Control
drag to aim
c
The final surviving warrior stands isolated in the desolate aftermath, bones aching beneath bloodied armor, staring down the ceaseless tide of shambling corpses. No reinforcements. No retreat. Clutching a chipped blade in trembling hands, they brace as guttural snarls crescendo—the horde surges forward, rotting limbs clawing, jaws gnashing. Every strike is exhaustion and fury fused: a severed head tumbles, black ichor sprays, yet two more abominations lurch into its place. The air reeks of death and iron, their numbers endless, but surrender means joining the mindless ranks. Muscles scream. Breath shreds. Still they fight—not for victory, but principle. To fall swinging. To deny the inevitable even as shadows swallow the horizon.
