The ancient wind carried the gravel and blew through the frozen soil that had been silent for hundreds of millions of years. In the shadow of the crack in the underworld, a skeleton quietly awakened. His bones are covered with ancient dust, with no memory, no emotions, and he doesn't even understand what "self" is. Only instinct drives the bones close to the earth and absorbs the faint negative energy.
The wilderness is a cruel hunting ground. He had to avoid the charging scaly beasts, those creatures whose fangs were stained with blood, and regarded the undead as rotten wood that had nothing to throw away; he had to avoid the primitive tribes who drank blood from their raw hair, and the tribesmen around the campfire held stone axes, their eyes full of fear and hatred for the undead; he also had to be wary of the same kind - those deformed undead that crawled out from the underworld and ate bones as a way to survive.
There are no amazing magical powers, no heaven-defying opportunities, only the simplest rules of survival. He hid in the crevices of the rocks and foraged among the piles of dead bones. His joints were polished by the collisions, but a faint intelligence gradually grew deep in his skull. He has seen the embers of campfires left behind by tribes during migration, the mountains piled with the bones of giant beasts, the last struggles of dying creatures on the frozen soil, and the cold undead groups biting each other.
Every step involves broken bones and dried blood, and every time you stop, you must be alert to murderous intentions from all directions. In the desolate ancient world, this nameless withered skeleton used its jagged bones to measure the boundaries of existence, trudging between the living and the undead. In desperate situations to survive, it slowly pieced together the ancient secrets buried by time, and explored the true meaning of the existence of the undead.
