Hugo stood in the center of the massacre, his posture rigid as he coughed slightly due to the thickness of the metallic scent of blood.
His movements were stiff, he had gained a limp that was slowly fading by the second.
"Nice place," Hugo muttered, stepping over a stray goblin ear. "A bit cold, but everything sure is quiet."
The goblins the creature had torn through lay in various states of mutilation.
Some were missing heads, their small green hideous bodies twisted in impossible angles, whilst others had literally been burst apart by the kinetic force of the clash he and the monster had gotten into.
Intestines draped over the jagged remains of their wooden huts like festive, gore-slicked ribbons.
Hugo looked up at the gory display with slightly widened eyes. Oh shit we did a number on this place.
Then there was the orc. The brute lay in two distinct pieces near the cooling embers of the central pyre. It had been ripped clean at the waist, its spine protruded from the upper torso like a jagged white spear. Grey-green organs spilled out onto the dirt, still steaming in the cool forest air.
Hugo paused as he passed a stationary pond in the center of the camp. He looked down and froze with widened eyes.
The reflection who stared back wasn't the man who had died on Earth.
His hair had turned from jet black to a striking, silver. There was now also a fresh scar across his lip he assumed he had gotten from the creature, most likely.
He touched the scar on his lip with a slow, deliberate finger. He felt a strange sense of detachment from the face in the water.
His grey eyes remained, his frame on the other hand was visibly more muscular, his shoulders broader and denser.
"Well," he whispered to the stranger in the pond. "At least the physical part of creating my disguise is already sorted."
Now I just need to come up with a good name. Hugo scratched his chin.
Despite the healing, his skin was still mapped with angry scratches from the creature's claws.
He moved away from the pond with a sharp pivot.
Hugo moved toward the largest cabin. He walked with quiet steady movement, his boots barely making a sound on the blood-soaked earth.
What should I pick... I'm contemplating on whether to choose one of my targets names... no that's a bit too cruel and there's a slight chance someone from my world who also got transported might catch on it. Hugo paused a bit as if in thought. I'll just take a victim's first name, I'm sure that isn't as bad as taking the full thing.
Hugo kicked down the door, stepping into a dim, cramped space that smelled of wet fur and sour grain.
A warm rush of nostalgia ran through Hugo. He found himself remembering a certain incident. He had kicked down the door of a certain drug dealer who had stolen from one of the Carvetti Families outposts.
Hugo had been ordered to pay a visit and warn the man. In all honesty Hugo had zero intentions of killing the man, he just wanted to intimidate and send a message.
Much like how most successful criminal organizations do. They rely on fear and respect.
The drug dealer was a Canadian man by the name of Walter who was essentially a full time drug dealer; he had no cover job.
Much like Viktor he shared a similar cocky, arrogant personality type. Though unlike Viktor he wasn't a sadistic monster, he was just a fool.
A fool who made the bold mistake of attempting to run at Hugo with a knife.
I'm going to assume he took the stuff he dealt.
The same fool who ended up receiving two shotgun shells straight to the dome.
One of my most brutal kills yet.
The interior was a chaotic mess of overturned benches, gnawed bones, and crude trophies nailed to the walls. Hands, ears, tails hanging like forgotten decorations. Dust floated in the weak light coming through cracks in the logs, and the floorboards creaked under his weight, sticky with dried blood.
His eyes locked on three heavy wooden crates in the corner. He pried them open with a grunt due to the injuries he had sustained, the wood splintering under his newfound strength.
The first was packed with straw and small glass vials labeled HEALING POTION in a jagged, blocky script.
The second held similar vials marked STAMINA POTION.
The third was a godsend: a crate of high-quality gin, bottles clinking as he shifted them.
He snatched a healing potion with a quick, greedy motion and downed the bitter, copper-tasting liquid. It burned going down his throat, like swallowing a small fire that made its way from your throat down to your chest. That small flame in his chest cooled fast, the gash knitting into a thick silver scar that pulled at his skin.
He followed the potion with a long chug of gin he had grabbed from the third crate, the alcohol hitting his throat with a warm wave, numbing the edges of his mind.
"Potion tastes like copper," he coughed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Gin ain't bad though, tastes really nice, got a bitter herbal warm taste." He savored the warmth sliding down his throat. "Back on Earth, I'd kill for a bottle this good after a long night."
He spotted a heavy iron-bound trunk, stripped off his blood-soaked rags.
Hugo looked inside spotting various clothes he assumed had been stolen and raided by the goblins.
His fingers brushed over the stolen fabrics—silk, wools, leathers all stolen from who-knows-where.
