Chapter 10: The Daylight Is Not Safe

Year 2, Day 239

I have spent weeks now traversing this vast, untouched continent, a land more diverse and alive than anything I could have imagined. Each biome feels like an entirely different world, brimming with new sights, sounds, and creatures that remind me of how much beauty nature holds when left to its own devices. I've documented everything I've seen—perhaps not out of need, but to preserve the memory of this journey, of what the world has become.

I first made my way into the savanna biome, where the air was crisp and dry, carrying the sharp scent of sand. Massive acacia trees stretched high into the sky, their thick, curved branches making the desert below feel shadowy and enclosed. That's when I saw them—llamas. At first, I thought they were a mirage, but no, they were real. They stared at me curiously, their long necks craning to get a better look. I approached slowly, careful not to startle them, and they allowed me to get close. Their wool was thick and their legs strong. They reminded me of livestock from the past; carrying goods on their backs in long caravans. But these animals were wild, free, and unburdened by fences or human hands.

From the savanna, I followed a river winding through valleys and lowlands, eventually leading me to a swamp biome. The air turned heavy with moisture, and the buzzing of insects grew louder with every step. The water here was murky, pools of green reflecting the sky like a dull mirror. Then, as I pushed through the thick vines, I saw them—frogs, larger than any I've ever seen, their deep croaks echoing across the swamp like distant drums. They moved lazily, unbothered by my presence. I watched one leap with surprising grace, landing on a lily pad that barely rippled under its weight. It felt otherworldly, like this swamp held secrets from an ancient time, forgotten by all but these creatures.

Days turned into nights as I pressed onward, eventually reaching the frozen north—the arctic biome. The shift was staggering. Gone were the lush greens of the jungle and swamp, replaced by vast stretches of snow and ice that reflected the sun's light like shards of glass. The silence here was deafening, broken only by the crunch of my boots in the snow. As I trudged forward, a shadow moved across the ice. At first, I froze, unsure of what I was seeing, but then it emerged—a polar bear.

The massive creature lumbered across the frozen surface, its white fur blending perfectly with the snow. I stood still, holding my breath as it turned its head to look at me. For a moment, we locked eyes. It didn't see me as prey, nor as a threat—just another traveler in its frozen domain. I watched it move with a quiet majesty, the ruler of this arctic expanse. I noticed a smaller shape trailing close behind—a cub, stumbling through the snow but never far from its mother's side.

It struck me then how resilient life is in this world. In places where the cold should be unbearable, where the heat of the swamp threatens to choke out everything, and the dry desert where finding water is a challenge; nature still finds a way to thrive. Animals live and adapt, their instincts guiding them through biomes that shift like chapters in an epic story.

And I, the last of humanity, am bearing witness to it all.

Every new land I step into reminds me of what was lost—but also of what has been preserved. No cities, no factories, no endless roads cutting through forests. This is what the Earth was always meant to look like: wild, untamed, and beautiful.

But as I continue to explore, I can't shake the feeling that I am not truly alone. The land feels ancient, alive, and perhaps even aware of my presence. Each biome I pass through seems to hold its secrets close, as if waiting for the right moment to reveal them. I don't know what lies ahead, but I will keep moving.

For now, I press on, my maps growing fuller with each passing day. My journey feels endless, but I am no longer afraid. I walk this world as both its last survivor and its humble observer, and I will document everything it has to offer.

Year 3, Day 10

I've been attacked by many things on this journey—undead hordes, Creepers lurking in dark corners, spiders that roam the forests, even my own mind in the silence of the wilds. But nothing could've prepared me for an attack by the river itself.

It started innocently enough. I had been riding for hours under a relentless sun, my throat dry and my horse weary. When I spotted the glimmer of a river cutting through the dense trees, it felt like salvation. I dismounted, letting my horse drink its fill while I knelt at the water's edge to refill my bottles. The coolness of the river was soothing, and for a moment, I let my guard down—a mistake I wouldn't soon forget.

That's when I noticed something swimming toward me. At first, I thought it was a fish, or maybe just a trick of the current, but as it drew closer, I saw it—a shape, faint but unmistakable. It was a humanoid figure, gliding through the water with unsettling speed.

