Dark clouds blanketed the sky, as if determined to shut out the sunlight forever, denying its warmth to this land.

This was a battlefield. Three days had passed since the last clash.

Occasional strange sounds echoed across the desolation—likely soldiers collecting the dead.

The enemy wasn’t human. It was an endless tide of undead.

No one knew who had won. The fallen soldiers certainly didn’t.

For a long time, silence reigned. Only desolation and bleakness remained.

A single wildflower bloomed vividly amid the emptiness, its loneliness piercing.

*Crunch—* The earth beneath it heaved. Dust cascaded down as a hand, its true color buried under grime, clawed upward.

Like a zombie from the undead horde, he opened his eyes. Though dim and weathered, his gaze still held a spark of humanity.

Yes, he was human. Not a zombie.

He struggled to sit up. His armor hung in tatters—deep gashes from blades, dents from blunt blows. Scabs covered every inch of skin; not a patch remained unbroken.

He was a foot soldier, one of thousands who’d charged the undead frontlines. His only distinction? Surviving three undead campaigns. A veteran who’d clawed his way back each time.

The undead had stormed human cities. Resistance crumbled. The borderland Shield Duchy bore the brunt.

Worse, humans fought among themselves, squabbling over leadership. Only the Shield Duchy and its tiny allies held the line.

He scanned the horizon. Cold smoke hung thick in the air.

“Another defeat,” he sighed softly. Without unity, humanity faced annihilation.

But such matters were beyond a lowly veteran. He’d only ever charged ahead—not for victory, but to face his descendants without shame.

This time was direst. He’d missed the retreat. Three days buried here. His body was failing. A single lowly skeleton could end him now.

Dying in battle was a soldier’s fate. He’d rather fall charging than rot like this.

Fragments of armor clattered to the ground. Once forged from finest steel—meant to withstand a thousand blows—now shattered beyond use. A testament to the slaughter.

He shrugged off the ruined plates, tossing them aside. Staggering upright, he trudged through the wreckage.

Human and undead corpses lay tangled. No living souls. Not even a crawling skeleton.

The Shield Duchy’s army had fallen, but not without cost. Undead resurrection had limits. Half a month would pass before they attacked again. They’d retreated—for now.

The veteran felt no relief. This undead force was merely the vanguard… less than a fraction of the whole.

He lurched forward, spotting a blood-filled crater. Without hesitation, he knelt and gulped the muddy liquid.

Three days without food meant little. Three days without water was deadly. He needed moisture fast.

A seemingly intact iron sword stood beside the pit. He grasped the hilt—*crack*—the blade shattered at a touch.

A useless hilt. He tossed it aside, drinking his fill instead.

The blood-mud tasted foul, but it revived him. Enough to escape this graveyard.

He had to leave. A stray undead patrol would finish him.

Weapons littered the field, all broken. Armor lay in shards.

Disoriented, he picked a direction. If it led to the undead camp? So be it.

He stayed alert. At the first sign of patrol, he’d play dead—too weak to fight even one skeleton, let alone a squad.

He knew battle. But survival after battle? That was his true skill.

Every veteran understood: killing enemies mattered less than living to see dawn. Each narrow escape hardened the will. True value lay in calm judgment, not blind courage.

Even cannon fodder must be *useful* cannon fodder.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up. A dented round shield lay nearby—missing only one corner. Compared to other shattered shields, it was nearly whole.

He kicked aside a maggot-ridden arm, bending to grab it. A skull rolled toward him, ghostly flames flickering in its sockets, jaws snapping for his ankle.

Some skeletons clung to life even headless. Battlefield scavengers feared them most. A bite could tear flesh—or sever a throat.

The Shield Duchy’s pride was its shield infantry. Their craftsmanship was unmatched. Even a light leather shield could deflect blades.

The veteran was skilled with shields. He jammed the shield against the skull, then stomped down—*crunch*—shattering it.

Headless undead were fragile. Still, the effort drained him. Wounds split open, oozing crimson.

*Huff… huff…* He gasped, willpower dragging him upright. The shield in his grip brought comfort.

Sharp debris pierced his boot—once sturdy steel, now brittle as paper.

He pressed on, finding weapons that bent at a touch. Fine steel, ruined by undead mist.

“Help… me…” A weak voice rose from a corpse pile. A young recruit writhed, a bone arrow piercing his chest. Unbelievable he’d lasted this long. But no hope remained. Only agony.

The veteran approached. The boy’s face brightened, breath quickening.

“Help…”

The veteran sighed, pity flickering. He yanked the arrow free. Life drained from the recruit instantly. Breathing slowed… then stopped.

Better a quick death than slow torment.

The boy’s expression froze—joy mixed with disbelief and fear.

The veteran closed his eyes. “Rest now…”

He’d done this countless times. Not cruelty. Only sorrow.

How long would this war last?

Alone, the veteran staggered on. Shrapnel and bone arrowheads lodged deep in his flesh. None fatal. With rest in a village, he’d heal.

He’d keep this life. For the next battle.

A veteran’s obsession.

He raised the chipped shield.

“As long as I draw breath, I’ll guard the unarmed behind me.”

Bent with pain, he shuffled forward. Yet his silhouette stood tall.

*Whine—* A limping war dog clawed from a shallow pit, lifting its head toward the human’s back.

Trained alongside soldiers, it trusted humans—especially veterans. It limped over, nuzzling his ankle with a blood-caked muzzle.

The veteran looked down. The dog was blind in one eye, leg mangled. Tenderness softened his face. He stroked its head, trying to lift it—but lacked the strength.

He found a fresh chunk of human flesh, offering it. Dogs needed meat to survive.

The dog sniffed. Recognizing the scent of comrades, it turned away.

Its ribs showed. Starving. Yet it refused to eat its own. Better to die hungry.

Even the hardened veteran’s dry eyes welled with cloudy tears.

“Go on,” he murmured. He tossed the meat aside, patting its head. He walked ahead.

What’s gone is gone. Nothing returns.

Familiar faces lay among the dead. They wouldn’t wake.

If they did? Only as undead. Enemies.

Wind parted the clouds. A sliver of setting sun broke through.

Blood-red light bathed the silent battlefield. The veteran and the limping dog staggered onward.

This was war’s shadow.

…