A ratkin lunged below the shieldwall, skittering up Seventh's arm, screaming next to his ear, stabbing him over and over again with its knife.

  The screaming and stabbing suddenly ceased when a sword strike severed the ratkin's skull. Leaving the lower half of it's jaw hanging loose on the torso while upper half slid off, wetly smacking to the floor.

  Seventh saw the tongue slightly twitching before he shrugged the dead weight off.

  The fight was already over, another ambush by the ratkin. They loved that tactic and it would be effective against normal— living and breathing— enemies, but they clearly didn't know how to handle a horde of undead.

  There were multiple different ways to check his status. He didn't really need them. He could just feel how much health and mana he had. Bars in the upper left corner of his vision were good for confirmation. There was the Status Screen and digging through his menus. Breakdown for his injuries.

  Scratches from ratkin, arrows sticking out of him and multiple lacerations across his legs. A stab wound at the back. Tiny reminders of past battles still haunting him. Reminders he could still feel

  Pain faded, slowly, but it was still there. Not hot, not sharp. Just a dull gnaw of bone that didn't know when to stop.

  He didn't want to check, but he had to. There might be clues to help him.

  Regeneration disabled. Healing effects halved. Tiny breadcrumbs, not helping right now. What did Meditate say again?

  He'd had to stay motionless to accelerate his natural healing.

  Would it work even when I'm undead?

  Seventh didn't have enough knowledge about the subject so he tried to concentrate on other things.

  If he had 81% health left, how much did the others have?

  How to dispel the condition?

  Did he have to dispel it?

  Surely they had similar percentages, but assessing their damage was hard. All Seventh could see was straight ahead, the never-ending corridor of hewn rock and flagstone floor. He saw others only if they moved during battles. That's when he could observe them, and try to make a plan.

  In the next fights Seventh focused on his companions. He didn't learn much.

  It looks fine. I've had worse. Have I?

  There were six others like him, risen undead. They weren't formally introduced, so Seventh gave them names to keep track of them.

  Adam, Charles, Dylan, Erick, Frank, and George. My party.

  And where is the B? That's Bob. Short for Body. The one Seventh was currently using.

  Adam and George were the swordsmen.

  Adam was tall and long-limbed, stabbed and slashed a distance. He was our best, most efficient fighter, followed closely by George.

  George was older, in his 50s in Seventh's estimation, and he hadn't said a peep in this whole time. Not a single grunt nor moan. A man of stoicism.

  Erick and Frank, the brother axemen duo. At least they looked like brothers. Same build and similar faces. Very basic fighting style of over-the-head chops, but it got the work done.

  Charles was the oddity of the group. He was an elf, or an half-elf, with those pointed ears. He had armed himself with a knife. He wasn't very proficient with it.

  Dylan had a mace. He was the first one to lose a shield. Ratkin liked to shoot him a lot for some reason and the thing crumbled to pieces. After losing the shield he had been filled with more arrows. When he fell, others wouldn't be too far apart.

  All seven of them were filthy. Covered in blood, guts, and body parts of the ratkin. Their leather armor were starting to tear and weapons blunt. Soon Dylan wouldn't be the only one slugging a lump of iron around without shield.

  I need magic. Shadowbolt. Long range. Something.

  The dungeon was changing.

  The walls straightened and the flagstone floor gave way to rectangular tiling. There were patterns, waves, and complex mazes.

  Torch brackets lined the walls. Empty. No soot. No scorch. Nothing had burned here in a long time. Was the group walking towards the surface, the entrance of the dungeon?

  They would be slaughtered. Seen from miles away, then met by the guards and hacked into pieces in seconds.

  No watchmen.

  A ratkin arrow broke Seventh's spiraling thoughts. He felt the tip scratching the bone. How much did that reduce his health?

  He raised his shield only for it to crumble from couple of hits. The wood was already splintered, chunks of it slowly whittled away by ceaseless arrows, dagger stabs, sword strikes, axe attacks.

  Seventh looked at the ruined shield while others got hit by arrows too.

  Poor Dylan, he really should dodge sometimes, Seventh thought while wanting to shake his head.

  The cracked shield was discarded and Seventh grabbed his spear with both hands, ready for the ratkin charge. How many would slip to him this time? How many stab wounds would he get now? How many health points would this cost to them?

  These ratkin seemed to just fire couple of arrows and realize what was marching towards them. A wall of deadmen. They couldn't kill something already dead. So they ran away, screaming in terror.

  This is it. The end.