I stood frozen, squinting to get a better look, when the water exploded.

Before I could react, a zombie lunged out of the depths, its rotting hands clamping onto me with unnatural strength. Its grip was like iron, dragging me off my feet and pulling me under. My sword was out of reach, and panic set in as the water closed over my head.

The world turned into a frenzy of bubbles, shadows, and pressure. I thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but the zombie's grip only tightened. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw them—two more figures swimming toward me, their dead eyes locked onto their prey.

One of them carried something that made my blood run cold: a trident.

The weapon glinted through the murky water as its wielder took aim. I knew I had only moments to act. With every ounce of strength I had, I drove my elbow back into the zombie restraining me. The impact jarred its grip loose just enough for me to slip free.

The trident shot through the water like a spear, missing me by inches. I kicked upward, my lungs screaming for air, and broke through the surface, gasping as I swam desperately toward shallow water. My arms and legs felt like lead, but I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop.

Reaching the shallows, I collapsed to my knees, coughing up river water and sucking in air like it was my first breath. But there was no time to rest. I heard the splashing behind me and turned to see them emerging from the river.

At first, I thought the sun would save me. I'd seen zombies burn before, their rotting flesh igniting as the sunlight touched them. But these zombies—they didn't burn. They moved out of the water, their hollow groans filling the air, and I braced myself for another fight.

Then I noticed something interesting. Their feet—their feet were still in the shallow water.

It hit me in a flash: the burning starts at their feet and ascends. As long as their feet remains submerged, they're shielded from the sun's deadly rays. These weren't ordinary zombies. They were something else—undead that had adapted to life underwater, surviving where others couldn't.

With that realization, I tightened my grip on my sword and stood up. They were still trudging toward me, slow but relentless, the water dripping from their decaying forms. My heart pounded, but I had a plan.

I charged.

The first zombie fell quickly, its body crumbling under the weight of my blow. The second lunged at me, but I sidestepped and struck hard, sending it sprawling back into the water. The third—the one with the trident—wasn't as easy. It thrust the weapon at me, narrowly missing my chest as I twisted away. In one smooth motion, I brought my sword down, cleaving through its arm and sending the trident clattering into the shallows.

The creature snarled, but it was too late. I delivered the final strike, and it collapsed into the mud. The water grew still again, as if the river itself had swallowed the chaos back into its depths.

I stood there for a long time, panting, my sword dripping with river water and the foul ichor of the undead. I glanced back at the river, its surface calm and serene once more, as though nothing had happened. It was unnerving, knowing the danger that lurked just beneath.

These water zombies—I decided to call them: Drowned—have proven something to me: this world is always changing. It's alive, in ways that defy logic, and the undead are not static creatures. They adapt, they endure, and they wait for moments like this—moments when someone like me lets their guard down.

As I looked at the discarded trident lying in the shallows, I picked it up, a grim trophy of the battle. It was heavy, but its craftsmanship was undeniable. Perhaps it would serve me one day, a weapon to use against the very creatures it once belonged to.

I mounted my horse and rode away from the river, casting one last glance over my shoulder. I won't make the same mistake again. The rivers, the lakes, the oceans—they're no longer safe. There's something alive in those depths, and it's waiting.

From now on, I'll trust the water as little as I trust the dark.

Year 3, Day 45

The undead are evolving. It's not just the underwater creatures I fought at the river—no, this is far worse. It's happening everywhere, in every corner of this world. I've seen them with my own eyes, and it chills me to my core.

I traveled through another desert biome, the heat oppressive, the air dry and unforgiving. Unlike the savanna, this desert had no life except for the occasional cactus. I had been walking for hours, my horse struggling in the sand, when I noticed something strange on the horizon. At first, I thought it was a mirage—dark shapes shuffling across the dunes, slow but purposeful.

But as I drew closer, I realized what they were. Zombies. Or at least, something like zombies.

These creatures roamed the desert under the burning sun without flinching. I hid behind a rock and watched them carefully. Their bodies looked different—dry, brittle, hardened, as if they'd been baking under the sun for years. The flesh that should've rotted away had instead become a kind of protective shell, cracked and leathery, covering their heads and torsos like a natural armor.

