Chapter 105: A Speech Before the Undead

In the year 888 AD, according to the Gregorian calendar, the Second Continental Holy War came to an end. For over four centuries, neither necromancers nor their dark magic had appeared on the continent. Official records show only two Holy Wars waged across the continent, both launched to combat the necromancers. The scale was unprecedented—90% of the continent’s nations, races, and peoples were involved, unmatched in any known history with clear documentation.

The brutality of those battles needs no elaboration. At that time, forbidden spells had yet to be established; magicians were rare and precious talents, and magic itself was far less developed than it is today. The necromancers’ power was beyond imagination. Even now, memories linger of the waves of zombies and skeletal soldiers, and the anguish of fighting former comrades who had turned into the undead.

So deep was the taboo that, for centuries, even uttering the words “necromancer” was avoided. The Church of Light zealously burned anyone suspected of praising or excusing the dark sorcerers at the stake. Kevin’s father was one such victim. Yet, to everyone’s surprise, a decade later, the military began converting soldiers into “zombies” without concern.

Although Kevin was not privy to high-level decisions, certain details were discernible. The nation of Lowballer had indeed grown stronger, to the point of barely acknowledging the Church of Light.

“Cough, since you’re zombies, may I ask a few questions?” Kevin took a couple of steps back, noting they had no intention of pursuing him. He decided to test the waters, knowing they weren’t truly undead.

“Zombies can’t talk,” one who had just stood up sat back down again. Someone else answered kindly. They clearly didn’t want to get soaked in the rain, so they weren’t inclined to chase Kevin.

“Then I want to know, what level of zombies are you?” Kevin asked. According to records, zombies varied greatly—from the weak, who could be crushed by a farmer’s hammer, to the strong, who could challenge even sword masters. The gap was enormous.

At this, one zombie blinked in surprise, and a lively discussion broke out.

“What level are we?”

“No idea. The director’s office never said.”

“Maybe we decided ourselves?”

“Haha, I’m a Abomination—the big fat stitched-together kind, really strong.”

“Pfft, I’m a sword master zombie.”

“Ha, I’m a Corpse God.”

“I’m a Corpse God Supreme.”

Kevin was speechless.

“Just kidding,” one laughed heartily. “We don’t really know our levels. We just know…”

“Hey!” someone interrupted sharply. “This guy’s trying to fish for information. Don’t say anything to him. We’re zombies already. We can’t answer questions meant for the living. Even if we were real zombies, our faces wouldn’t be labeled with levels. You decide what to do.”

“But if you were real zombies,” Kevin replied, “one could judge by your smell, the color of your skin, the force of your movements, and the concentration of dark elements. Since you’re just humans pretending, you must give me some way to judge, right?”

The zombies murmured again before one waved dismissively. “Ignore him. Why bother? We eat what we eat.”

The group reached consensus and returned to their spots, watching Kevin stand alone in the rain. Some began pulling out food to roast: beef, lamb, squid, vegetables, skewered on sticks over the fire and sprinkled with seasoning. This wasn’t hunger-driven barbecue; it was pure boredom and a way to satisfy cravings during the field exercise.

Seeing they had no intention of coming out, Kevin immediately reported to the Red Army commander: a large group of zombies, numbering at least several hundred, including Red Army zombies. He inquired if any Red Army units nearby had lost contact.

Upon hearing this, Orson was stunned. “Zombies? Really? But then, who commands them? Is there a necromancer?”

“I haven’t seen one,” Kevin said, surprised. Zombies imply a necromancer’s presence; otherwise, they couldn’t exist. So who was this necromancer? A third party? Could this exercise actually be a three-way military drill?

“What are the zombies doing?” Orson asked.

“They’re eating barbecue,” Kevin answered truthfully.

Orson was speechless.

“I think that’s something we can exploit,” Kevin proposed. “If it wasn’t raining so hard, they wouldn’t bother coming out, and I might already be dead. If we can lure the Blue Army here unknowingly, we could deal a heavy blow.”