  He could see them, up in the second level.

  The group had arrived at a large hall with a gallery. A grand space made of grey stone walls and polished marble floor. Walls and support pillars were decorated with colorful mosaics. Scenes of summer.

  Green, blue, and yellow. Colors. Seventh didn't remember when he had seen them last. He had seen red enough for one lifetime.

  But have I seen enough for a second? Third?

  The gallery was straight ahead. Probably a place for musicians to play their tunes, entertaining whoever would hold a ball in a place like this. Railing made of stone had big enough holes for the ratkin to peek through, not to mention to shoot.

  Up there, Seventh could see the ratkin with their bows. Half a dozen small furry creatures with long, lanky arms and legs, readying their shortbows. They were smiling sharp smiles. They knew they had won.

  THERE ARE BOWMEN UP! Seventh wanted to yell, to warn.

  The group continued forward. Ratkin notched their bows.

  UP THERE! AT THE GALLERY!

  Seventh pointed up with his free left hand.

  He blinked. Twice.

  Bowmen noticed him pointing and started to shoot. Whistling in the air, there was a warning and arrows met shields. Some fell too short and with a snapping crack hit the floor. Broken and useless.

  Undead closed ranks, covering themselves and others with their shields. Including Seventh, who was still pointing up.

  Shadowbolt!

  Walking continued. Bob wasn't listening.

  SHADOWBOLT!

  He was now alone in the open. Others were safe, behind shields. After a couple of steps he would be there too. Could he see anything there? Would they stay there or move?

  “SHADOWBOLT!” Seventh thundered and the fist-sized projectile of darkness soared forward.

  Surprised-looking ratkin was obliterated mid-aiming. The small body was almost ripped in half from the waist where Shadowbolt landed.

  There was stillness in the air while everyone processed what just happened.

  The moment was broken with two simultaneous yells.

  “SHADOWBOLT!”

  “SKREEEEE!”

  Shadowbolt found another victim, and remaining bowmen doubled their effort, sending arrow after arrow at the undead spellcaster.

  Seventh was almost covered. His legs and most of his torso were behind shields, but his left hand pointing up and head was without cover.

  An arrow tore his left ear off, but he didn't feel it. Only happiness. Ecstasy of being alive.

  He had a voice, and he could use it to save his party.

  Chant after chant, magical projectiles were traded with the arrows until there was a silence that echoed through the hall. He had killed them all. He had moved. He had a body again.

  The silence was broken by a much darker voice. An undead cackle of victory and triumph and the shuffling of shield wall being disassembled.

  Seventh was breathing heavily. He stared at his hand. He wiggled his fingers.

  My fingers.

  He took in a deep breath of air, to calm himself. He didn't need it, but he took it anyway. A stab wound wheezed with every breath.

  The air was stale and fouled by a tangy taste Seventh couldn't quite place. Like a spicy smoke with a twang of ozone, electricity. Something dangerous. It was the most delicious thing he had tasted.

  Magic. His magic.

  The party started to move straight ahead, under the gallery, back to the monotonous corridors and tunnels.

  “Wait,” Seventh said, stopping at the rasping feel of his tongue. There wasn't a drop of moisture in his mouth. His tongue stuck inside his cheeks, and somehow sanded them at the same time.

  The word cackled through dry cracked lips. Each syllable formed deep in the throat, forced onward by the tongue.

  Talking of the dead, to the dead.

  He had seen stairs going up to the gallery. He wanted to check the bodies and loot them. Ranged combat was awesome and bows would be useful. They even had an elf in the party.

  Seventh was already counting how much he had time to run up, check everything, and run back without losing the group. He didn't have to. They had stopped.

  “Look at me.”

  All six turned to face him.

  Seventh scratched his cheek, wondering what was happening.

  He hadn't cast spells on them and he certainly hadn't risen them up.

  Seventh had to be careful with these guys. One bad order and they would hurt him or worse, themselves.

  “You follow my orders? Nod if you understand.”

  Six nodding heads. Moving slow and steady.

  “Good. From now on all my orders follow this command: never hurt anyone in this party physically.”

  Silence.

  “From now on, nod, grunt or signal otherwise you understand.”

  Five of them groaned, grunted, moaned or clicked their tongues. George nodded.

  “Excellent. Follow,” Seventh said before approaching the stairs. He could hear steps behind him.

  Up in the gallery, Seventh could see why the ratkin chose this place for ambush. It overlooked three hallway mouths including the one they came from. It was possible to direct small troop of ratkin to the needed position and start shooting. Or run away.

