The undead ran forth in a wave of death.

  They burst over the dunes in a chaotic surge, feet hammering into the sand with no regard for footing or form. Bodies slammed into one another, some stumbling and rolling only to claw their way back up and keep charging. Arms pumped. Jaws gaped. A chorus of hoarse snarls and wet, broken screams carried ahead of them, ripping through the quiet desert night.

  Ethan didn’t move.

  Every instinct told him to run, to put distance between himself and the tide of dead flesh. He ignored it. He’d already made the decision, and backing out now would only make things worse. If he ran, they would follow. They always did. And if they followed, they would reach the family eventually. When exhaustion caught up, when mistakes were made, he would have to fight again. Only he would have to be protecting people as well.

  That wasn’t an outcome he was willing to accept.

  So he shifted his feet in the sand and let [Steadfast] take hold.

  The dune beneath him firmed. Not solid—not like stone—but good enough. The subtle slide of sand slowed, then stopped altogether. His balance locked in, weight settling perfectly through his hips and legs.

  Ethan raised his sword.

  The leading undead were faster than the rest. Leaner. Less decayed. Their movements were more coordinated, less frantic. Likely higher level. Former survivors who had lasted longer before dying. He could tell by the way they ran, by how they didn’t immediately trip over the uneven terrain.

  Five of them broke ahead of the pack. They spread instinctively, angling to surround him.

  “Figures,” Ethan muttered and placed his pack on the ground.

  The first reached him in seconds.

  It came in low, arms outstretched, sand spraying beneath its feet. Ethan met it. His sword came up in a short, efficient cut, edge biting across the undead’s throat as he stepped to the side.

  The head didn’t come off, but it didn’t need to.

  The blade crushed through the spine. The undead collapsed mid-stride, momentum folding it forward into the sand like a puppet with its strings cut.

  The second was already there.

  It leapt at him. Ethan dropped his center of gravity and twisted, letting the body sail past him. As it landed, he reversed his grip and drove the sword down through its upper back, pinning it to the dune. It thrashed, clawing at the sand, until he wrenched the blade free and stomped its skull in with a sharp blow, feeling its rotten head give way.

  He couldn’t afford to hesitate.

  The third and fourth were coming together.

  One swung wildly, nails scraping across Ethan’s stomach, blocked by his vest. The other tried to tackle him outright. Ethan planted his feet and met the tackle head-on, shoulder slamming into rotting flesh as [Steadfast] held him firm. The impact would’ve knocked him flat without it. Instead, he absorbed it and turned, using the undead’s momentum to hurl it sideways.

  He twisted back to the one that tried to rip out his stomach. Its flesh was decaying, sagging down its face. His blade flashed before it could react.

  A clean diagonal cut split its torso nearly in half. It stumbled, took two more running steps, and then collapsed.

  The one he threw had scrambled back up, slipping in the sand as it got to its feet. Ethan finally moved and rushed forward. It swiped for his face; he slid under the attack and cut its hamstrings. The undead fell to the ground once more, and he brought his blade down on its neck, severing the head.

  By the time he looked up, he turned just in time to see the rest of the undead crest the dune.

  They poured over the sand like a living avalanche, running flat out now that they had a clear target.

  Ethan didn’t have enough time to formulate a plan or make any changes to his stance. They fell upon him in waves.

  His sword became a blur. Short, brutal cuts aimed at joints and necks. Knees. Throats. He didn’t waste time on clean kills. He cut tendons, shattered legs, crippled anything that came within reach. All the while, keeping his distance.

  An undead lunged for his arm. He severed it at the elbow and kicked the body backward into the ones behind it.

  Another tackled him from the side.

  Ethan twisted with the impact, rolled once, and came up on one knee. Sand sprayed as claws raked where his head had been. He slashed upward, blade biting through ribs and bursting out through the creature’s shoulder.

  Three more replaced it instantly.

  Ethan retreated a step, then another, drawing them in. His arms burned. His breath came faster now, controlled but heavy. Each swing mattered. Every movement had to be efficient. He couldn’t afford flourishes. Couldn’t afford mistakes. He fell further into his swordsmanship, relying on his only source of attack. Between that and [Steadfast], he was a one-man army.

  Something slammed into his chest, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Ethan snarled and drove his forehead into its face. Bone cracked. He shoved it away and cut low, spilling its guts onto the sand.

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  Another bit down on his forearm. He felt teeth sink into flesh.

  Ethan roared and drove his knee into its chest, snapping brittle ribs. He twisted his arm and hacked down, cleaving the undead’s skull in two.

  Blood splattered across his linen top and soaked into the sand.

  Notifications fought for his attention, informing him that he had leveled up. He paid them no mind, fully aware that if he took his eyes off the threat, he would likely die.

  The mob kept coming.

  Ethan was breathing hard now. Sweat streamed down his spine. His muscles screamed with every swing, every parry, every impact. [Steadfast] kept him upright, kept his footing true, but it couldn’t stop fatigue from building.

  Still, he held.

  Bodies piled up around him. Crippled undead crawled over one another, clawing at his legs. Ethan stomped them back into the sand, blade flashing again and again.

  A runner burst through the mass at full speed.

  Ethan barely had time to react.

  He pivoted, letting the undead slam past him, then drove his sword through its spine from behind. He yanked the blade free and turned—

  —and nearly took a clawed hand to the face.

  He leaned back, felt air rush past his nose, and brought the sword around in a horizontal arc. It took the undead’s head clean off.

  Another grabbed his shoulder.

  Another his leg.

  Ethan snarled and moved.

  He surged forward, shoulder-checking through the thinner part of the mob, carving a narrow path with sheer violence. His blade rose and fell in relentless rhythm. Strike. Step. Strike. Twist. Kick. Cut.

