The two men stared at each other over the group of undead. Both the same man, but different.

  Bob wore better armor, speckled by blood of his enemies. His skin was clear and his eyes shone with life and pride. A soldier in the prime of his life.

  On the contrary, Seventh was covered in filth— the leftovers of the ratkins. Leather armor, barely holding together, hung from his lanky frame. Skin black, yellow, and green— a rainbow of decay.

  Tisking and shaking his head, Bob took the first step, circling the party. Eyes locked on Seventh.

  "Oh, what have you done to us. And I thought being stolen was enough, but good to see you excel at making a mess."

  Seventh gripped his spear tighter. Something in his knuckles cracked and popped. He circled with Bob, keeping him on the other side.

  "No need to run away. I just want to talk. Man to man. Or at least man to whatever you are."

  "I don't have anything to say to you. You aren't even real."

  "I am not? How can I do this?"

  Bob pointed at Seventh with his spear. It was shinier than his, sharper, deadlier.

  "Squad Seven! Arms against Seventh!"

  The undead snapped their heads in unison, letting out cackling breaths, and raised their arms towards Seventh.

  "STOP!"

  The undead stopped.

  Bob leaned his spear casually on his shoulder. "So, ready now?"

  "What... are you?"

  "I am you, I am your body," Bob said. "And I want it back."

  Gravel shifted beneath Bob's step.

  "But you don't want to give it back... you're gonna wear that like an stolen uniform."

  Bob chuckled at Seventh's silence.

  "Of course you are. You used the others, so why not that body too?"

  "I— no, I didn't. Didn't use them... or you."

  "Really? You didn't just watch from the sidelines when the others were fighting for you?”

  “Dying for you?”

  “Making sacrifices for you?"

  "It wasn't my fault." Seventh's answer was a whisper. "I couldn't move. I couldn't fight. I di—"

  "Bullshit," Bob snarled. "You didn't want to fight. You chose to pull up walls of boxes. You didn't even try!"

  “And that... is so much worse.”

  The words echoed in the yard.

  "Forty-two men... dead, and sprinkled all around the dungeon because you didn't have the balls to act, to lead! If you weren't so damn cowardly they would have survived."

  “Shame on you.”

  "And if you were stronger when alive, neither of us would be here! You are the reason we are here!"

  "At least I died for something! Others died because of a cowardly corpse thief! YOU! I died for my kingdom— my family! A family who doesn't have a son, a brother to bury. And why? Because of a thief."

  "I have a right to be here! You are dead! I AM ALIVE! I saved these people just moments ago! Me! I will keep them safe."

  A dry chuckle escaped Bob's lips.

  "Shadowbolt. Another thing you stole. The power of Elijah and me combined! It was me who pointed, not you..."

  Seventh stayed silent.

  "Oh! You don't even know who I am talking about," Bob gave Seventh a rotten smile. "He was our master... the one you betrayed. Skewered on the floor—"

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "I— I don't rememb—"

  "You saw power! And when he was down you saw a fruit to be plucked and killed him. With that spear."

  It felt heavier in Seventh's hands.

  “That is a name you should remember. At least he got a name in the end.”

  “I named you six—”

  “You gave us designations, not names! Alphabetized for your convenience.”

  “You never knew our names.”

  “You didn't even look.”

  The spear hung loose.

  “I know...I know. Believe me, I know.”

  “This must be tiring. No sleep. No security.”

  “Nothing is safe.”

  “Exactly. Enemies everywhere.”

  "I— I—"

  Words stuck in his throat.

  “I don't know how to continue.”

  "But it doesn't have to be this way. I can still fix things. Help you."

  "How?" the words were a silent whisper.

  "All you need to do is rest. Sleep. I will do the rest. I can continue from here."

  “Continue what?”

  “The only thing that matters.... Survival.”

  "Nothing can bring the others back. They still lay dead."

  "I know," Bobs voice softened a little. His spear pointed down. "But I have to start from somewhere."

  "What can you do? Can you... Help the party? Set them free?" Seventh asked while looking at his party.

  "Of course."

  "Disperse."

  It was unclear who gave the order.

  Others walked away, leaving the two men standing alone.

  “I can set everyone free. Free from this waking nightmare.”

  “What happens to me? Will I... stay here? Inside... you?”

  “Can't really say. Maybe you fall asleep and don't have to be here anymore.”

  Bob shrugged, “It's a leap of faith. Faith for me and your party.”

  "So? We have a deal? I get the body back and fix things... fix you.”

  “Shake on it? One last command?”