  The demihumans themselves were a mess. Shadowbolt was a basic spell, but it made a terrible mess on impact. Most of the corpses had lost limbs or had craters as wounds. The spell was more powerful in the dark. Much more powerful.

  Six corpses, just like Seventh thought. It was possible there were more shooters, but in the heat of the moment it was hard to keep count.

  “Better to stay alert and assume there are survivors somewhere. Possibly another ambush,” he said and froze.

  It was weird. Talking. Moving.

  Again, he stared at his hand and wiggled his fingers emitting a soft blue glow. They were stiff. Bloated, rotten.

  Seventh closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing. His survival.

  His party's survival.

  All of the dead ratkin had small shortbows, quivers full of crooked arrows, and some sort of melee weapon. Long curved knives were popular.

  Half of the ratkin had small pouches on their hips and leaning against the wall was six small backpack-shaped collections of scrap leather sewn together.

  Seventh ordered the others to keep watch and checked the packs himself. Bedrolls, rations, cups, forks, some clothes and other junk. Pouches were filled with dry meat and edible roots. Travel food.

  Sighing, he went to the first corpse and removed the quiver and weapons. It didn't have anything else useful so Seventh went to the second body and repeated the process.

  Weapons and quivers went to a small pile. That gave Seventh an odd sense of familiarity.

  Had he seen a similar pile recently?

  Two last corpses yielded no results beyond weaponry. Two little bottles of brownish liquid. They were small. Barely a half a mouthful of liquid. Wrapped in greyish brown twine.

  Sloshing the liquid inside, small flakes stuck on the inside. Poor quality lesser potions, but what kind?

  Drinking the potion himself would give Seventh the fastest results. He could check his Status Screen and LOG to observe all, if any effects. But what if it was a healing potion? Who needed it the most? How was Dylan?

  Seventh shifted his gaze to the shieldless pummeler. He had a new arrow sticking out of his stomach. The shaft had already broken.

  It made Seventh's own arrows itch.

  What was the best move here?

  Closing his eyes again and taking in slow breaths, he started to think.

  Ambushing ratkin? He didn't know if there would be more or if they had more potions. Keep Dylan in reserve? Others would soak more damage. Arm everyone with bows? They were too small, not effective with tall humanoids. Wander around? Leaving the party here? Rotate remaining shields to most wounded? How was their health? How was his health?

  Seventh's eyes flickered lazily open. He had more health.

  How? When? Did he drink one of the potions?

  The answer was in the LOG.

  Seventh had used the skill without even realizing it. Apparently closing his eyes and letting his mind wander around was considered being calm enough.

  There was another interesting message hidden between all of the mundane ones Seventh didn't yet know how to filter out.

  There was a bit of a mystery why Seventh was the party leader and why he had the control of others, but in the end he couldn't dwell on it. There was too many variables he didn't know. Necromancy, Raise Dead, and that imitation of spirit talked about in his race.

  Was that all he was? A blob of mana thinking it was alive? Did others think like he did? Feel like him?

  Were they screaming too?

  Seventh stared at the others. They seemed... normal. For undead at least. How would he know for sure?

  The answer hit him like lightning. Death Sense.

  He stared again at his hand and the glow it emitted. Blue with small white sparkling. Others had thick black and gold aura.

  Was that the difference? Was he leader because of that small detail? An aura of light only he could see.

  That was enough for him. It had to be for now.

  Creation of the party had also made a new button labeled “PARTY” below his bars. Clicking it opened it down and showed the general status of everyone. Health, mana and conditions.

  Everybody excluding Seventh had full mana and Controlled Minion-condition. Health ranged from 34% to 7%. To no one's surprise, Dylan was the most wounded one.

  It was time to test the potions, so Seventh walked to Dylan and handed him a potion before ordering him to drink.

  Mechanically, the undead uncorked the small bottle and with one quick gulp, the potion was gone.

  When Dylan's health rose to 9%, a small smile rose to Sevenths face.

  He waited for a minute in case there were side effects, but nothing showed in the party list or LOG. Satisfied with the potion's safety, Dylan was ordered to drink another potion.

  After making a small pillow by stuffing rags and spare clothing ratkin had in one of their backpacks, Seventh tried to get to a comfortable position.

  He had some health and mana to regenerate.

  After making sure others were standing guard and hiding behind the railing, Seventh closed his eyes. He was so tired. He needed to sleep. He needed to do so much.

  But now, he wasn't running out of time.