A head flew past the Captain’s shoulder, missing him by a few inches. The headless body followed soon after, sending one of his soldiers flying.

The horror of it was not lost upon the Captain.

Vicious things, these monsters are.

The Captain had previously fought beasts for; oversized hounds, giant birds, the insectoids even, but none were as malicious as these things were. Those Ghouls fought not for their survival, but only for death. Their death, and his death.

Their sole desire was to bring horror upon its enemies, and that it did.

These were no living things, which the Captain assumed should have been clear enough, with their rotting bodies and all.

Horror, however, was not new to the Captain. He was a far cry from being unfazed, yet it not enough to prevent him from carving up a path of rot and destruction, the way he had always done. His shield had already crushed countless bones, his longsword wholly dyed in purple, yet they kept coming. Different from the pesky little things that first appeared, these Ghouls were the size of adults, naked rotting bodies armored with sturdy muscles and powerful movement.

Yet not powerful, nor nearly enough durable, to survive the inevitable strikes of the Captain’s full might. With each slash a beast fell.

Chaos brewed around him, his shorthanded company slowly dwindling. The first wave had already decimated their command structure, taking out at least half of the First Company. Those who had fallen were probably the weakest--or the unluckiest-- yet the moral of losing half of the company grinded upon his men's consciousness.

Seeing one of his soldiers attempt to escape the dogfight by leaving the cover of his allies gave the Captain a dour reminder. This was the First Company’s fast battle, and they would soon lose it if the tides did not change.

The soldiers overwhelmed adult Ghouls in numbers, though every adult Ghoul was accompanied a few pesky ones. Easy to kill, yet just as easy to be killed by them.

The Captain’s company fought it out using the covers of their barracks, each previously holding 60 men and women. Wise infrastructural planning built these two next to each other, allowing for bandage tactics such as this.

This was the first place the Captain went to as the little devils appeared. He’d shed some bled on his way, gathering a platoons amount of men, and had charged right into the typhoon of rustling bodies.

Before the Captain could sufficiently gather his soldiers into something resembling a Company the next wave of undead had already reached them.

The feeble line did not hold, and thus another dogfight emerged.

The Captain was at a loss. With his platoon of men he had chosen to help the struggling half of his company, preventing their complete obliteration. Yet in doing so, he had also prevented the opportunity to rally the better half of his troops into cohesion. He had chosen preservation over victory.

The Captain could feel the rust muddy his mind. He had grown soft, without ever noticing it. Even now, just as he slashed and hacked, blocked and dodged, feinted and manipulated his foes into a dance of art and deception, his had blood refused to enrage. It stayed a cold, fickle thing. There was no battle lust, no desire to plunge his enemies into ashes; only a prickling sense of fatigue.

Insignificance weighed on the Captain's blade.

Gradually they were whittled down. They fell like droplets to the Ghoul’s claws, leaving only the tired and the hollow-eyed at the end of their onslaught.

Night had fallen without the Captain's notice, the last cries of battle echoing in the back of his mind.

All was still. He could hear his panting, could see the destruction around him, all to naught. Most of his First Company, a haggard bunch from the beginning, lay dead and unmoving. Only a quarter was left standing, but a portion of that will succumb to their wounds anyway. Sobs and whimpers stabbed at his back.

He felt the blame and guilt welling up inside him. Here, so soon?

Something nudged in the pile of bodies, off to the Captain’s far right. Something huge. It rose with a savage growl, bodies sliding off its leathery skin. It was dazed, a few noticeable bulges on its bald head made the reasons evident. It stood about seven feet tall, it’s naked body bulging with muscles. It was slashed up though, its dark-purple blood seeping out of wounds.

It was the same beast which hurled his men’s corpses around, crushing any creature unfortunate enough to be in its path. He’d thought his men had brought it down, but alas, the creature proved to be much more durable than maces and spears.

It limped towards his haggard bunch, slowly picking up speed.

The Captain could already smell the fear brewing around him. These men and few women left alive were already broken, and fighting monstrosity such as that would do them no good. The terror on their faces was obvious.

He stepped forward, feeling his bones creaking as he did so. That beast was worn down with its injuries, but then again, so was this old beast.

The Captain was tired. Same old pattern, same old events. If he did not fight for his warmonger country, then it was for one of the God’s many squabbles This was just another one of them, one of countless many.

Thus, the Captain stared into death’s eyes. Dark, ugly slits locked in on him. If he was going down, he might as well take down something with him. Something large and hideous, preferably.

“S-sir! I’ll take the right.” A frail woman called out to him, from the back. She stepped forward as the Captain glanced back, seeing her slumped stature stare ahead. Having discarded her shield, she held her sword in a two-handed grip in front of her. It shook as the rest of her did.

“Ha, cutting one man’s hand was not good enough for you, soldier?” The Captain stared at her, seeing her turn even grimmer. She smiled though, locking eyes with the Captain for an instant.

“Yes sir, I’ve been dreaming about it, ever since, sir.” She swallowed deeply, a desperate chuckle escaping.

The Captain nodded slowly. She was far too gone and tense to be of any use in battle. It was a surprise she survived this long. She wouldn’t survive this, though.

Yet what this small, incompetent girl had done nudged the Captain to his very cold core. Little things jerked inside him. Valor, duty, camaraderie. Old things. Dead Things.

He wasn’t the only foolish one, however. Glancing back, he could see something becoming of the First Company. Hopeless faces turned into doubtful ones. They held their weapons tight, white knuckles showing. Ardor glimmered through beaten eyes.

One by one, they were compelled forward. They hobbled with difficulty, being pushed by a force greater than the terror which lodged itself in their hearts.

The Captain sighed heavily, his breath turning into fog into the night’s cold. Romanticism never dies, does it?

Little feet stepping against rough dirt grew behind him.

The Captain closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then bellowed with all the might his body could fathom “Fifth Brigade of the Profectus Empire, Third Regiment, First Company, charge towards that hideous piece of shit!”

The Captain sprinted ahead, his warcries unending. The First Company, momentary stunned, followed in his wake, their battle cries echoing.