The dead are a resource. You are the industry.

You are a necromancer with a shovel economy: skeletons dig bones, bones raise

skeletons, and the surplus marches east. The kingdom sends waves to stop you —

thirty of them, and then it sends THE KING.

Damage only happens where two bodies touch. No damage auras, no spreadsheets

fighting each other off-screen: every kill in the game is a skeleton reaching a

soldier, and every corpse falls exactly where the fight was. When a thousand of

yours hit a shield wall, the crush, the gaps, and the bodies flying out of it are

the actual simulation.

A reign is 25 minutes, and it ends

• Odd waves assault your graveyard. Even waves are yours — march out and raze their camps.

• Kills feed a RITE bar. Fill it and choose one rite of three; the others are gone.

• Rites come from six schools. Commit to three of a school and it starts granting rules, not numbers: corpses that never fade, bolts that skip into a second body, one enemy in five standing back up on your side.

• Structures are cards too. A Bone Kiln, a Soul Well, a Rib Tower — placed by hand, finished by masons, working a radius you chose.

Six bosses, six silhouettes

The Tithe Wagon. Ser Osmund the Wall. The Ossuary Breaker. Lady Vess of the Long

Eye. The Grand Abbot, a walking cathedral. And at wave 30, THE KING — the whole

flood converges on one gilded colossus, and either he falls or the reign does.

The million

Souls bank across reigns. Beat THE KING and the next reign is offered on your

terms — every burden you accept pays out in relics when you win under it. And in

the corner of every reign, a number climbs: every skeleton you have ever raised,

across every run, counted toward ONE MILLION.

What this game is not

No hero to level. No units to micromanage. You decide what gets built, where it

stands, and which rites shape the flood — the flood does the rest, and you watch

it happen.