  The sand beneath him was churned into mud by blood and body parts.

  Still, they came.

  Ethan felt it then.

  The weight of it.

  This wasn’t a skirmish. This wasn’t a quick stand. This was going to take time. Minutes. Maybe longer. And every second he stayed here, the family got farther away.

  Ethan planted his feet again, back to a dune, forcing the undead to come at him from the front. His arms trembled with exhaustion now. His breath burned. His vision narrowed.

  But his resolve didn’t waver.

  “Come on,” he growled under his breath. “All of you.”

  The mob surged.

  Ethan raised his sword and the world narrowed to steel, sand, and the dead as the battle swallowed him whole.

  He compensated on instinct. Shortened his cuts. Tightened his guard. Let the undead come to him instead of meeting them halfway. But always keeping enough distance between him and the mob. Only allowing a couple to come at him at a time.

  But that was when he knew.

  He was slowing down.

  A undead attacked, teeth bared as it slammed into him chest-first. Ethan barely managed to bring his sword up in time. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he felt claws scrape across his ribs.

  The undead recoiled instead of biting through him.

  Ethan staggered back, lungs burning, and realized what had happened a split second later. The bulletproof vest. The claws had raked across the reinforced plates instead of flesh.

  The creature lunged again.

  Ethan recovered just in time to drive his blade up through its chin, skull splitting with a wet crack. He shoved the corpse aside and forced air back into his chest, heart hammering.

  “Too close,” he muttered.

  The mob didn’t give him time to dwell on it.

  Sensing weakness in the way only predators—or the dead—could, they pressed harder. Hands grabbed at his arms, his shoulders, his legs. He hacked them back, but every motion cost him. He was tired, sleep-deprived and, above all else, far weaker than his mind thought. His shoulders screamed. His grip burned. Sweat stung his eyes, mixing with grime and blood.

  Another impact slammed into his side.

  Ethan grunted as claws scraped across his ribs again, force enough to bruise even through the vest. He stumbled, caught himself only because [Steadfast] refused to let his footing give way completely. Sand shifted beneath his boots, but it didn’t betray him.

  Still, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

  This wasn’t sustainable.

  He was defending now. Reacting. Every swing was a response instead of an action. That alone was dangerous. Worse, there were plenty more undead than he first assumed. He used the dunes to his advantage, making them run up it to reach him, but he couldn’t thin them fast enough.

  Ethan ducked under a wild swipe and brought his sword up in a desperate parry. The blade rang, vibration shooting up his arm.

  Another hit him from the side.

  The impact drove him forward, straight into two more undead. Hands latched onto him immediately. One clawed at his neck. Another slammed into his chest again.

  Ethan snarled, rage flaring just long enough to push past the exhaustion. He twisted violently, dragging one undead with him as a shield. Claws sank into rotting flesh instead of him. He shoved the body forward, knocking three others off balance, and finally—finally—saw it.

  An opening. Ethan didn’t hesitate. He exploded forward, shoulder-checking through the gap with everything he had left. His sword carved a brutal path, strikes no longer precise but viciously effective. He hacked, shoved, kicked—anything to create space. Undead collapsed around him, bodies tangling, slowing the ones behind.

  He broke free.

  The desert opened up in front of him, empty and dark.

  Ethan ran.

  He angled hard to the left, feet pounding into the sand, lungs screaming as he forced his body to give him more than it had left. The undead shrieked behind him, the sound rising as they realized he was fleeing.

  Some stumbled. Some fell. But many, gave chase.

  Ethan didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. He ran until his vision blurred at the edges and his legs threatened to give out. When he finally risked a glance back, the mob had stretched out, no longer a solid wall.

  He slowed just enough to turn and strike when one got too close. A quick cut to the knee. A slash across the neck. He didn’t linger. Didn’t finish them unless he had to. Cripple and move. Cripple and move.

  It was ugly. Desperate. But it worked.

  The undead thinned as the distance grew, turning from a single overwhelming force into scattered threats. Individually, they weren’t really strong. Their advantage lay in numbers. Alone, even tired and wary, Ethan cut them down with ease.

  Ethan veered again, doubling back through a shallow ravine between dunes. He slid down the slope, boots skidding, then forced himself to keep going even as his legs shook beneath him.

  Finally, he found it.

  A break in the terrain. A shallow depression choked with rocks and broken stone, half-buried by drifting sand. Ethan scrambled into it, wedging himself between two slabs of sun-baked rock just as shadows passed overhead.

  He went still. Pain caught up to him all at once. His chest heaved. His arms trembled violently as he pressed his forehead against the cool stone, fighting the urge to retch. Every breath scraped his lungs raw. His heart felt like it was trying to tear its way out of his chest.

  He didn’t move.

  He didn’t dare.

  The sounds came moments later.

  Footsteps.

  Low, guttural noises filled the air above him as the undead searched. Some passed close enough that he could smell them. Dry rot and old blood baked into the heat of the desert. One stumbled over the rocks nearby, claws scraping stone, then moved on.

  Ethan clenched his jaw and forced his breathing to slow.

  In.

  Out.

  Slow.

  His sword lay across his lap, slick with blood, his hands barely steady enough to keep hold of it. His body ached in places he hadn’t known could ache. Bruises bloomed beneath the vest where claws had struck again and again.

  He went over the fight in his head. Everything had been going fine until his fitness gave out. The reality was, his body wasn’t ready for that type of battle. He had killed a majority of them. And the family had gotten away safely. So he guessed he won.

  But it didn’t feel like a victory.

  Ethan stayed there, hidden and silent, listening to the dead hunt for him in the dark—out of breath, exhausted, and painfully aware of how much power he had given up to redo the trials.