"Let's see what we've got here," Hugo murmured to himself, pulling out the pieces one by one.
He pulled on charcoal-dark tailored pants that hugged his legs, a stiff smart vest that buttoned snug over his broad chest, and a long, heavy black trench coat that draped over his shoulders with a satisfying weight.
He spotted a black bandana and tied it around his throat, the fabric soft and concealing—a nice accessory that would come in useful in hiding his identity. Typically on Earth he'd wear a ski mask or a pair of glasses or maybe a really big hood whenever he carried out some of his crimes, but this would have to do for now.
He looked at his reflection in a cracked hand-mirror propped against the wall, the glass warped and smudged.
Hugo snickered to himself, a small wave of amusement twitched on his face as he looked at the mirror.
This actually doesn't look bad. Hugo nodded; he wasn't typically the type to play dress up back in his previous life.
He stretched his back, letting out all the clicks, then adjusted the cuffs of his coat.
Hugo raised his hand and internally thought the words, Manifest.
The grimoire manifested in a swirl of black smoke. He tapped the cover, and the book groaned open to the first page.
He ran his eyes over the fresh red script, checking the specific instructions for the ritual.
RITUAL OF REANIMATION – THE FIRST CIRCLE OF ZOMBIFICATION
- Bury the corpse in the soil.
- Face the burial and focus your will on the body below.
- Recite the ritual, commanding the dead to rise and obey.
"Always with the manual labor," Hugo sighed, closing the book. He stood motionless for a beat, his jaw set in a hard line. The task felt beneath him, yet entirely necessary.
Throughout all of his life back on Earth he had always been an enforcer, the one to do people's dirty work.
Throughout my life back on Earth, I was always an enforcer, the one sent to handle other people’s messes. Don Miller trusted me completely. I was his top man, kept close at parties and functions, called the moment things went bad. While others panicked, I stayed calm and finished the job, without hesitation and without mercy. I liked the purpose, the power, and the money. Don Miller and my grandfather were the only ones who ever gave me guidance, the only figures that mattered when my parents were mostly absent. Being trusted by them gave me a place and a role, and nothing else ever felt as right.
Leaning against the cabin wall there was a heavy iron shovel. Hugo picked it up and walked out toward a plain clearing.
Hugo pondered for a bit, his grey eyes looked up into the blue sky.
What do I do next? I found some supplies that's great and all, but is there any way I can somehow blend in? Should I pretend to be a martial artist of some sort? I have zero experience with any sword—I can use knives quite well and firearms accurately but I highly doubt firearms are a thing in this world.
Hugo glanced over to the goblins' crude spears and daggers.
Otherwise I would've been blasted to bits.
Come on, think. What’s the move here?
No. Later. This can wait. Right now I need rest, and I need a map so I know where the hell I am.
Hugo switched off his thoughts for now. He swung the shovel with a rhythmic, tireless force creating a shallow pit to throw the bodies in, his muscles rippling under the new coat. The process was grim.
Hugo grimaced slightly and sighed as he read the gruesome details that were required to complete the ritual.
Should I have really thrown that orc guy into the creature?
Wait no—I'm pretty sure I remember this orc and all of those goblins kept a bunch of prisoners. Yeah I'm pretty sure those cat-eared people and fox-eared people were prisoners. Poor bastards.
"Big buck like you," he muttered, heaving the lower half. "Bet you thought you were some top dog."
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
"Now look what happened to you." Hugo stared down at the gory remains with an analyzing look, his gaze lowered.
Hugo narrowed his eyes as he glanced up again looking at the wooden cage that he had been thrown into previously in his violent confrontation with the creature.
I can't even pretend to like this bastard. Hugo looked at the orc's mutilated corpse with disgust—not at the gory sight before him, but at the audacity of the orc to take not only random innocent people hostage as prisoners but also children.
"Let's see how you like being forced to work for someone with no benefit," Hugo muttered under his breath to himself.
Hugo gripped the orc's upper half by the stiff, coarse hair on its head, dragging the massive torso across the dirt toward the shallow pit. The weight was immense but his new strength didn't complain.
He then fetched the lower half, kicking the spilling entrails back into the cavity with the toe of his boot before hoisting the heavy hips into the hole to meet the spine.
He then moved to the goblins next, grabbing them by their scrawny ankles and swinging their limp, broken bodies into the trenches like sacks of grain. They were light, their bones rattling inside their skin with every toss.
Finally, he reached the spine-bear. He braced his feet and shoved the massive, cooling carcass with his shoulder, grunting as the heavy mountain of quills rolled into the earth with a dull, wet thud.
