"Shit!" Guts swore, jumping back. The roof he'd been standing on had been engulfed in flames; the tongues reached out and singed his arm. Whatever this was, it wasn't natural. This couldn't have been an ordinary attack; though it struck like cannonfire, there was no explosion. That meant magic. Magic was rarely, good, if ever.

Moreover, the undead were now covered in fire and still heading towards Guts.

Guts wound up an immense swing and forced the sword in a wide arc; the immense weight carried him. Instead of bracing himself like normal, he let the momentum carry him, swinging like a spinning top. One, two, three arcs of edged death hacked through necks and torsos, dispatching the burning corpses. The smoke inhalation wouldn't be too bad in an open space, but he couldn't afford an extended battle. Guts backed up for space, then thrusted his sword downward, piercing through the concrete and slung out the repeater bow. With a series of twangs, a flurry of bolts rocketed toward the source of the flame.