Chapter 44 : Chapter 44
Chapter 44: The Baron's Death
Lionheart City, Viscount Simon's fortress, lay upon the plains like a lion crouched and sculpted from gray-white stone.
Its walls towered high and pristine, battlements hung with deep blue banners bearing the emblem of a shield-bearing lion. They snapped in the morning breeze, exuding a dignity and arrogance belonging to the old noble order—utterly incongruous with the Wailing Wastes.
A figure was practically dragged from a foam-mouthed warhorse.
His leather armor was tattered beyond recognition, his face a mixture of blood, tear stains, and dust. He looked like a specter freshly crawled from hell, forming the sharpest contrast with this city's orderly perfection.
“Let me see the Viscount!!”
He used the last shred of his strength to roar at the guards who crossed their halberds to bar his way.
“I'm a messenger from Baron Ralph of Grayrock Town! We've been attacked by undead heretics! Grayrock Town… Grayrock Town can't hold much longer!”
The guards' faces showed expressions mixing contempt with a trace of surprise.
In their eyes, a backwater like Grayrock Town and its baron were nothing more than an insignificant name on a map.
But those four words—“undead heretics”—made their movements hesitate for a moment.
The guard captain frowned, looking the wretched messenger up and down, and finally waved his hand.
“Take him to the side hall to wait. I'll report to the head steward.”
The news spread like a stone cast into a calm lake, creating precise and efficient ripples through Lionheart City's solid power structure.
In less than half an hour, that stone was presented to the most magnificent pavilion at the lake's heart.
The viscount's manor, council hall.
Massive floor-to-ceiling windows drew in the morning light, illuminating the polished floor laid with alabaster.
On the walls hung enormous oil paintings depicting the heroic deeds of the Simon family's ancestors—each painted figure with resolute eyes and extraordinary bearing.
The air carried the complex fragrance of premium incense and aged wine.
Viscount Simon, a well-maintained middle-aged noble around forty, sat upright in the gilded high-backed chair at the head position.
He wore a perfectly tailored velvet dress suit, his golden hair combed without a strand out of place, his blue eyes like calm lake water, revealing no emotion whatsoever.
On his fingers, he wore a massive sapphire ring, rhythmically tapping the armrest.
“Undead heretics?”
He softly repeated the steward's report.
“That fool Ralph has finally provoked something beyond his ability to handle.”
Standing below him were three figures of varying bearing.
One was the Knight Commander, Reno—clad in heavy armor, built like a bear.
A cross-shaped scar marked his face, his eyes fierce. He was the most valiant warrior under the Viscount's command, a genuine Grand Knight.
The other two wore distinctly different mage robes.
On the left stood a withered, gloomy-eyed old man named Martin, dressed in plain gray robes and gripping a staff made from dead wood.
He was the Viscount's chief advisor, a scholar specializing in curse and divination magic.
On the right stood a young, seductive woman named Lilith.
She wore revealing red silk robes that outlined heart-stopping curves, her flame-red hair like burning fire.
She casually toyed with a dancing flame at her fingertips, her lips always carrying a trace of an elusive smile.
She was a volatile fire mage, and one of the Viscount's deadliest weapons.
“My lord.”
Knight Commander Reno spoke in a rumbling voice.
“Baron Ralph is your vassal. According to Imperial law, when his territory is attacked by heretics, we have both the responsibility and the obligation to send troops to his aid.”
“Aid?”
Fire mage Lilith sneered, the flame at her fingertips flaring higher.
“Reno, does your brain hold anything besides muscle and honor?”
“What kind of place is that? A poverty-stricken town without even a decent iron mine.”
“Send our noble Lionheart Guard to fight a bunch of filthy undead for a worthless baron? Utterly laughable.”
“Lilith! Watch your words!”
Reno glared furiously.
“This is a noble's duty!”
“Enough.”
Viscount Simon raised his hand, halting their quarrel.
He looked toward the gray-robed mage Martin, who had remained silent throughout.
“Martin, what do you think?”
The old mage's withered face showed no expression, his voice hoarse as a night owl's.