One of them turned in my direction, its sunken face blank and lifeless, its movements clumsy but deliberate. They scuffled forward, their feet dragging through the sand, leaving shallow trails behind them. They looked like hollow husks, empty shells of what they once were.

"Husks," I whispered to myself. That's what I'll call them.

These creatures don't need the cover of darkness. The desert has turned them into something new, something terrible. I don't know how long they've wandered this wasteland, but the sun no longer destroys them—it's made them stronger. I stayed low, gripping my sword, and waited for them to disappear over the next dune before I dared to move again.

Later, I found myself in a snowy taiga biome, a stark contrast to the blistering desert. Snow blanketed the ground, muffling my footsteps as I moved through the quiet, frostbitten landscape. Towering spruce trees dotted the land, their dark needles coated in ice. I stopped briefly to warm myself by a fire I built, but then I saw movement in the distance.

Skeletons.

I pulled out my spyglass to get a better look, expecting to see the usual frail forms of bones barely holding together. But what I saw was different. Their heads were shielded with a layer of ice.

It wasn't armor. It wasn't something they wore or crafted. It was natural, as though the cold had preserved them. The ice clung to their skulls and shoulders like frozen helmets, protecting them from the sun's burning light. They wandered the snow-covered land without hesitation, bowstrings taut and ready, their empty eye sockets scanning the horizon.

I couldn't believe it. The skeletons had adapted, just like the Husks in the desert. The environment has reshaped them, molded them into survivors. I sat by the fire, staring into the flames, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

I have decided to name these skeletons that has strayed away from their cousins as: Strays.

The further I travel from my village, the more I see it. The undead are changing. Adapting. They aren't just mindless monsters anymore—they're becoming something else. Survivors. Creatures that can live under the sun, in the water, in the freezing cold, or the scorching heat. They're no longer bound by the limits I once thought protected me.

It makes me wonder… How long have they been here? How long have they wandered this world, forced to evolve, to adapt, to survive in places where no human could thrive? Perhaps it's been centuries—millennia even—of undead creatures diversifying and spreading like a plague across the land.

And yet, despite all these changes, their hatred for me remains the same.

The Husks shamble forward in the desert, relentless in their pursuit of the living. The ice-coated strays prowl the frozen forests, silent and deadly. The water zombies hunt from the depths of rivers and oceans, ready to drag me into the darkness. They don't attack animals. They don't hunt each other. It's me they're after. Me and the villagers.

Why?

What makes us so different? What drives their aggression toward humans and humanoids alone?

I can't shake the thought that it's deliberate—almost as if it's by design. Perhaps the undead are the answer to humanity's destruction, nature's way of pushing back against us. The deserts, the forests, the mountains—they're alive with creatures that can outlast anything humans could ever build.

And now, as I sit here under a cold, starless sky, I can't help but wonder… If they keep evolving, what's next? What will they become?

For now, I'll name what I've seen:

•The Drowned, aquatic undead who hunt like alligators, pulling unsuspecting targets underwater and attacking with tridents.

•The Husks, dry and hollow, cursed to wander the endless sands.

•The Strays, preserved and armored by sheets of ice, merciless as the tundra they roam.

But these names don't comfort me. They don't make the danger any less real.

The world is changing, and the undead are changing with it. If I want to survive, I'll have to adapt too. I'll have to be smarter, stronger, and faster than ever before.

Because they're coming for me.

And this time, the sun won't save me. The daylight is not safe.

Year 3, Day 77

A storm has come.

I knew it was only a matter of time. The air grew heavy yesterday, thick with the scent of water and the promise of rain. The skies turned a deep, bruised gray, the clouds swelling over the land like an endless ocean preparing to drown everything beneath it. By morning, the storm had arrived.

I've always hated storms. Not because of the rain, or the winds, or the thunder that shakes the earth—it's what the storms mean for me. I know what the rain does to the undead. When the sun can't touch them, when the clouds and rain give them cover, they can roam freely during the day.

But they don't understand the rain. They fear the light, even when it's hidden. It's like an instinct, a hardwired rule they can't break. Most of them will huddle in the darkness, waiting for the skies to brighten when the sun comes up. But I don't trust that. Not anymore.