  Bob offered his hand.

  A hand left the spear. A twitch forward.

  A step crunched under Seventh's boots and he stopped. He turned his head around to watch the undead.

  His party.

  His horde.

  They were watching him.

  Not Bob.

  A leader.

  "We are dead."

  "What?"

  "We are all dead. Patchwork soldiers clinging to life," Seventh said shifting his gaze towards Bob.

  “This is already more than we ever dreamed.”

  "You already had your chance. You failed.”

  ”It's my turn now, and I know I can do better than you."

  "Oh, so you think you can do better?" Bob hissed. "Just because it is your turn? Are you really that naive? A child?"

  “Yes. All you offer is a chance... a tiny chance. You said yourself you don't know if you can fix everything. I will fix everything.”

  Bob stared at Seventh. His casually down pointing spear lifted an inch.

  “I can do everything you can— more than you. I clawed myself out of your damn head, alone, with my own will.”

  "You are just and empty uniform. A hollow who tries to fill itself with found trash."

  "Would you be any better? Say you take over, what then? What can you do I cant?"

  "I'll lead my men away from here... away from the dungeon and—"

  "What are their names?”

  Silence.

  Eyes met.

  “What are their names?”

  “They are 'your men' to you but for me?”

  Seventh's hands found the spear again.

  “For me they are everything, my party.”

  Bob's eyes were cold like granite, full of spite and hatred.

  With a hiss he lunged forward, spear thrusting towards Seventh heart. He barely parried it, wooden shafts chafing each others, throwing splinters.

  Spearhead's wing clipped Seventh on his cheek.

  Pain. Reminder of life.

  Bob was faster, more experienced. He was already spinning for new attack before Seventh knew what was happening. His feet slid on the tiles, precise movement of veteran warrior.

  He couldn't block it.

  He tried to dodge it, body twisting. Inching away from the spearhead.

  The spear sunk deep into his chest, skewering his heart, puncturing lung and nicking spinal cord.

  A killing blow for all living.

  A wild smile rose on Bob's face.

  “SEE? WEAK!” Bob bellowed.

  There was a laughter in the air. Seventh chuckled when he grabbed Bob's spear.

  “Don't you remember?” he laughed at his own furious face. “I have no heart!”

  Bob's response disappeared when he dodged Seventh's wild swing of a spear. Trying to loosen his own, he twisted it, but Seventh's grip was firm.

  Once, twice, Bob tried to pry his weapon loose, but met pathetic swings of a spear.

  Didn't that body snatcher know that you never swing a spear?

  Changing tactic on the next sorry excuse of a swing, Bob surged forward grabbing the moving weapon and twisting it with Seventh's arm under his armpit. With a crackling pop the arm was locked in place with the spear.

  Having a firm anchor, Bob smashed his head on the nose of his enemy. Cartilage crackled, blood spurted, and Seventh's laughter rose.

  Fist met face as Bob released hook after hook, pummeling Seventh's face to oblivion. Seventh's spear clanged on he floor. Bob could feel an arm grabbing his armor.

  Blood spattered on the yard.

  On their face.

  Over the mosaics decorating the walls.

  The undead stood still watching the beatdown.

  Seventh gurgled something incoherent. Bob stopped.

  “What?” he snapped. “What is so damn funny?”

  “I didn't know how easy this was.”

  Confusion settled on Bob's face.

  Seventh continued. “Channeling more mana on spells.”

  Eyes widening, Bob quickly sifted his gaze on Seventh's other hand, the hand collecting mana. Darkness was collecting under Seventh's skin, swirling around his fingers.

  A spell was coming.

  He tried to let go, to escape.

  Seventh was still holding on to him.

  With a roar Bob raised his fist for the final punch.

  A Shadowbolt released. Not a weak, basic bolt of condensedenergies of the shadow, but a primal force of nature channeled by novice necromancer with all of his magical might and will.

  It slammed into Bob's chest, lifting him up from his feet, carrying him to the other side of the yard and slamming into the beautiful mosaic wall work.

  The depicted scene of faceless, otherworldly players disappeared behind a cloud of plaster, small tiles, and dust risen by the impact.

  Seventh moved in an instant after Bob.

  In the confusing cloud, he rose his fists again and again. Attacking what he could.

  Roaring in defiance for his right to be. He continued until his throat was raw, voice barely a whisper.

  Bob wasn't there. He never had been. There was only Seventh, and he was enough.

  Dead tired, he sat on the ruins of the mosaic, and slowly closed his eyes.

  He finally slept.