Despite having played plenty of video games containing zombies, seeing them before me still sends a shiver down my spine, as a sense of repulsion lingers distastefully in my throat.

The six zombies crawl out of their coffins, skin gray and decrepit where it still exists. Where it does not, torn muscle shows through, as well as the blood red of loose entrails, which drag across the ground, leaving wet streaks of slime. Looking past them, I note that the smugglers have started to run off, heading for a side tunnel on the northern wall of the room.

“They’re getting away!” I exclaim, indicating with a finger to Gin.

Gin nods. “I’ll leave it to you!” he calls out, and at first, I wonder who he’s talking to, for it seems he’s speaking to the empty air. But then, in my peripheral vision, I catch sight of something moving. A shadow zips past, in the direction of the smugglers. Before I can make sense of what it is, I find that Gin has come up beside me. He points to the forms lumbering towards us.

“Zombies.”

“I know!” Gin raises an eyebrow, likely curious as to how I knew about zombies but not the half-ogre. “Uh, it’s a long story,” I begin, “from what feels like a lifetime ago.”

“Lifetime, huh?” I hear Gin mumble, “Though they are brought back from the dead, they are not truly alive, for only the gods have such powers…”

The solemness of his tone contrasts sharply with his usual lackadaisical attitude, causing me to turn in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Gin looks up, as if suddenly realizing he had been lost in thought. A smile forces its way onto his face, and he shrugs, “Ah, it’s nothing.” Then turning between me and the zombies, he continues, “Hm, this is a good training opportunity. They’re already dead, so you’ll have no issue with killing them, right?”

I pause a moment, mind still lingering on what Gin had mumbled, but then I move on, letting out a nod. “Okay,” I agree, finding myself accepting the idea much more quickly than I had with the half-ogre. Perhaps all those zombie fighting games have left an impact on me after all. “Let’s do this.”

“The fight will be a bit different than the half-ogre one,” Gin explains, “Zombies are slow, so you should have no trouble keeping your distance and finding timings to cast your spells. The only thing to be wary of is their numbers. Make sure you don’t get encircled. Unlike the half-ogre, which was a C-class, these zombies are only D-class, so overall the fight should be easier. Well, in any case, let’s see how far you get. You ready? How are you feeling?”

I nod. “Surprisingly at home,” I admit.

“Good, then you shouldn’t need a shot of Bravery this time…” Gin says, his words trailing off at the end.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, um, nevermind. Off you go then!” he shoos, giving me a gentle push on the back.

As I’m nudged into battle, the first thing I do is to take my time formulating a plan. From experience, I surmise that the best course of action is to keep moving, using my speed differential to create space for spellcasting. I also make use of the terrain, the coffins which act as obstructions, to waste the zombies’ movements, and almost smirk when I realize that their pathfinding is hardly better than in the games I have played, for they frequently get stuck behind things, pillars and the like, stutter stepping left and right in an attempt to get past. This creates plenty of time for me to cast my spells, and I even create a priority system in my head of which zombies to pick off first based on my observations of their movements and behavior. Indeed, it’s not long before I have this extensive and well laid out plan in my mind. But alas, you know what they say about the best laid out of plans…

“[Magical Arrows]!” I exclaim. As before, three plasma like beams of light emerge before me, slicing through the air towards the zombie I had targeted, and as the strike hits, I can feel a smile begin to creep onto my face, as I’m expecting a shower of sparks and an explosion, like what had occured with the half-ogre. A second later, however, and the hint of a smile is gone, a frown replacing it instead, for the zombie still stands, stunned momarily but very much alive, or rather, dead? Whichever, it is not defeated, and a strain of confusion runs through my head, as I recall Gin stating that zombies were supposed to be weaker than half-ogres.

I shake the hesitation from my mind, reposition, and try again, targeting the same zombie. “[Magical Arrows]!” This time, the zombie does appear to be defeated, for it collapses to the ground, unmoving. There is no fanfare, however, no sparks, no explosion. Another strain of doubt seeps into my brain, and I’m starting to breathe heavier as I focus on my next attack. This, however, is when my plan completely falls apart.

I aim a finger-gun at the nearest zombie, calling out my spell, “[Magical Arrows]!” When I do, a sudden heaviness ripples through my body, my legs grow weak, and I almost stumble. Most notably of all, however, no spell activates, no white plasma. “W-what-?” I mumble, trying again, “[Magical Arrows]!” The fatigue is worse this time, and I grow nauseous, the room spinning before me. I feel myself stumbling sideways, a zombie approaching in my vision, its claws poised to strike at my face. Losing the energy to speak, I can only mumble, “Shit, where’s a shotgun when you need one…”