If you have never been to the Northern Wastelands, imagine standing inside a freezer that is located inside a bigger, angrier freezer. Now imagine that the freezer hates you personally.
I stood on a ridge overlooking the Frozen Pass, a narrow strip of treacherous ice that connected the fertile South to the starving North. The wind here didn’t just blow; it bit. It chewed. It felt like invisible sharks were taking chunks out of my face.
[WARNING: Environmental Temperature -40°C.]
[Disguise Integrity: 85%. Epidermis hardening. Risk of shattering.]
I tapped my cheek. It made a sound like ceramic. My human skin was freezing solid. If I smiled too hard, my face would literally crack and fall off, revealing the blueish goo pulsing underneath.
"My Lord," Sylvia’s voice was muffled behind three layers of wool scarves. She was standing next to me, shivering so hard she looked like she was vibrating. "This is... madness. The grain wagons are ten miles back. Even if we get them here, the horses will die before they cross the pass."
"Horses are inefficient, Sylvia," I said, my voice sounding stiff because my lips were barely moving. "They need food, water, and rest. They have emotional breakdowns. They possess a union mentality."
I pointed down into the valley. It was a graveyard of failed caravans. Broken wheels and frozen skeletons littered the snow—monuments to the Church’s incompetence.
"We aren't using horses," I said.
"Then who will carry the grain?" Sylvia asked, wiping ice from her glasses. "The mercenaries refused to go further. They said the snow is cursed."
"The mercenaries are weak," I replied, checking the time on my internal HUD. Midnight. Perfect. "Labor is the single highest cost in any supply chain. To make this profitable, we need a workforce that requires zero salary, zero sleep, and zero OSHA compliance."
I walked down the ridge toward the snow-covered field. It wasn't just a field; it was a battlefield from the last Holy War, fifty years ago. Thousands of soldiers had died here, frozen in the mud, preserved by the permafrost.
"Are we..." Sylvia trailed off, her eyes widening. "Sir, the Church explicitly forbids the raising of thralls for combat."
"Good thing we aren't fighting anyone," I said.
I knelt in the snow. I didn't use a wand or a chant. I used pure, raw authority. I visualized my Mana not as mystical energy, but as a corporate memo sent to the entire department.
Subject: Mandatory Overtime.
To: All Personnel (Deceased).
Message: Wake up. Break is over.
I placed my hand on the ground. A pulse of violet light rippled out from my palm, shooting through the ice like cracks in a windshield. The ground rumbled.
[ABILITY ACTIVATED: Mass Animation (Tier 4).]
[Cost: 2000 Mana.]
[Target: Biomass (Dormant).]
First, a hand punched through the snow. It was grey and withered, but the bone structure was solid. Then another. Then a hundred.
The snow churned as the dead soldiers of the Northern Campaign clawed their way back to surface level. They stood up, shaking off decades of ice. Their armor was rusted, their eyes glowing with a faint, vacant purple light. They didn't groan. They didn't hunger for brains. They just stood there, waiting for instructions.
Sylvia let out a small squeak of terror.
"Relax," I told her, standing up and brushing snow off my knees. "They aren't monsters. They're interns."
I turned to the army of the dead. There were about five hundred of them.
"Listen up!" I shouted, my voice amplified by a sliver of magic. "Welcome to the team. Your job is simple. You see those wagons ten miles back? You are going to form a daisy chain. Hand-to-hand transfer. Continuous movement. No breaks. No snacking on the living."
I snapped my fingers.
"Move."
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.