“My lord, this is an opportunity.”
“Oh?”
“Ralph's life or death is irrelevant.”
“But the appearance of undead heretics gives us the most perfect excuse.”
Martin's eyes gleamed with cold wisdom.
“An excuse to openly extend our military power into those masterless lands.”
He extended a skeletal finger toward the enormous Eastern Reaches map on the wall, pointing precisely at the blank area where the City of Miracles stood.
“According to intelligence, that boy Caesar has been making quite bold moves recently.”
“His city's development speed has exceeded our expectations.”
“I even suspect the Bloody Hand's disappearance is connected to him.”
“Our original plan was to let winter slowly wear him down.”
“But now, since the undead are stirring things up for us, why shouldn't we personally enter the game and harvest the fruits early?”
The corners of Viscount Simon's mouth finally curved into a satisfied arc.
This was exactly what he wanted to hear.
“You mean…”
“In the name of purging undead, deploy troops to Grayrock Town.”
Martin's voice carried a trace of cold amusement.
“If Ralph is still alive, we 'rescue' him, then naturally make Grayrock Town our forward base under the pretext of protecting him.”
“If he's already dead, even better.”
“We occupy that territory completely in the name of avenging an Imperial noble.”
“Then.”
The old mage's gaze sharpened.
“We can use that base as a springboard to apply military pressure on that City of Miracles.”
“At that point, whether that boy Caesar fights or surrenders, lives or dies, will be entirely up to us.”
“We can even pin the charge of colluding with heretics on him and righteously erase him and his city from the map.”
Lilith's eyes lit up as she listened, licking her red lips.
“I like this plan. It's been far too long since I've had a good burn.”
Although Knight Commander Reno felt disdain for such schemes, he couldn't refute it.
As a military man, he understood this was a perfect strategy.
Viscount Simon rose from his chair and walked to the window, looking down upon his prosperous and powerful city.
“That fool Ralph has finally done something useful for me before dying.”
He murmured to himself, his blue eyes gleaming with light where greed and ambition intertwined.
He turned around, his voice becoming dignified and resonant, filled with unquestionable decisiveness.
“Pass my orders!”
“Reno!”
“Present!”
“You will personally lead the Lionheart Guard's First and Second Companies—a total of one thousand heavy infantry and three hundred elite cavalry—and depart immediately!”
“At maximum speed, advance toward Grayrock Town!”
“Martin, Lilith!”
“Present, my lord.”
“You two will accompany the army on campaign.”
“Martin, I need your True Sight to perceive the reality of those undead for me.”
“Lilith, I need your flames to purify those filthy things along with that barren land!”
“As you command, my Viscount.”
Lilith curtsied with a blooming smile.
“Tell everyone!”
Viscount Simon's voice echoed throughout the hall, filled with righteously false nobility.
“We go to uphold the Empire's glory! To defend noble dignity! And more—to execute the sacred mission Father God has bestowed upon us to purify evil!”
“Any who dare stand in our way—whether undead or… certain pioneer upstarts who don't know their place—will be ground to ashes by Lionheart's fury!”
“For the Viscount!”
Reno struck his breastplate heavily, releasing a heaven-shaking roar.
Thus began a naked invasion under the banner of “justice.”
Viscount Simon harbored not a shred of doubt. He didn't believe any “heretics” in this world could withstand his elite force led by a Grand Knight and two formal mages.
In his eyes, this was merely an armed parade.
A grand ceremony to receive the fruits of victory.
……
Grayrock Town.
Time seemed stretched to its extreme—every minute, every second filled with desperate torment.
That golden light domain activated by the sacred relic had faded from its initial brilliant radiance to something like a candle in the wind, flickering uncertainly.
The range of light had also shrunk from a hundred meters' radius to less than thirty.
Baron Ralph clutched the scalding holy silver badge in his hand. The cracks on the badge had spread like a spiderweb.
He could clearly feel the divine power contained within rapidly draining away.
Beyond the light domain lay a deathly silence.
Marcus and his Silent Apostles stood there quietly, like a flock of patient vultures waiting for their prey to draw its last breath.