Despite dragging the heavy carcasses with silent, effortless strength, the slick texture of cold meat against his hands was repulsive.
"This is one hell of a way to make friends," Hugo grumbled, heaving a stray limb into a hole.
But as he dug, the familiar rhythm of the spade hitting the earth calmed him. One by one, he laid the brute, the four green goblins who were the only goblins whose bodies in comparison to the other goblins were somewhat recognizable and not green pastes, as well as the mangled bear into the soil.
Hugo looked at the grimoire's page once more, his eyes running through the instructions as he nodded.
He cleared his throat and stood over the mounds, the wind picking up slightly, leaves rustling around him as he spoke the words in a low, steady chant.
"From the cradle of soil, I call you back.
Flesh to bone, bone to shadow.
Black flame stitch the broken seam.
Rise from the dirt, obey the dream.
Spirit bind to rotting frame.
Serve the hand that speaks your name.
No rest, no peace, no final sleep.
The toll is paid, the dead I keep.
Awaken now, in decay's embrace.
Walk the earth in my dark grace."
His words were a command, his voice steady more by habit than actual faith in the ritual. He was uncertain. It was the first time he’d ever done anything so ritualistic. Back on Earth, he’d never been sure gods even existed.
Hugo stood over the mounds, leaning on the shovel like a nightguard on watch.
The earth shivered slightly, then an eerie silence followed.
Suddenly the earth grumbled a low uneasy rumble.
The first to rise was the orc, the same one Hugo had thrown straight into the monstrosity that violently attacked him.
Two huge hands punched through the dirt, knuckles scarred and split even in death. It dragged itself up with a slow heavy pull. Its grey-green skin loose over its thick slabs of muscle, which were soft with rot.
It had these black veins that crawled just beneath the surface like roots under dead grass. The scar at its waist was wide and ugly, a puckered band of darker flesh where the body had been ripped clean in half and then crudely stitched back up, presumably by the ritual. Small flaps of skin hung from its sides, swaying wetly. Its eyes were milky and sunk deep in bruised sockets. Lower tusks jutted past cracked lips, stained dark with old blood and filth. The smell rolled off it—a very decayed, thick scent, not too unbearable but noticeable.
Then arose the goblins, quickly and scrambling like rats crawling out a sewer.
The first goblin was skinny as a stray dog, ash-grey skin stretched tight over jutting bones. One ear was a ragged hole, its face locked in a broken-toothed snarl. It wore a filthy rat-hide loincloth, bone beads clacking at one ankle, and clutched a rusted spear with white-knuckled grip.
The second goblin was thick through the middle, bow-legged, its gut spilling over a frayed rope belt. Bruises stained its mottled hide, one eye swollen shut. A string of animal teeth hung at its neck, and it wore a torn wool tunic stolen from some unlucky traveler, sagging over sackcloth shorts. It held a cracked spear, snapped clean in two.
The third goblin was lanky, all long, loose limbs and olive skin scored with old claw marks. A stiff, dirty mohawk set it apart, and it limped on a twisted foot. Faded red cloth was wrapped crisscross around its torso, with a skirt of chewed leather scraps at its hips. An oversized iron bracelet rattled on one arm as long fingers tightened around its spear.
The last goblin was a runt, barely child-height but mean-looking. Pale and sickly, with sharp cheekbones and a scar from jaw to pointed ear, it wore a mangy fox-fur vest and little else. Bone knives were strapped to its chest, bird skulls clacked at its belt, and it gripped its spear with needle teeth flashing.
Finally the ground buckled once more.
The spine-bear shoved up in a cascade of dirt and dead leaves. Massive frame, fur hanging in wet clumps, half gone to show raw pink muscle. Brittle black quills snapped off as it shook. Muzzle sagged, thick black tongue swollen over cracked fangs. A low rasping wheeze leaked out. It loomed huge, shoulders rolling slow, clouded eyes blank.
Hugo stood there a moment, shovel loose in his right hand.
He let the silence stretch before stepping forward with a small smile on his lips.
A faint, wet groan leaked from the stocky goblin.
Hugo calmly tilted his head, he politely smiled.
The groan stopped as if throat-cut.
Every corpse froze mid-twitch.
Hugo stared at each undead with a calm smile frozen on his face.
Undead soldiers... quite new to this whole thing.
Hugo spoke once more.
"There we go, doesn't that sound more calming? A nice good old silence?"
He took a slow step closer, boots quiet on the frozen leaves, and looked them over the way a man might admire a new set of tools in one's workshed.
