The Zombie System.

"She'll recover."

Dr. Verna's weathered hands move with practiced precision across Leon's mother's bruised ribs. Dr. Verna stays in the same community as Leon and his mother and is versed in bone treatment. She was the closest doctor to take his mother to after the incident.

Leon kneels beside the narrow cot, his mother's hand small and cold in his grip. Purple bruises bloom across her face where fists found their mark. Her breathing comes shallow but steady.

"Few broken bones, but she's strong," Dr. Verna continues, adjusting the splint on his mother's arm. "Stronger than most who come through my door."

His mother's eyes flutter open. They focus on Leon with effort, pupils still dilated from pain medication.

"Don't," she whispers. "Whatever you're thinking. Let it go."

Leon says nothing. The rage builds in his chest like a slow fire, burning hotter with each bruise he counts.

Dr. Verna checks the bandages one final time. "She needs rest. I'll keep her tonight for observation."

Leon squeezes his mother's hand gently. "I'll be back."

The walk home takes him through familiar alleys that now feel alien. Neighbors whisper behind half-closed doors. Children hide when they see him coming. Word travels fast in the Shadow Quarter.

His apartment door hangs crooked on twisted hinges. Leon steps over broken glass and splintered wood. Someone searched the place thoroughly before destroying it.

Furniture lies in pieces. His mother's sewing machine sits crushed beneath an overturned table. Pictures of his father scatter across the floor, glass frames shattered beyond repair.

Leon moves through the wreckage methodically. Most items are beyond salvation, but he salvages what he can. His mother's jewelry box. A few unbroken dishes. The wooden spoon she'd been holding when the contract was signed.

Near the kitchen window, something catches the light. A torn strip of black fabric snagged on broken glass. Leon pulls it free, brushing away dust and debris.

Metallic thread glints in the streetlight. Part of an embroidered insignia—crimson spear piercing a skull. ARES Guild.

The rage in his chest explodes into something colder. More focused.

Leon pockets the fabric and walks out of his destroyed home.

The ARES Guild headquarters dominates the middle district like a monument to controlled violence. Three obsidian towers rise into the night sky, their surfaces reflecting city lights in fractured patterns. Crimson banners hang between buildings, each one bearing the guild's symbol.

Leon approaches through well-lit streets lined with expensive shops and upscale restaurants. The contrast with the Shadow Quarter is deliberate—power displaying itself for all to see.

Security increases with each block. Low-rank hunters patrol in pairs, their gear polished and their movements coordinated. Magical checkpoints scan everyone who passes, searching for weapons and hostile intent.

The main gate looms ahead, reinforced steel flanked by guard towers. Flood lights turn night into artificial day. Armed sentries watch the approaches with professional alertness.

Leon walks straight toward them.

"Hold up there, kid." A junior hunter steps into his path, hand resting on his sword hilt. Young, maybe twenty, with the swagger of someone who's never faced real danger. "Think you can just walk in? What's your business with ARES?"

Two more hunters flank him, blocking Leon's path completely. Their grins carry the casual cruelty of bullies with authority.

Leon stops five feet away. "Move."

The lead hunter laughs. "Move? Did you hear that, boys? Kid thinks he can give us orders."

"Maybe he doesn't understand how things work around here," the second hunter says. "This is ARES territory. We don't let just anyone—"

Leon's mage zombie materializes beside him. Purple energy coils around skeletal hands as it channels Nightmare Poison into the air.

The psychic toxin hits all three hunters simultaneously. They drop like cut strings, bodies convulsing as their minds fill with living nightmares. Screams echo off the surrounding buildings.

Leon steps over their twitching forms and approaches the gate.

More guards emerge from the towers, weapons drawn. Leon summons his warrior zombie. The spectral figure appears with mantis blade ready, dark armor gleaming under the flood lights.

"Stand down!" someone shouts from the ramparts. "Let him pass!"

The guards hesitate, confused by conflicting orders. Leon doesn't wait for them to decide. He walks through the gate like he owns the place.

The main hall stretches before him like a cathedral dedicated to war. Vaulted ceilings disappear into shadow overhead. Trophy weapons line the walls—blades taken from fallen enemies, armor stripped from defeated rivals.

His footsteps echo in the vast space. Marble columns support balconies where guild members watch his approach with interest. Some lean over railings for better views. Others whisper among themselves.

A figure emerges from the shadows at the hall's far end.

Commander Belric Vost moves with the measured pace of someone accustomed to authority. Tall and gaunt, his white beard twisted with silver wire. His black cloak bears runic embroidery that seems to shift and writhe in the torchlight.

Sunken eyes burn with unnatural light. The pallor of his skin suggests someone who spends more time with the dead than the living.

"You've got spirit, boy." Belric's voice carries across the hall with unnatural clarity. "Not many make it this far."

He plants his staff against the marble floor. The weapon stands nearly seven feet tall, topped with a skull that glows with internal fire.

"Let me guess. Someone you love got hurt, and now you want revenge." Belric's smile reveals teeth filed to points. "How original."

Ghostly figures begin rising from the floor around him. Spectral soldiers in ancient armor, bearing weapons from forgotten wars. They form ranks with military precision, a platoon of the restless dead.

Leon summons his warrior and assassin zombies. They appear on either side of him, weapons drawn and ready.

Belric laughs, the sound echoing off stone walls. "Let's see if your dead can handle real war."

Power surges through the commander's body. His muscles bulk beneath the cloak. His movements become fluid as quicksilver. Veins shimmer with grave energy that makes the air itself feel colder.

The Warlord's Dominion settles over him like a mantle of command. Every spectral soldier responds to his will with absolute obedience.

"Is this all you've got, necromancer?" Belric calls out, staff spinning in his hands. "Show me what makes you worth my time."

The ghost soldiers advance in formation. Ancient steel rings against modern alloys as Leon's warrior zombie meets their charge. Sparks fly where spectral weapons clash, lighting the hall in stroboscopic flashes.

His assassin zombie flows like liquid shadow between the enemy ranks. Twin blades find gaps in phantom armor, dispersing soldiers that reform moments later. The undead army is vast, disciplined, and seemingly endless.

Belric watches from the center of his forces, staff glowing brighter with each passing moment. His eyes track Leon's movements with predatory focus.

The battle swirls across marble floors slick with condensed ectoplasm. Leon's zombies fight with desperate efficiency, but they're outnumbered ten to one.

His assassin weaves through the chaos, seeking an opening to strike at the commander himself. The spectral blade in her hands hums with contained violence, waiting for the perfect moment to taste enemy blood.