The dead are no longer the only ones haunted. As the pall of undeath spreads, the survivors try to remember what it means to be alive. The air tastes like dust and denial. Freemark’s Livery Once a humble stable, now a slaughterhouse for the restless. The scent of hay lingers beneath the iron tang of something far older. Jeweler’s Shop Display cases lie shattered, their treasures long plundered or cursed. Only fragments of mirrors remain—enough to show just how hollow the eyes of the looters have become. Ranger’s Ruse A forgotten waystation at the edge of the wilds. The forest presses too close, its roots creeping under the threshold like fingers testing a pulse. Schoolhouse Lessons abandoned mid-sentence. Chalk words still cling to the boards: “Tomorrow’s lesson—history.” The irony, of course, writes itself. Tomb Exterior Where the past refuses to stay buried. Moss creeps along cracked masonry, and the air hums faintly—as though something inside is still listening. Townsquare An empty heart for an empty town. Statues stand watch over broken cobbles, their expressions worn smooth by wind and memory. Whispering Way Patrol Their silhouettes blur in the fog, moving like rumors. They don’t hunt the living for hunger. They do it for silence. Zombie Stampede When the last door breaks and the earth disgorges its mistakes, this is what’s left—movement without purpose, rage without memory, life’s echo devouring itself. This is how Book II begins: not with a hero’s march, but with the first whispered realization that death is the only thing still keeping its promises.