The spectators murmured in disappointment as they observed the battlefield.
"Such an... unimpressive force," one of the young vampires muttered, unimpressed by the skeletal infantry arranged before them. Even a child fresh from their first blood rites could effortlessly dismantle such feeble troops.
"Come on, Waled, are you even trying?" His peers nudged him, convinced he was holding back.
Waled merely smiled, sharp and assured. "This isn't a lack of effort. It's a new strategy. You'll see."
His brothers scoffed. "What strategy could possibly salvage these walking scrap piles?"
"Patience." Waled turned his attention to the war-table, where the simulated battlefield flickered to life—clouds drifting, wind rustling through the grass. The game had begun.
Unlike his usual battles, where he matched his opponents with conventional forces, this time, Waled had chosen differently. His inspiration came from the ancient crypt he had recently explored—its halls filled with nothing but common bones, useless for crafting elite undead. And so, he had resolved to master the art of commanding the lowest of the dead.
Not that I plan on losing, he thought, guiding his skeletal regiments forward. A handful of bone riders fanned out as scouts, their hollow sockets scanning the terrain.
His opponent, in contrast, marched with reckless speed. Undead did not tire, and so the enemy host surged ahead, formations loosening, discipline fraying. Black Knights, swift and lethal, rode far ahead of the main force, acting as additional scouts alongside the slower, more cumbersome gargoyles.
Find the enemy, charge, crush them. The opposing commander smirked. What can mere skeletons do against Black Knights?
Fifteen minutes in, the first skirmish erupted.
A hundred bone riders clashed with a hundred Black Knights—and were annihilated in moments. Blades and lances carved through brittle limbs like scythes through wheat. Not a single Knight fell. The victors wheeled their spectral steeds, the only sound the eerie chime of the bells hanging from their mounts' armored necks.
"Cavalry scouts," the enemy commander mused, pleased. "So they're close."
He rallied his forces, surging toward the last known position of Waled's riders, eager to deliver the killing blow.
Waled, however, was already three steps ahead.
He activated the secondary ability of his remaining bone riders—vultures.
Trained for war, these carrion birds were more than mere scouts. Their talons festered with rot, their beaks crusted with disease. A single scratch could doom even the hardiest warrior without immediate magical aid. But their true value lay in their eyes.
From a thousand feet in the air, they saw everything.
Seven vultures took flight, their vision shared with Waled. Within moments, he had mapped the entire battlefield—his opponent's reckless advance, the widening gap between the charging Black Knights and the slower necromancers and tomb guardians lagging behind.
A slow, predatory smile curled Waled's lips.
He adjusted his formations, stretching the center of his pike squares thin, weaving in skeletal archers and necromancers. The flanks angled inward, transforming his army into a gaping maw.
And his opponent, overconfident and impatient, charged straight into it.
The Black Knights hit the center of Waled's line—only to find themselves suddenly flanked on three sides. A chorus of surprised murmurs rose from the watching children.
The enemy commander gritted his teeth. So what if I'm surrounded? Skeletons can't pierce black iron plate!
He ordered the charge to continue.
And then the arrows fell.
Hundreds of bone bows loosed in staggered volleys. The enemy sneered—what could brittle arrows do against enchanted armor?
But these were no ordinary arrows.
The moment they struck, the spells woven into their shafts activated.
Acid.
Corrosive, hissing, eating through metal like fire through parchment. The protective enchantments on the Black Knights' armor flared—then failed. The black iron itself bubbled and peeled away, exposing the skeletal warriors beneath.
A ripple of realization passed through the spectators.
"Acid-tipped arrows!" someone gasped.
Waled's grin widened.
The real battle had only just begun.