The undead possesses a soul. A green soul flame burns within the hollow of its skull, flickering through the cracks between the bones. This flame is their sole weakness. Only by crushing the soul itself can the undead be truly destroyed. Otherwise, no matter how thoroughly you shatter their bones or reduce them to ashes, they will merely lose their ability to move, not cease to exist.
The souls within these skeletal remains are not those of their former lives. When a living being dies, its soul is either claimed by the gods or consumed by the river of fate. Without external interference, it is nearly impossible for a soul to linger in its body.
The soul of an undead is a new existence, birthed from the corruption of death. At best, its intelligence is comparable to that of a rat or a rabbit. This is why most undead lack wisdom, wandering aimlessly, driven by instinct alone.
A professional's power originates entirely from the soul. Even if an undead was once a formidable warrior, its reanimated corpse inherits neither strength nor skill. If the individual tempered both body and soul—such as certain warrior types—the undead might retain a fraction of its former abilities, perhaps two or three class levels as a residual effect.
However, if the deceased specialized in soul-based power, like a wizard, their reanimated body would be significantly weaker, sometimes to the point of uselessness.
Among the undead roaming the grove, five stand out. Despite their tattered and dirt-covered state, their armor and weapons bear inscriptions and faint magical fluctuations, evidence of their former quality. The soul flames in their skulls burn brighter than those of their mindless counterparts.
They radiate a predatory presence, moving like silent sentinels patrolling their domain. As they pass, lesser undead instinctively step aside.
The system's analysis confirms Punk's suspicions—these undead possess fighter levels, ranging from two to four. That means they were at least apprentice-level warriors in life.
Deeper in the forest, Punk spots a skeletal figure draped in robes.
An army mage?
This revelation shifts his perspective. A squad with multiple apprentice-level powerhouses is more than capable of altering the course of battle in an ordinary war. For a minor kingdom like Camos, these individuals would have been elite troops, warriors so highly valued that their deaths on this desolate patch of land raise unsettling questions.
What event led to their demise? What greater scheme is at play?
But Punk has little interest in mysteries. His attention is fixed on the undead themselves—or rather, their equipment.
The magical fluctuations lingering on their weapons and armor mark them as enchanted gear. Even degraded by time and deathly miasma, each piece is worth at least two to three hundred gold coins, even if only salvaged for raw materials.
And then there are the robed skeletons deeper within the woods.
Punk strokes his chin thoughtfully. These remains might hold the complete wealth of an apprentice-rank powerhouse...
His decision is swift. Regardless of their past strength, these are now nothing more than undead husks without intelligence. Armed with his two apprentice-level magic items, he is confident in victory. His sharp perception and analytical abilities detect no hidden threats.
With such a lucrative prize before him, there is no room for hesitation.
Besides—he has an overly enthusiastic helper, doesn't he?
A smirk tugs at Punk's lips as he glances sideways.
Not far from the undead-infested woods, the female priest clutches a gemstone-inlaid emblem, preparing for battle.
"Miss Priest, though we had a few misunderstandings on the road, I believe we can cooperate against a common evil."
Punk executes a flawless aristocratic bow, his voice devoid of emotion. The priest is of lower rank, ill-equipped, and hardly a threat. If she truly intends to "purify evil," she will have little choice but to accept his offer.
The priestess hesitated, clearly torn. But in the end, she chose the lesser evil—fighting alongside a detestable mage rather than facing the undead alone.
With a theatrical sigh, she loudly confessed her sin of working with a magic user to the Lord of Dawn. She spares no effort in cursing Punk, lamenting her plight while pleading for divine forgiveness.
Punk's expression darkened. The longer she prattled, the greater his irritation. He considered silencing her with a pain curse and sending her to meet her god in person, but instead he tunes out her babbling and begins preparing his spells.
He casts a Lesser Kinetic Blast, targeting the nearest undead—a third-level skeleton warrior wielding a longsword.
The spell, a whisper of magic, vanishes into the air before reappearing as a streaking projectile aimed at the creature's skull. The kinetic force is poised to strike the eye socket, shattering the soul flame within—
But at the last moment, the skeleton reacts. Its body moves with the muscle memory of a trained warrior, jerking its head aside.
The spell misses.
For a brief moment, the undead stands still. Then, its soul flame flares violently, licking up to its brow. The creature's jaw unhinges in a silent snarl, and it turns its hollow gaze toward Punk.
It is enraged.
On the other side of the clearing, the priest acts. Pressing the emblem to her chest, she chants a firm, rising prayer. A translucent golden warhammer materializes above a helmeted second-level skeleton warrior.
The warhammer falls.
Blazing with sacred fire, it crashes onto the undead's head, fracturing its once-exceptional helmet. Holy flames seep through the cracks, sizzling the skull beneath.
The undead convulses, bones groaning under the divine onslaught. But its apprentice-tier resilience grants it resistance against elemental forces. The sacred attack dims its soul flame, yet it does not fall.
Through its shattered helmet, the undead glares at the priest. Then, in a frenzy of rage, it charges. Dust kicks up beneath its feet as it hurtles toward her.
Simultaneously, the skeleton provoked by Punk lunges, rusty longsword raised. Gray-black death energy coils around the blade, the stench of decay thickening the air. Wisps of eerie green light swirl along its bones as it prepares to strike.
Punk sidesteps, already in position. His sapphire eyes gleam with a cold, calculating light as he watches the undead close the distance. His lips curve into a smirk.
"The show begins, baby."