Novel Full Chapter 1818: The Three Death Generals Attack
Chapter 1818: The Three Death Generals Attack
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Three powerful entities led the army of Undead invading the city. Their forms and auras clearly marked them as different from the rest. Immense power overflowed from their bodies. Though not yet equal to the Demon King’s Death Apostles, these three Death Generals ranked only two tiers below them and constantly hungered for the recognition needed to climb higher in the hierarchy.
The first was a giant, muscular zombie over three meters tall, stitched together from countless corpses and embedded with metallic parts that crackled with lightning. He commanded two thousand undead. He was known as the Rotting Goliath—Franken.
The second was a ghostly woman formed of purple and red flames, wreathed in noxious, toxic smoke that shaped itself into a flowing dress. A spiked crown of crystallized poison rested on her head, and her shimmering “hair” flowed like liquid venom. She led two thousand five hundred undead. She was the Poisonous Ghostly Madam—Bellarine.
The third was a monstrous chimeric skeleton, assembled from the bones of innumerable beasts. His massive body resembled a six-legged creature with multiple heads, wings, and tails. He directed three thousand undead. He was the Bone Tyrant—Atrokus.
Together they commanded an army exceeding seven thousand five hundred undead. Many were formidable on their own, having reached Tier 3, with several already at Tier 4.
As Tier 5 undead themselves, they possessed a Level Cap of 500 and had lingered at maximum level for years, desperately searching for the materials and conditions required to Rank Up further.
This invasion presented an opportunity they could not afford to waste. Destroying one of the White Ghost Race’s most prominent cities would deliver a crushing blow to the entire faction. Their authority over the Labyrinth Region would weaken, granting a decisive advantage to the Demon King of Death’s forces.
The pretext of eliminating traitors mattered far less than razing the city and seizing its precious mountain along with every resource it held. The White Ghosts themselves were exceptional materials for undead of their caliber, and the three generals eagerly anticipated using them to ascend even higher.
“Lord Atrokus, the White Ghosts are resisting. Two Nobles have appeared recently, and they seem incredibly powerful!” A tall skeleton in black armor hurried toward the towering giant of bones standing behind his army.
Atrokus’ empty, glowing ghostly eyes fixed on the skeleton with cold indifference. “Is that so…? Then send even more troops. We will wear them down. Once they are exhausted, we will strike.”
“But…” The skeleton hesitated. “You would sacrifice so many fellow skeletons, my lord?”
“…Do you think I care?” Atrokus replied.
“Ah…!”
“Tell me. Do you believe I care about your pitiful existences?” Atrokus pressed. “Answer.”
“I-I…” The skeleton trembled under immense pressure. “I will rally the rest of the troops…!”
He fled quickly. Atrokus spared him only because he needed the message delivered. His hollow gaze returned to the battlefield, where armies of skeletons clashed against the White Ghosts and their tamed beasts and golems.
“I have heard the White Ghost Race excel at Alchemy,” a ghostly, seductive female voice purred as Bellarine materialized from nowhere. Her form blended ghostly energy with poisonous clouds. “It seems they have channeled that skill into their creations. How interesting.”
“Those will only delay the inevitable,” Atrokus said flatly. “Our army vastly outnumbers them, and we have countless Undead constantly generated through the magic circles hidden in the mountain behind us. This is a battle of attrition at best—one they cannot win.”
“Atrokus, do you truly believe it will be so easy?” A towering, muscular zombie stepped forward, his body a patchwork of stitched parts. “Are you afraid? I thought you had guts.”
“…Franken, mind your own business,” Atrokus muttered. “I will handle my army as I please. Whatever you do is not my concern, and your actions should not concern mine.”
“I thought you were all bones, but did I touch a nerve?” Franken laughed loudly. “While you waste time here, I will seize everything I can with my own hands and my Zombie Barbarians.”
Franken roared. Thousands of giant, muscular zombies rose, hefting massive hammers, swords, and axes. They charged alongside him, bellowing monstrously as they assaulted the soldiers defending the city.
The defenders—primarily White Ghosts—fought back fiercely, wielding their unique magic. They were clearly stronger than the Undead. Their powerful Soul Weapons tore through countless foes in moments.
Yet the Undead swarmed in groups of dozens, overwhelming single soldiers and slowly ripping them apart, destroying their souls one by one.
The White Ghosts were superior in strength, but far fewer in number. Though the Undead appeared to be gradually massacred, every loss struck the White Ghost faction far harder, especially since most of these soldiers were centuries old, and their race reproduced very slowly.
Franken understood the King’s true plan: slaughter enough White Ghosts to cripple their ability to recover as a species, driving them toward extinction within a few years. That plan had been largely paused due to the influence and power of higher existences among the White Ghosts, particularly the Nether Ghost Castle, which had struck several deals with the Demon King of Death.
He preferred to make them allies as “fellow inhabitants of the underworld”, but things did not unfold as hoped. The White Ghost Race continued denying him access to the depths of the Labyrinth Region. So he decided to destroy one of their cities as a pointed warning, a reminder not to grow too arrogant.
Using the pretext of eliminating a few runaway Undead taking refuge there, he would twist the narrative to blame the city’s inhabitants for their own downfall, claiming they had protected the fugitives.
In this way, he believed he could act with impunity while securing an immensely valuable resource: White Tooth Mountain.
Franken knew victory demanded speed. He needed to slaughter as many enemies as possible and rack up enough achievements to ascend.
Atrokus was too cautious and played everything safely. Bellarine enjoyed toying with her prey far too much.
He was different, someone who seized opportunity the moment it appeared and charged forward without hesitation.
“And with these hands I will grasp my new future!” he roared, seizing soldiers’ heads and crushing them, hurling their bodies toward the city walls and slowly cracking the protective barriers. “Get out of my way, White Ghost Race! The Undead are now the dominant species of the Netherworld! We will not stop until every one of you prostrates before our new reign! Gahahahaha!”
His ferocious, vicious laughter echoed as he kicked and punched soldiers with his gigantic fists and feet. The titan never ceased his maniacal cackling; his half-disfigured face twisted in savage glee.
Until someone stepped into his path.
“GET OUT OF THE WAY, WHITE GHOST!”
His fists blazed with surging Nether and Ghostly Energy as he swung toward the White Ghost blocking him.
BAAM! BAAM! BAAM! BAAM! BAAM!
Countless punches rained down like meteors, shattering the ground beneath them. Cracks spiderwebbed outward as massive boulders tumbled onto the soldiers nearby.
Yet…
“Hm?!”
Amid the smoke rising from his devastating blows, Franken saw the White Ghost man still standing—unscathed. A protective White Mist Aura shielded him completely.
The White Ghost, with long white hair and gleaming silver eyes, stared back at Franken with pure disdain and disgust, laced with deep hatred and abhorrence.
“What a deplorable creature you are. And you call yourselves superior to us? Indeed, She and her friends are different from your disgusting ilk.”
“HAH?!”
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