Hugo launched himself into the undead mass. His body moved with unfamiliar precision, each step placed exactly where it needed to be. The creatures sensed him coming, their milky eyes widened, jaws snapping with panic rather than hunger.
The first undead tried to backpedal, stumbling into others behind it. Too late. Hugo's blade carved through its neck, nearly severing the head. As it fell, he felt it, that thread of pale light stretching between them. Without conscious thought, he pulled. The essence flowed into him like water finding its level.
Strength coursed through his limbs. His senses sharpened further, the world taking on an unnatural clarity.
A second undead lunged from his right. Hugo pivoted, almost lazily, and buried his blade in its chest. Another thread, another pull. His movements grew faster. More precise.
Three undead rushed him at once. Hugo spun between them, his blade an extension of his arm. He cut through rotting flesh with mathematical efficiency. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
He heard Naomi shout something from behind, but her voice seemed distant, unimportant compared to the whisper of souls entering his body.
An undead in tattered militia armor swung a broken sword at Hugo's head. He ducked under it, not from fear but simply because that was the optimal response. His counter-strike removed the creature's arm, then its head.
Four more souls absorbed.
The cold spread through him like frost. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat steadied. Whatever panic or disgust he should have felt remained theoretical, academic. A fact he observed rather than experienced.
"They're running," someone called out.
Hugo noticed it too. The outer edge of undead were turning away, shambling as fast as their decayed limbs allowed. Fleeing from him. He didn't give chase. Inefficient. Better to deal with those directly blocking the gate.
An undead child lunged at him, fingers curved into claws. Hugo killed it without hesitation. The small soul flickered into him like a candle flame snuffed by wind.
Part of him knew he should feel something. Horror. Regret. The child hadn't chosen this. But those emotions seemed separated from him by thick glass.
"Hugo!" Naomi's voice finally penetrated his focus.
He turned, saw her standing at the edge of the carnage, medical bag clutched to her chest. Her eyes were wide, her face pale.
"What?" His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Flat.
"Behind you!"
Hugo turned back, saw a massive undead charging through the thinning horde. This one moved differently, purposefully. Its body less decayed, its eyes focused. It wore the remains of captain's insignia.
Not mindless, then. One of the rare ones that retained a fragment of intelligence.
Hugo stepped forward to meet it. The creature swung a massive fist at his head. He blocked with his forearm, feeling bones creak but not break. His counterattack slashed across its chest, opening a bloodless wound.
The undead captain bellowed, a sound no human throat could make. It grabbed for Hugo's throat with both hands. He ducked under its reach and drove his blade up through its jaw.
The creature staggered but didn't fall. Hugo twisted the blade, feeling resistance, then breakthrough. The undead captain shuddered, its essence far stronger than the others. Hugo pulled it in, a feast compared to the morsels he'd consumed before.
Memories flashed behind his eyes. The captain alive, giving orders, fighting at the first barricade, falling, rising again with hunger replacing duty.
The creature collapsed. Hugo stood over it, breathing steadily despite the exertion. Around him lay scattered corpses, truly dead now, their animating force consumed.
The gate stood clear.
Behind him, the survivors moved cautiously forward. Hugo heard their whispers.
"Did you see how he moved?"
"Like a demon..."
"No, like an angel. A dark angel."
"We're saved!"
Hugo turned to face them. Their expressions shifted from awe to unease as they met his eyes. He knew what they saw, the pale rings around his irises, the inhuman stillness.
Naomi approached cautiously. "Hugo?"
"We need to move," he said. "The gate's clear, but it won't stay that way."
She studied his face. "Are you... still you?"
An interesting question. Hugo considered it with detached curiosity. He felt different. Stronger. Colder. But still himself, just... less. As if parts of him had gone quiet.
"Yes," he answered, though he wasn't entirely sure it was true.
He led them to the gate. It took three of them to raise the portcullis enough for everyone to slide under. Beyond, they found the inner courtyard littered with bodies, defenders who'd made their last stand here.
"We're too late," one of the survivors moaned. "The evacuation's already gone."
"No," Hugo said, pointing to fresh bloodstains. "This happened recently. The last ship might still be loading."
They hurried through the courtyard toward the river docks. Hugo scanned the bodies as they passed, part of him automatically assessing threats, positions, equipment.
A dead soldier lay against a wall, crossbow still clutched in his hands. Something about him seemed familiar. Hugo paused, trying to place him.
The face. He knew that face. They'd fought together earlier today, held the outer wall side by side. But the name...
Hugo searched his memory. Nothing came. Just an empty space where a name should be.
Another body nearby, a woman in lieutenant's armor. He recognized her too. She'd given him orders this morning, directed his squad to the western barricade. Her name also eluded him.
A chill ran through Hugo that had nothing to do with the souls he'd consumed. These were people he'd known hours ago. Fought beside. And now their names were just... gone.
"Hugo?" Naomi touched his arm. "What's wrong?"
He looked at her, saw the concern in her eyes.
"I can't remember their names," he said quietly.
"Whose names?"
He gestured to the bodies. "These soldiers. We fought together today."
Naomi's brow furrowed. "The trauma, maybe. Or shock."
"No." Hugo knew it wasn't that. "I remember everything else. Their positions. Their weapons. The orders they gave. Just not..."
He trailed off as realization dawned. The souls he'd consumed were changing him. Not just his body, but his mind. Making him more efficient. And what was less efficient than remembering the names of the dead?
"It doesn't matter," he said finally. "We need to reach the docks."
Naomi looked troubled, but nodded. As they continued on, Hugo felt her watching him. Studying him like one of her patients.
Ahead, they heard shouting. The sound of a steam engine rumbling to life.
"The last ship," Hugo said, quickening his pace. "We can still make it."
Behind them, the distant moans of undead rose again. More were coming, drawn by the living. Hugo felt them at the edge of his awareness, cold spots moving through the city toward them.
He glanced back at the survivors, counting them automatically. Eight lives. Numbers, not names.