CHAPTER 710: DAMN, THAT WAS CLOSE!

In Necroterra, a towering zombie nest loomed like a fortress—now thriving, orderly, and eerily peaceful.

Surrounding the nest, lush green forests had grown even denser. Vines twisted around thick trunks, and delicate pink flowers bloomed in clusters. Overhead, jet-black crows circled in the sky, painting a picture of vitality—but it was a deadly illusion. Any outsider zombie who dared approach would be torn apart without mercy.

Inside the nest, the livestock farms had taken shape, thanks in no small part to Pigmaster General Big Ears, whose contributions were legendary.

Right now, the elite patrol unit known as the Overlord Squad was out on a sweep. Trailing behind them were Hank, Gatorax, and Fear—Zombie Kings in their own right—making the group look downright formidable.

Big Ears strutted at the front, hands clasped behind his back, swaying with every step like he was leading a parade.

"A real team," he declared, "needs a lion to lead, a wolf to fight, an eagle to scout, and a hound to guard the gate..."

"Ooohhh..."

The zombies behind him—Shrimpy and the others—nodded enthusiastically. They didn’t totally get what he meant, but it sounded badass.

Shrimpy tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "Hey Big Ears, so who’s the lion in our nest?"

"Isn’t it obvious? That’s the boss. As long as he’s around, we’ve got nothing to fear," Big Ears replied with conviction.

"Yeah, yeah!" The others nodded in agreement. Made perfect sense.

"Then who’s the wolf?" Shrimpy asked.

"Queen Laura, of course. No one fights like her—she’s a savage in battle," Big Ears said, thinking it over. "And the eagle? That’s gotta be PhD. His mechanical army is cutting-edge. Dude’s basically the future."

"Whoa... you’re right!" a few zombies in the back exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. The whole metaphor was starting to click.

But then Shrimpy threw a curveball. "So... what about us? What are we?"

Big Ears paused, clearing his throat. He knew what was left in the metaphor, but it didn’t sound too flattering. So he pivoted fast. "Us? We’re the Pigmasters. Lords of livestock!"

"Whoa! That’s awesome!" The zombies clapped and cheered, puffing up with pride.

Then Hank, walking nearby, chimed in. "Hey Big Ears, what about Umbradrake? Where does he fit in?"

Big Ears went quiet. His eyes darted around, and after a long pause, he muttered, "He’s... the shit-stirrer."

"..."

And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.

At that very moment, Umbradrake was out there doing exactly that—stirring shit.

He was making the rounds through other zombie nests, flaunting his title as The Voidborn Undying, and shaking down other Zombie Kings for tribute—specifically, two pigs apiece.

"Umbradrake! I told you last time—if you show your face here again, we’ll fight you to the death! I don’t care if we die, you’re not getting a damn thing!" roared a brawny, power-type Zombie King. His massive frame radiated raw aggression.

Around him, his elite zombie crew snarled and growled, their bloodlust thick in the air. They looked ready to tear someone apart.

"Uh... right," Umbradrake muttered, clearly caught off guard.

He tried to channel his Voidborn Undying aura, but truth be told, he wasn’t sure he could take this guy in a straight-up fight.

And his backup? Just a few low-level cronies with zero combat skills.

Still, he couldn’t afford to look weak.

One of his underlings, a scrawny zombie named Howler, stepped up to do some damage control.

"Hey! You’re talking to the Voidborn Undying here! You guys got a death wish or what?!"

"I don’t care who you are," the power-type King growled, his rage boiling over. "If it means dying, I’ll die fighting!"

Howler’s face twisted. This was going south fast. "Y-you just wait! You’re done for! Our boss is gonna wipe you out!"

They kept talking tough, but their feet were already inching backward.

Umbradrake didn’t say a word, just kept up the Voidborn act, praying he didn’t slip up.

"Time to bail..." he whispered once they’d put some distance between themselves and the angry horde.

Then they picked up the pace—walking turned to jogging, jogging to sprinting, until they were full-on hauling ass out of that nest’s territory.

Only once they were far enough away to be sure they weren’t being followed did they finally breathe easy.

"Damn, that was close! We were this close to throwing down," Umbradrake muttered, still shaken.

"No kidding," Howler nodded furiously. "Boss, it’s getting harder and harder out here. We can’t even squeeze a single pig outta these guys anymore. What are we gonna do?"

"What else? Move on to the next nest," Umbradrake sighed, resigned.

After all, he’d made a career out of being a professional shit-stirrer—and he wasn’t about to stop now.

But even the most patient Zombie Kings had their limits. Umbradrake’s antics were pushing those limits hard, and it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out.

Behind the scenes, more and more Zombie Kings were starting to talk. Quietly, cautiously, they were plotting. The consensus? Team up and take him out—once and for all.

But there was a problem: the title The Voidborn Undying carried serious weight. It wasn’t just a name—it was a threat. No one wanted to be the first to make a move.

So someone came up with a better idea: find another Voidborn Undying. Someone on the same level. Someone who could actually kill Umbradrake.

And that led them to Southvale.

The biggest zombie nest in the entire region, Southvale was ten times the size of a normal nest. It had been around forever, packed with elite fighters and hardened veterans. And at the top of it all sat one of the most feared Zombie Kings alive—Gravestone, the Overlord of Southvale.

"If anyone can take down Umbradrake, it’s him," one of the Zombie Kings muttered as they approached the nest, nerves on edge.

They stepped inside, tense and wary. The place was crawling with zombies—thousands of them—staring them down, snarling, growling, making it very clear: You don’t belong here.

In the grand hall, a massive figure sat on a throne carved from bone and stone. His skin was a deep ochre, his frame towering and broad. The throne itself bore a single inscription: Overlord of Southvale—a title he’d carved himself.

As the group of Zombie Kings entered, Gravestone’s eyes flicked toward them. A slow, amused smile crept across his face.

"Well, well... look what we have here. A few crystal cores just walked in on their own."

"Wait! Gravestone, please—hear us out! We’ve got something important to report! Don’t kill us!" one of the Zombie Kings blurted out, panic in his voice.

In zombie territory, walking into another King’s nest was always a gamble. If the host was in a bad mood, you might not walk out.

Gravestone raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Alright. What’s so important?"

"It’s Umbradrake," one of them said quickly. "He’s got his eye on your title. We think he’s planning to attack Southvale."

"Oh?" Gravestone’s expression shifted, skeptical. He’d heard of Umbradrake—some self-proclaimed Voidborn Undying—but the guy’s forces were a joke. Nothing compared to Southvale. He’d never taken him seriously.

"He wants to attack me?"

"Yeah, yeah, exactly!" the Zombie King nodded eagerly. "He’s been going around extorting livestock from everyone. He’s clearly building up for something big. We figured he’s planning to sweep through Southvale next. That’s why we came to warn you."

Gravestone’s gaze sharpened. His eyes narrowed, and the pressure in the room shifted. The aura of a true Voidborn Undying pulsed from him—flickering, unstable, and terrifying. It made the air feel heavy, like the walls themselves were closing in.

These Zombie Kings had come from all over, risking their lives to step into his domain. That alone said something. They weren’t here for politics—they were here because they were desperate.

Gravestone leaned back in his throne, considering.

Finally, he nodded.

"Alright. I believe you..."

...