By then, Orson and other commanders had donned regular soldier uniforms and were rushing toward the front line in the rain. Hearing Kevin’s suggestion, Orson was skeptical. “This isn’t just about one or two regiments anymore. We need to eliminate their giant staff army as soon as possible. If you can lure the zombie troops, that would be excellent.”

Kevin sighed. “If they were real zombies or low-level ones, all I’d need to do is stand somewhere, turn, and run—they’d chase me. But sadly, they’re humans. They ignore me standing here. Even if I shoot arrows at them, maybe one or two would respond; the rest just sit and watch the barbecue.”

“Do these zombies have no principles? Some legends say those killed by zombies become zombies themselves,” Orson suddenly recalled. “Ask them if that’s true.”

Kevin turned to ask, “Hey! If you kill me, will I become a zombie too?”

Someone turned with a grin. “You can come join us for barbecue! Ha ha ha!”

“They didn’t answer,” Kevin continued communicating. “So, maybe.”

“Forget it. Use your judgment,” Orson said, unwilling to dwell on it. “Keep me updated.”

Ending the call, Kevin pondered nearby. To use these ‘zombies,’ he had two options: lure the Blue Army over or lure the zombies out. The former was nearly impossible—Kevin couldn’t outrun an arrow. Luring the zombies was the only choice, but how? That was the hard part.

Kevin’s military skill ranked low to mid-level—just above a new recruit or second-year soldier. Many were stronger than him. If the zombies got truly angry and attacked, it would be easy for them to catch him. Among these zombies were officers of major rank or above. Their death status was probably strictly defined, and their strength had no uniform standard. It was a headache.

After much thought, Kevin resorted to his old trade: making a speech, hoping it might have some effect.

“Comrades! Fellow zombies! Good evening!” Kevin began with a smile.

The zombies turned, then continued eating.

“This exercise has been tough for everyone. Coming from all across the country to this godforsaken place, whether new or veteran soldiers, it’s much harder than just camping out. Why do we endure this hardship?” Kevin pressed on.

Several frowned. “Brother, what’s your point?” “Speak up, cut the crap!” “You just want to fish for info, right?”

Kevin smiled. “No fishing. Many here are veterans, so I’ll be straightforward. We train hard to earn merit, yes? In peacetime, the greatest honor is to distinguish oneself in exercises. We handle mercenary missions, patrols for the sheriff—good, but that’s not our true calling. What do soldiers do? They fight! War is our true profession!”

“Of course, there’s no war now, so exercises are the highest honor. But earning merit in exercises requires luck. Some are talented but get frozen by forbidden spells right away. Real battles are like that too: two strong warriors fight to near death, and then a rookie comes by and kills both with one strike. You guys are obviously unlucky; otherwise, you wouldn’t be dead.”

“Yet, fortune hasn’t entirely deserted you. You’re ‘alive’ again. Though zombies, you still wear Red or Blue Army uniforms and represent your faction! And since you don’t bother to catch me, it shows you have the choice to pursue or not. That means some autonomy. Usually, zombies wander aimlessly; they’re not nailed to the ground.”

Some Blue Army zombies sensed something amiss. “Wait! Zombies can’t understand humans, nor can you command us!”

“Heh, that’s an imperfect setting. I stand here, you’re attracted to the scent of flesh and follow me. Zombies are slow and clumsy; it’s normal if you can’t catch me. I can easily lead you where we need to go,” Kevin replied.

Silence fell as the zombies paused their barbecue, clearly debating.

“You must know, this situation is rare for you. Zombies are powerful, not easy to kill. You don’t even know your own strength, so there’s room to maneuver,” Kevin asked. “Don’t you want to earn merit? Do you regret dying so early? Look at your comrades—how many have honors? Merit can raise rank and position, and after retirement, lead you into high society. Don’t you want to be gentlemen?”

For a moment, several Red Army zombies’ eyes flickered with doubt and temptation. Some were eager.

“Don’t speak!” Kevin hurriedly shut down the momentum. “If you agree openly, it looks like collusion. Human and zombie collusion? That’s illogical and probably against rules. But if you stay silent, it’s just me babbling to a bunch of zombie lunatics. Just remain silent, and we’ll find the best excuse to achieve our glory!”