I was lucky. I found shelter in the side of a hill, a shallow cave carved by time and water. I set up my torches, the flickering light dancing across the walls, and waited for the storm to pass. Outside, the world was chaos. The wind howled, bending trees to its will. The rain fell in thick sheets, pounding the ground like a drum.

I sat against the cave wall, my sword within arm's reach, and listened.

And then I heard it.

A faint voice.

It cut through the storm like a whisper carried on the wind, soft but distinct—"Steve."

My body tensed. I know that voice. I heard it before, back when the dreams first came. The dreams where I heard my name, where something called out to me from the darkness. But this time, I was awake.

I froze, straining to hear it again. The storm raged louder, the wind shrieking through the trees, but the voice came again, just a little clearer.

"Steve…"

I stood, heart pounding. My mind screamed at me to ignore it, to stay where I was, to wait out the storm in safety. But something deeper—a pull I can't explain—dragged me forward.

Sword in hand, I stepped outside. The wind nearly knocked me off my feet, and the rain soaked me to the bone in seconds. I shielded my face, squinting into the storm. The voice was louder now, as if the very wind were carrying it straight to me.

And then I saw him.

There, through the sheets of rain and mist, stood a figure. At first, I thought it was a trick of the storm, just my mind playing games. But the longer I stared, the more I realized how wrong I was.

It was me. The one I saw when I first built that wall surrounding my village. The "me" who had that blue glass pickaxe that radiated some type of aura. The figure stood still, its form unmistakable: my height, my build, my clothes. But its eyes… those eyes. They weren't normal. They weren't human. They were white—pure, glowing, empty like two burning holes.

I stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat. My heart slammed against my ribs. "Who are you?" I shouted, my voice barely carrying above the storm.

The figure didn't answer. It just stared at me, silent and unmoving.

"Who are you?" I called again, more desperate this time. The rain blurred my vision, but I swear I saw the corners of its mouth twitch, like it wanted to smile but couldn't.

Then, slowly, it lifted its arm and pointed.

I turned to follow its gesture, my instincts screaming at me to stop. Behind me, through the wind and rain, I saw it: a clearing. A break in the trees I hadn't noticed before, leading into an open expanse of grass.

I looked back to the figure, but it was gone. Vanished into the storm as if it had never been there.

My hand tightened on the hilt of my sword. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to run back into the cave, to hide, to forget what I'd seen. But something—curiosity, or madness, or whatever force keeps dragging me into this world's mysteries—compelled me to step forward.

I moved toward the clearing.

The storm raged harder around me, as if it were trying to keep me from going any further. My boots sank into the mud with each step, and my soaked clothes clung to my skin, pulling me down. But I pushed on, the wind whipping through my hair, the rain stinging my face.

I don't know what I'll find when I reach that clearing. I don't know what this figure is or why it looks like me. All I know is that it's calling me for a reason.

The storm raged as if the world itself were splitting apart. My steps into the clearing were heavy, weighed down by mud and an uneasy dread clawing at my mind. The voice that led me here was gone, swallowed by the chaos of wind and rain. I was alone—or so I thought.

And then it struck.

A blinding crack split the sky in half. The lightning hit the earth with such force that I felt it shake beneath my boots. My hands instinctively shot up to shield my face, the blast of light burning into my vision. For a heartbeat, everything was white and deafeningly loud.

When the light faded, I lowered my hands, blinking furiously to clear the afterimages from my eyes. And that's when I saw them.

Three figures.

At first, I thought it was another hallucination, a cruel trick from this cursed storm. But then they moved.

Three skeletons sat atop skeletal horses in the middle of the clearing. Their bones gleamed in the flashes of lightning, rainwater dripping from their hollow, ancient frames. The horses—if you could even call them that—snorted clouds of mist, their empty eye sockets burning with the same eerie light as their riders'.

I stood frozen, locked in place by the impossible sight. For a single moment, we stared at one another. And then they charged.

The riders spurred their undead mounts forward, their skeletal hooves pounding the soaked earth with terrifying speed. Before I could even react, I saw them pull their bows—thin, brittle hands reaching for arrows that gleamed like shards of shadow in the storm.