I can think of multiple ways of using these. Yes that's good, but it's not enough. If that creature isn't the demon lord and is nowhere near as strong as the demon lord I'm going to need a lot more training and honing.
Hugo looked back at the undead.
"And a lot more... associates." Hugo murmured to himself in deep thought.
Hugo spoke once more. "Look at all of you, you all don't speak much and you don't complain. That's what I need." Hugo paused and then smirked a glimmer of humor in his eyes. "I need soldiers like yourself."
The undead stared at Hugo lifelessly.
He crouched beside the scattered gear, picked up a dented iron pauldron, turned it in his hands like he was checking the weight of a gift.
To the orc he offered it with both hands, gentle, almost too kind.
“Here. You dropped this earlier," Hugo stated in a calm tone as if he had not previously thrown the orc straight into its own demise and caused it to be mangled and ripped in half by the creature.
The orc took it without hesitation, its thick grey fingers fumbling buckles into place with a slow, dead pace.
Hugo handed over the rest piece by piece—greaves, chest plate, the heavy cleaver last.
Hugo analyzed the details of the orc with a slow nod and narrowed eyes.
It's dead, like completely dead and devoid of any sense of life or reason, its only purpose is to literally serve my needs no matter what those are. Despite its lifeless nature and blind servitude the zombie orc is displaying signs of intellect, for one they know how to put on a buckle and a set of armor and how to wield and efficiently use weapons.
I'm definitely fascinated, but I'm pretty off put too, but I won't lie there's a certain... rush to this, knowing I can... have an army... not even that... just knowing I have some sort of control over a soldier. I wonder... is this what Don Miller felt when he was in power?
A low, wet groan rippled through them. Not loud. More like air leaking out through a burst pipe.
Hugo grimaced and tugged the black bandana up over his nose.
Fuck this smell is bad. There were only 20 instances where I had to bury bodies back on earth and the bodies were not this badly maimed or decomposed.
Hugo thought deep and hard once more.
Well most weren't.
The iron shovel came up onto his shoulder, more for something to do with his hands rather than intimidation.
One corpse swayed, fingers twitching. Another let out a soft, rattling exhale.
Hugo pointed at it. “You. See, that sound right there? That’s gonna get us stabbed.”
The dead went still. Mostly.
He nodded, relieved. “Good. I don’t get how you can actually learn anything with zero common sense, but somehow you do.” Hugo shook his head and added, “Anyway… I’m not gonna question it.”
He shifted his weight, eyes scanning them again, expression settling into something more composed.
“Look, you all look terrible,” he said, almost apologetic. “But that’s expected. I don’t care how you look; I care how you can—” Hugo paused once more, as if in thought. “Fulfill my bloody business.” He looked each and every one of them in their pale, milky-white eyes. The undead stared back, their gazes lifeless and drained. “So try not to drop any body parts behind. If something falls off, it stays off. I’m not doubling back.”
They’re just corpses. If one gets killed, I can always kill someone else and replace it. The only time I’d bother being concerned is if it were something seriously dangerous and something in the big leagues. Something like that monster I barely managed to put down.
A few heads twitched. Boots scraped. They shuffled closer together.
Hugo hesitated, then turned toward the forest. After two steps, he glanced back to make sure they were actually following.
They were.
Their steps fell in behind him, uneven, dragging, punctuated by the occasional low groan.
He swallowed, adjusted his collar, and forced himself to relax.
Okay, he thought. Being an ancient necromancer. Sure. Why not.
Just… don’t think too much about it. Raising corpses, using them to serve me—kinda badass and vile at the same time.
He walked deeper into the forest with a steady pace.
The shadows of the trees pulled him into darkness.
Hugo summoned the book as it materialized back in his hand. Manifest.
The leather still warm from the recent reanimations. He ran a thumb over the spine, his eyes tracking the red ink as it shifted to display the new storage limits.
THE UNDEAD HIERARCHY
- G-Rank: (0/500) | F-Rank: (0/200) | E-Rank: (0/100)
- D-Rank: (0/50) | C-Rank: (0/25) | B-Rank: (0/10)
- A-Rank: (0/5) [Locked] | S-Rank: (0/2) [Locked]
- SS-Rank: (0/1) [Locked] | SSS-Rank: (0/1) [Locked]
"Five hundred G-ranks?" Hugo muttered, a sardonic twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Are those like rats? That I can reanimate? I mean... I'm not looking that forward to causing the black death but I'll take whatever help I can get." He rolled his eyes at the absurdity.