“Count me out!” someone immediately shot down the idea.

“That’s fine. Not everyone can earn merit. Those who want it, seize the chance,” Kevin shrugged.

The zombies whispered among themselves. Kevin urged again, “Those who don’t want merit, don’t block the way for others. If most stay silent, I’ll take that as your agreement.”

“I said no.” “Me too.” Just two old veterans refused. The rest just glanced around and continued their barbecue.

“Hey!” a few Blue zombies protested, “What about our contribution?”

“You can choose to come with me,” Kevin smiled, then ignored them to continue contacting Commander Orson. “Sir, I gave a speech to the zombies. It worked!”

Orson was astonished. “What happened?”

“They want to become gentlemen.”

Orson was speechless.

Kevin felt it best not to share the speech verbatim with the commander. The director’s office monitored closely; Kevin talking to zombies alone was already borderline crazy. If the commander joined in with lunatic orders, that would be too much.

“Tell me if there’s a Blue Army corps nearby!” Kevin asked bluntly.

“There is!” Orson confirmed. “The corps assigned to attack the Blue Army’s giant staff was ambushed. They should be near you, about seven or eight kilometers ahead.”

“Good!” Kevin winked at Crow, who understood immediately and soared into the sky to scout. Parrot maintained communication, but Crow’s stronger abilities made him better suited for reconnaissance.

Moments later, Crow returned with a shake of his head. Kevin understood, then waved toward the zombies: “Hey, you lot! Come eat me! Ha ha ha!”

Red Army zombies stood up one after another. Though hesitant in the rain, someone took the first step, making incomprehensible sounds: “Awoo awoo awoo…”

Apparently, they thought zombies sounded like that. As one stepped forward, others followed. At first, some tried to limp humorously, but seeing Kevin jogging steadily without waiting, they quickly resumed normal gait and chased after him.

The battlefield shifted rapidly. Intelligence might be useless in the next moment; speed was vital.

Seven or eight kilometers through night, rain, and rugged mountain paths—Kevin hadn’t rested properly in days. This run was the toughest since the exercise began. Halfway through, drenched with sweat indistinguishable from rain, panting heavily, many zombies struggled too. Kevin kept looking back to encourage them: “Almost there! Really almost! This time for sure! Absolutely for sure! About two kilometers left!”

“What? Two kilometers still?” someone growled.

“Think about merit! Think about glory!” Kevin kept urging.

“Damn! Might as well go back and eat barbecue,” came complaints. But turning back now would be shameful. Fortunately, soldiers grumbled but kept running. Even the weaker rookies showed grit.

Kevin’s heart pounded with anxiety. What if the Blue Army teleported away? If they escaped, Kevin would be left empty-handed, and the zombies might tear him apart.

Thankfully, soon the murmur of troops was heard ahead. Kevin quickly asked Parrot to confirm if they were friendly. They were not. At the same time, the enemy noticed Kevin. A shout rang out, and a large force charged forward. Arrows flew before the soldiers appeared.

Kevin exhaled deeply and smiled. “Commander, I did my best!”

Just then, at least thirty arrows hit Kevin, none missing. The enemy’s archery was formidable. Kevin finally “fell,” ready to enjoy some barbecue in the afterlife.

Moments later, the zombie horde arrived, facing a hail of arrows. Unfazed, they pressed forward. The Blue Army was baffled and called out, “What are you doing? You’re dead! You’re breaking the rules!”

This benefitted the Red Army zombies. In the darkness, if the enemy didn’t step forward, they’d be hard to find. The zombies patted, touched, and hugged the Blue soldiers, then showed their zombie badges. The director’s Parrot announced, “Blue Army Elf Archers Regiment—annihilated.”

The Blue Army was speechless.

Though “dead,” Kevin took an entire Blue Army regiment with him. His achievements were remarkable, fearless of death. The news reached Red Army headquarters, shaking Commander Orson, who said, “If this were a real battlefield, I’d salute him.”

(To be continued.)