I ran.

Adrenaline surged through me as I bolted back to where I'd tied my horse. My feet slipped in the mud, my breath ragged in my chest, but I pushed myself forward. Behind me, I heard the whistling of arrows cutting through the air. If not for the howling wind, they would've found their mark.

I reached my horse, scrambling into the saddle. "Go!" I shouted, spurring it into motion. The horse lurched forward, and we tore across the field. Rain pounded against my back, and I dared a glance over my shoulder. The skeletons were still there, gaining ground. Their skeletal horses moved with unnatural speed, arrows flying from their riders' bows.

Every instinct screamed at me to keep moving. My horse's hooves thundered against the earth, mud and water splashing up in all directions as we rode for our lives. The storm, for once, was on my side. The wind threw the skeletons' arrows off course, the shafts tumbling harmlessly into the ground around me. But I couldn't count on luck for long.

I needed to lose them.

Ahead, I saw the edge of a forest—a dark maze of towering birch trees and twisting branches. My best chance.

"Faster!" I urged my horse. We shot into the cover of the forest, the sounds of the storm muffling slightly beneath the canopy. Branches clawed at my face, the wind pulling at my armor, but I didn't slow. The forest swallowed us whole.

When I was certain I'd put enough distance between us, I reined my horse to a stop and dismounted, pulling it further into the shadows. I pressed myself against the bark of a thick birch tree, trying to calm my frantic breathing. My horse shifted nervously beside me, sensing the danger that still lingered.

Then I heard it—the faint clatter of bones.

The skeleton riders had entered the forest.

I could see them through the gaps in the trees, their shapes flickering in the flashes of lightning. They were slow now, cautious, their skeletal horses moving carefully over the uneven forest floor. They scanned the woods, bows in hand, their empty eyes somehow searching.

They knew I was somewhere in the forest. They could feel me, they know I am awake! But the trees worked to my advantage. The dense canopy above and the thick tree trunks shielded me from sight. The rain, still relentless, masked the sound of my movements.

I held my breath, watching as one rider turned its skull slowly, as if trying to listen for me. A small, brittle click echoed through the air as it tilted its head. My heart stopped.

Then, with a snap of its reins, it turned its horse and moved deeper into the forest, the others following close behind. I stayed put, my back still pressed against the tree. I didn't move until their clattering bones had faded entirely into the storm.

Finally, I exhaled, sinking to the ground. My arms were shaking. My horse nudged my shoulder, as if to say, "You're not dead. Get up."

The storm hadn't let up, and neither had my heartbeat. The skeletal riders were out there—searching, hunting. Their movements through the forest were unnervingly careful, as if they were something more than just mindless undead. I couldn't let them find me. Not again.

Crouched behind the thick roots of an old oak tree, I worked quickly. My fingers fumbled slightly as I reached into my pack, pulling out the string I'd collected during my travels. It was old and frayed, scavenged from spiders and loot chests, but it would hold. It had to.

I glanced up and spotted one of the riders, its hollow sockets sweeping the dark woods like searchlights. It was close—close enough for me to hear the clatter of its bones when it shifted in the saddle. I swallowed hard and focused on the task.

The tripwire was simple but effective: a taut length of string tied between two low roots, nearly invisible in the shadows and rain. I set it low enough to catch one of the skeletal horses but high enough to avoid the forest floor clutter. Satisfied, I moved nearby, crouching low as the storm roared above me.

Now came the waiting.

From my hiding place, I watched the skeletal riders. They were careful to stick close together at first, their movements methodical as they scouted the area. But patience would be my weapon today. I knew they would split eventually—predators always do when the hunt drags on.

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours.

And then it happened.

One of the riders began drifting further from the others, its skeletal mount picking its way through the undergrowth. Whether it was boredom or instinct, I don't know, but it was my chance. My heart pounded as I grabbed a nearby stone, weighing it carefully in my palm. I watched, waiting until the rider had wandered far enough to be out of view from its companions.

Now.

I stood slightly and hurled the stone. It arced through the air before striking the skeleton's head with a loud clack! The rider stopped, the eerie blue light in its eye sockets snapping toward my direction. For a heartbeat, we stared at one another.

