The front line of the undead army exploded in bursts of light.
Limbs flew in every direction, skulls cracked open, and rotting bodies dropped to the ground in heaps. The force of the impact left scorched craters across the land.
For a moment, it looked like the assault had worked.
Then the broken corpses were swallowed by a creeping black substance—thick, slow-moving, like tar. Seconds later, they rose again.
"They're getting back up!" one of the archers cried.
Their morale cracked. If the opponent couldn't stay dead, then what chance did they have?
"Don't stop!" the captain barked. "Fire again!"
More arrows flew, faster now. The sky above the battlefield lit up like a storm of light.
Reign let them waste their strength. From time to time, an attack would be aimed at him—but it always vanished before reaching his skin.