Those two massive bone giants had also ceased their agitation, ghostly fires flickering faintly in their eye sockets, as if silently mocking this final struggle.
Within the light domain was another form of hell.
The surviving townspeople and guards were all crammed into this cramped space, every face deathly pale.
Hope had been completely worn away during the long wait.
They knew that when the light vanished, it would be the instant they were torn apart.
A mother holding her child could no longer bear this mental torture and released a broken wail.
This cry acted as a fuse, instantly igniting everyone's fear.
Desperate screams, incoherent prayers, hysterical curses wove together into an apocalyptic symphony.
“Shut up! All of you shut up!!”
Baron Ralph roared like a madman.
“Reinforcements! The Viscount's reinforcements will arrive any moment! We can survive!”
His shouting had no calming effect—instead it resembled the powerless struggle of a drowning man.
Just then.
CRACK……
An extremely faint yet incomparably clear shattering sound rang out from Ralph's hand.
He stiffly lowered his head.
That holy silver badge supporting everyone's hope finally couldn't withstand the power depletion and split down the middle.
Immediately after, like a chain reaction, countless cracks spread outward.
The light domain popped like a soap bubble, flickering violently once before quietly dissipating into dead silence.
The warmth vanished.
In its place came that nauseating, familiar icy breath of death surging like a tide from all directions, instantly enveloping everyone.
Time seemed to freeze at this moment.
All crying and prayer ceased abruptly. They stood there blankly, watching those black figures closing in again, their faces frozen in pure terror.
“My lord says light will eventually fade, and only death is eternal.”
Marcus's hoarse voice, like the Reaper's judgment, shattered this deathly silence.
He gave these “lost lambs” no further chance.
He raised his hand and gently waved it forward.
“Leave none alive.”
“ROAR—!”
The two bone giants, suppressed for so long, released soul-shaking silent roars, ghostly fires in their eye sockets blazing to their limit.
They charged like two out-of-control giant war chariots, one left and one right, into the crowd that had long lost all will to resist.
This wasn't battle.
This was annihilation.
Massive bone claws swung, each strike crushing several people into indistinct flesh.
Giant feet composed of countless bones trampled down—the earth wailed, blood and flesh flew everywhere.
Human bodies, so fragile before them, collapsed more readily than paper.
Piercing screams rang out to the heavens but were quickly drowned by the sounds of shattering bones and pulverized flesh.
And those Silent Apostles moved through the chaotic crowd like efficient butchers, silently wielding curved blades that traced precise and deadly arcs, harvesting those fish trying to escape the net.
Baron Ralph, the instant the light vanished, threw away the badge fragments that had become scrap metal and scrambled desperately to flee through gaps in the crowd.
His obese body erupted with unprecedented potential in this moment, shoving down townspeople blocking his path to use as meat shields for his escape.
However, a shadow appeared silently before him.
It was Marcus.
“Noble Baron, where might you be going?”
Marcus's stitched face squeezed out a smile more ugly than weeping.
“No… don't kill me!!”
Ralph dropped to his knees with a thud, tears and snot streaming, begging incoherently.
“I'm a noble! I'm an Imperial Baron! You can't kill me! I have money! So much money! I'll give it all to you! Please, spare me…”
“Money?”
Marcus tilted his head as if hearing something amusing.
“My lord has no interest in such things.”
“However, your soul… makes an excellent offering.”
“It's filled with fear, greed, and despair—my lord's favorite flavor.”
He extended that hand withered like a chicken claw and grabbed Ralph's throat, easily lifting his obese body like a chicken.
Ralph's feet left the ground as he struggled frantically, his face turning liver-colored from suffocation.
“My lord says death is not an ending, but a form of 'rebirth.'”
Marcus leaned close to his ear, speaking in a chanting tone.
“You should feel honored, Baron.”
“You will become the first 'Saint' of my lord's divine kingdom.”
Before he finished speaking, his other hand drew from his robes a pitch-black dagger covered in eerie runes and without hesitation plunged it deep into Ralph's heart.