Then it charged.

The skeletal horse reared, its bony hooves thrashing, before galloping toward me with a speed that turned my blood to ice. I didn't wait. I bolted for my horse, mounting it in one fluid motion. "Go!" I hissed, spurring it forward.

We rode hard, weaving through trees, branches snapping against my arms and legs. I didn't dare look back, but I could hear the skeleton closing in—the clatter of hooves and bones growing louder with each passing second. My horse seemed to sense the danger, pushing itself to run faster, faster.

The tripwire was just up ahead. My grip tightened on the reins.

As we neared the trap, I leaned forward and urged my horse to jump. With a mighty leap, it soared over the wire, its hooves landing safely on the other side.

Behind me, there was a snap and a crash.

I turned just in time to see the skeletal horse hit the tripwire. Its legs buckled, and it went down hard, its bones scattering as it crumbled into a heap. The rider tumbled to the ground with it, letting out a bone-chilling rattle as it tried to rise.

I didn't give it the chance.

I dismounted, sword in hand, and charged toward the fallen skeleton. Its skull snapped up, glowing eyes fixed on me as it clawed at the dirt, trying to stand. But it was too slow.

With a shout, I drove my sword straight into its skull. The blue light in its eyes flickered, then vanished entirely as the rest of its body crumbled to dust. I stood there, panting, the rain washing away the ash and grime from my blade.

One down.

The forest was silent for a moment, save for the sound of the storm and my ragged breathing. I couldn't celebrate yet. There were still two more riders out there, searching for me. But I'd won this fight. My trap had worked.

I thought I had a moment to breathe, but the storm had other plans. The sharp twang of bows and the thud of arrows piercing bark rang out behind me, startling me into action. My horse whinnied as I swung into the saddle, spurring it forward once again. I didn't look back, but I could feel the riders gaining ground, their skeletal steeds relentless as they hunted me through the forest.

I knew they would chase me forever if I let them—undead with no need for rest, no understanding of exhaustion. My horse, on the other hand, would tire. I didn't have the luxury of running forever. I needed to outthink them.

The skeletal riders weren't mindless undead. They were cunning, sharp, and deadly. I had to be sharper.

Riding hard, I scanned the trees ahead for anything that could buy me time. That's when I saw it—a massive oak with a broken branch jutting out like an arm. An idea formed, and I acted quickly.

I pulled my horse to a stop near the tree and yanked my armor off, piece by piece, ignoring the freezing rain. Time was short, but I worked fast. I draped my breastplate over the branch and arranged the rest of my gear as best I could, dressing the branch in my armor. The storm made it hard to tell shapes and shadows apart; if I was lucky, the riders would mistake the decoy for me.

With the trap set, I crept into a dense thicket of brush just nearby, crouching low with my shield gripped tightly in my hands. My heart hammered against my ribs as I waited, the storm's howl masking the faint sounds of hooves growing closer.

They appeared moments later, emerging like phantoms from the mist and trees. Rain slicked over their bones, their hollow sockets glowing faintly blue. The first rider spotted my "armor" immediately, its bowstring creaking as it pulled back an arrow.

Thunk.

The arrow struck my breastplate, and the metal rang out. Satisfied, the riders fired again and again. The sound of metal against flint and rain was deafening, but I waited, crouched low, letting them believe they had me cornered.

The skeletons slowed their assault and approached cautiously, their bony hands reaching for their arrows. One rider dismounted, clattering across the soaked earth to inspect the armor. It reached out, bony fingers brushing against the empty chestplate.

That was my moment.

I roared out of the underbrush, shield raised, my feet pounding through the mud. The skeleton riding on its horse turned too late. With all the force I could muster, I slammed my shield into the horse's brittle frame like a battering ram. The impact sent the skeleton sprawling backward, its bones scattering as it tumbled.

But I wasn't done.

Momentum carried me forward, and before I could think, I found myself at the edge of the cliff. The skeletal horse and rider were already there, teetering off balance. I didn't stop. I gave the last shove with my shield, and the rider went tumbling over the edge, its chilling rattles echoing into the depths below. A few seconds later, I heard the distant crack of bones meeting stone.

