the sword, driving it through Milo's chest, through the side, in between two ribs and into a lung before pushing him to the side like a piece of garbage.

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A fond memory was certainly rekindled.

This was exactly how David had died.