“Urk…”
Ralph's body jerked violently, all struggle ceasing.
The light in his eyes rapidly dimmed as life receded like an ebbing tide, swiftly leaving him.
But this was only the beginning.
As that runed dagger pierced in, a visible thick gray-black mist spread from the blade like a living Viper, madly drilling into Ralph's corpse.
His body began convulsing and deforming in an extremely eerie manner.
His skin rapidly became pale and shriveled, muscles atrophied, eye sockets sunken.
Seconds later, Marcus released his grip.
That “corpse” didn't fall.
It stood there stiffly, slowly raising its head.
In those eyes that had lost all vitality, two pinpoint spots of evil crimson light suddenly blazed!
It moved its stiff neck, producing grinding sounds of bone, then slowly and respectfully knelt on one knee before Marcus.
The slaughter continued.
And in Grayrock Town's center, an even more evil, more blasphemous “conversion” ceremony had already begun.
Those Silent Apostles dragged corpses not yet completely cold to the town square's center and under Marcus's direction began using these “fresh materials” to construct an altar composed entirely of flesh and bone for the evil god.
Grayrock Town was transforming from a town of the living into a “divine kingdom” of the dead.
……
Three days later.
Lionheart City's army finally reached the area where Blackrock Town stood.
A force of thirteen hundred troops advanced slowly across the wasteland like a river of steel.
Military formation neat, banners flying, three hundred heavy cavalry guarding both flanks, radiating cold and powerful oppression.
Knight Commander Reno rode a magnificent armored warhorse at the army's forefront.
He frowned, smelling the increasingly thick stench of blood and rot in the air, an ominous premonition rising in his heart.
Too quiet.
Since entering Grayrock Town's territorial range, they hadn't encountered any living thing.
No fleeing townspeople, no patrolling guards—even the carrion birds and beasts common to the wasteland had vanished without trace.
The entire land was shrouded in deathly silence.
When Grayrock Town's broken outline appeared on the horizon, even a battle-hardened knight like Reno couldn't help but draw a sharp breath.
It could no longer be called a town.
It was a tomb.
The massive gate gap gaped like a vicious scar, a black void.
On the walls, not a single guard could be seen—only an enormous black flag painted with a white skull fluttering silently in the wind, as if issuing silent mockery.
“All forces halt! Battle stations!”
Reno sharply raised his right hand, his voice hoarse with shock.
The army stopped. All soldiers stared in horror at this city of death before them, their faces written with unease and fear.
“Master Martin, Master Lilith!”
Reno turned back to look at the two mages under heavy protection in the formation's center.
“This…”
Gray-robed mage Martin had already descended from his carriage. His murky eyes stared fixedly at the distant town, the crystal atop his dead wood staff emitting faint light.
“Such… such concentrated death energy.”
His voice trembled for the first time.
“The entire town has been converted into a massive undead domain.”
“Every dead person here has likely… already been transformed into undead.”
“Transformed?”
Lilith had also put away her usual seductive smile, her alluring face filled with gravity.
“You mean we're too late?”
“Not just late.”
Martin's expression became extremely ugly.
“We… we may have intruded into a nest of death.”
Just then, a figure slowly emerged from Blackrock Town's black void of a gate.
It was Marcus.
He still wore that black robe but had removed his hood, revealing that horrifying stitched face.
He wasn't alone.
Behind him followed row upon row of “corpse walkers” wielding rusted weapons, crimson flames burning in their eye sockets.
Those corpse walkers still wore the tattered armor of Grayrock Town guards.
And among these corpse walkers, one wearing luxurious silk clothing now unrecognizable beneath blood and mud stood out particularly.
It was the converted Baron Ralph.
Marcus stood before the gate, looking at this imposing iron army before him. Not only did his face show no fear—instead it displayed a cruel and fanatical smile.
He spread his arms as if welcoming guests from afar.
“Welcome to my lord's divine kingdom, mortals.”
His voice, hoarse and grating, nevertheless carried clearly to every Lionheart Guard soldier's ears.
“Your flesh and souls will become this divine kingdom's most magnificent decoration.”