I staggered back, panting, my heart pounding in my ears. My shield was dented, and my shoulder throbbed from the impact, but I was still standing. Rain pelted me, soaking me to the bone as I caught my breath.

Two down.

But there was no time to celebrate.

One last rider remained—silent and motionless. It took the first chance to get back on its horse, its skeletal steed stamping its bony hooves against the mud. It watched me, alone and exposed in the clearing, its glowing eyes locked onto mine. I could feel its hatred radiating from those hollow sockets.

This was it. Just me, the storm, and the last skeleton rider.

I drew my sword, its blade gleaming faintly in the rain. The rider lifted its bow, string taut and arrow nocked. For a long moment, neither of us moved.

The storm raged around me, the wind screaming through the trees as the rain hammered against my skin. My breathing came in ragged gasps as I squared off with the final skeleton rider. My shield was dented, my arm bruised from blocking a relentless onslaught of arrows and shoved a skeletal horse off the ravine, but I refused to falter.

The skeletal horse galloped toward me, mud flying from its hooves as its rider aiming for my heart. The arrow flew, and I raised my shield just in time, the impact of the arrow reverberating up my swollen arm. Before the rider could nock another shot, I sprinted forward, dodging to the side as I slashed my sword across the horse's legs.

The brittle bones shattered under the force of my swing, the skeletal steed collapsing in a heap of broken bones. The rider crashed to the ground with a hollow clatter. Its glowing eyes locked onto me, void of life but full of a primal hunger. Even without its mount, it dragged itself up, reaching for me, refusing to stop.

It didn't matter. I was faster.

I gripped my sword in both hands and slashed down in one decisive blow. The blade met the skeleton's skull, splitting it cleanly in half. For a brief moment, its glowing sockets flickered before fading into nothingness. Its bones fell still, crumbling into a lifeless heap of dust.

I stood there by the cliff, chest heaving, my sword trembling in my hands as the adrenaline began to wear off. The storm howled around me, but there was silence in my mind. The battle was over. Or so I thought.

Then I heard it—the faint, desperate clatter of bones.

Cautiously, I stepped toward the edge of the cliff and peered down into the darkness below. My heart sank. The skeleton I had tackled off the edge was still moving. Its shattered horse lay in pieces, strewn across the muddy ground, its bow destroyed beyond repair. And yet, the skeleton remained, clawing and scraping at the slick, rain-soaked rock, trying to climb back up.

It couldn't. The mud gave way beneath its bony fingers, dragging it back down every time it made an inch of progress. I watched it for a moment, transfixed. It wasn't the desperate struggle that held me—it was the realization of what this creature used to be.

Once, it had been human. Maybe it had been someone's brother, someone's friend. A farmer, a merchant, a warrior—someone with a name, a story, a life. Now, there was nothing left but this pitiful husk. Mindless. Driven only by a need to kill. Whatever it had been, whatever it could have been, was long forgotten, replaced by the curse of undeath.

I couldn't look away. I had seen zombies, skeletons, creatures with no mind or soul, and never had I pitied them. But seeing this—this shell of a person struggling without thought, fighting a pointless battle to climb back up—something inside me shifted.

I reached for my bow.

The skeleton continued its futile attempt, rain running down its bones like rivers. I nocked an arrow, pulling the bowstring taut as I steadied my aim. My hands trembled as I watched it claw upward, still trying, still driven by a force it couldn't control.

"Rest now," I whispered, though it would never hear me.

I released the arrow.

The flint on the end of the shaft struck its skull, shattering it instantly. The light in its hollow eyes flickered out, its remains collapsing into dust. The wind carried the ashes away, leaving nothing behind.

I lowered my bow, feeling a weight in my chest that I couldn't quite describe. Was it sorrow? Guilt? Or simply the realization that the line between the living and the dead was thinner than I wanted to admit?

The storm continued to rage, but for a moment, it felt quiet. I turned away from the cliff and mounted my horse, ready to leave this place behind. But as I rode back into the forest, a thought gnawed at the back of my mind:

If the undead are evolving—learning to endure the sun, to adapt to the world—how long will it be before they regain something else? A memory. A thought. A purpose.

And what happens then?