The jingle of harness bells grew louder, cutting through the damp forest air. Hugo’s internal 'switchboard' spiked—the merchants were close. He looked back at his undead crew: the lopsided orc, the four small green runts, and that massive, quilled mountain of a beast.
"Alright, everyone get into the book," he whispered desperately in slight alarm at the sudden intrusion.
With a flick of his intent, the shadows beneath the creatures liquefied. The four E-Rank goblins snapped into the book like folding paper, followed by the D-Rank orc dissolving into a swirl of violet-black smoke. Finally, the C-Rank spine-beast let out a dry, rattling exhale before its massive form was sucked into the pages of the book in one violent, silent streak.
Hugo tucked the grimoire into his vest, smoothed his charcoal trench coat, and plastered on a look of weary, noble relief. He leaned on his shovel like a walking stick, looking every bit the stranded gentleman.
As the lead wagon rounded the bend, the driver hauled back on the reins. The horses shrieked, their hooves churning the blood-slicked mud.
“Gods preserve us!” the driver shouted. He was a barrel-chested man, shoulders like carved oak, with a face as round and squashed as a plum, streaked with soot and flecks of dried sweat. His thick wool coat smelled of wet dog, tobacco, and something sour Hugo didn’t care to identify.
“Traveler! You’re standin’ right in the teeth o’ the dark! We heard screams back at the outpost fit t’ wake the buried!”
Hugo widened his eyes, letting his expression soften into a mask of fake relief. “Oh… hey there,” he breathed, voice dropping its edge into warmth and heavy exhaustion.
“I thought I was done for. That thing—tall and twisted, claws like knives, eyes full of hunger—I barely got away from it. The noise… it was horrible. I ran till my lungs burned.”
Can barely understand a word this guy’s saying. If it weren’t for the translator gift Death graciously provided, I probably would’ve knocked him out and stolen the wagon. Hugo grimaced internally.
He pointed behind him to a dense clump of towering trees. “I hid in that bush over there. Barely made it out alive.”
The wagon creaked as it rolled forward, and Barnaby leaned over the side, a kind face framed by a neat vest under a heavy wool coat, sleeves rolled up. His thick shoulders and barrel chest gave him presence, but his eyes were sharp, weighing Hugo carefully.
“Ye’ve got the look o’ a man who’s been through a lot, lad,” he said. “A wendigo, ye say? We’re haulin’ jewelry an’ goods t’ the kingdom of Grayhaven. Ye look a bit fine-clothed t’ be wanderin’ these woods alone with naught but a spade.”
He squinted at Hugo.
“So then. What’s yer name?”
Hugo opened his mouth.
He stopped.
A breath passed; he realized he had to be careful, names mattered, real ones especially. He'd have to come up with a new identity, a whole new life. Especially if he was going to commit heinous acts such as reanimating the dead. Hugo was almost certain that was some form of corpse desecration.
“…Walter,” he said at last. “Walter Winson.”
The man nodded once, satisfied enough. “Barnaby Welkins,” he said. “This here’s my wagon.”
Barnaby's eyes shifted to the shovel displaying a face of slight confusion.
Hugo noticed this and gestured to the iron shovel with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Ahh, don’t mind that. I had to tend to some… labor work my village ordered me to do. Pathetic, I know. But it was the only thing within reach when that thing chased me. Lost my coin purse—and most of my dignity—somewhere back in the treeline.”
Barnaby’s eyes softened, sliding over Hugo’s tailored vest and silver hair with something like admiration, tinged with caution. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath, adjusting the wool cap perched crookedly atop his head.
“Ah, keep yer dignity, Walter. The woods take enough from a man. Countless adventurers die enough in this forest. It's a miracle yer haven't perished. Hop up ’ere. We’ve a bit o’ space near the braziers. Roads get heavy an' dangerous when the sun’s down.”
Hugo climbed onto the bench, movements careful and humble. As the wagon lurched forward, Barnaby fussed with the reins, eyes flicking to Hugo repeatedly, slightly questioning internally how a man so refined-looking could come from a no-name village.
Hugo spoke softly, measured. “It’s been a very long night, Barnaby. You wouldn’t happen to have a map, would you?”
Barnaby’s gaze lingered longer this time, suspicion and curiosity warring in his pale eyes as he studied the silver-haired stranger beside him. “Map, eh? Aye, I’ve got one… but what’s a village laborer need a map for? Planning to head somewhere particular after surviving a wendigo?”
Hugo leaned back, exhaustion carefully worn like a coat. Outwardly, just another battered traveler.
Inside, he burned over what the river had stolen from him.