Chapter 48 : Chapter 48
Chapter 48: Each Side's Movements
The blood-red remnant sun was finally swallowed completely by the horizon.
Night, like a boundless black tide, drowned the Wailing Wastes.
Inside the lord's manor of the City of Miracles, flames in the hearth burned vigorously, casting Caesar's shadow onto the wall behind him, stretching it into a silent, distorted giant.
Anneliya was at a long table to one side, meticulously checking today's supply consumption list by lamplight.
Her profile was focused and serene, her golden hair glowing with a soft halo in the firelight, adding the only touch of warmth to this cold, hard stone chamber.
Everything seemed orderly and full of hope.
Suddenly, a rush of chaotic wingbeats shattered this tranquility.
A carrier pigeon covered in wounds, like a hurled stone, crashed hard against the study window with a dull “BANG,” then slid powerlessly onto the windowsill.
On one of its leg bands was tied a thin bamboo tube.
Anneliya jumped in fright, the quill in her hand falling onto the parchment, spreading a small blot of ink.
Caesar's gaze instantly shifted from the dancing flames.
He strode to the window in one step, carefully opened it, untied the bamboo tube from the pigeon's leg, and pulled out the paper inside.
On it were only a few lines of messy characters written with a charcoal stick.
【Lionheart Army, routed. Deaths exceed one thousand, barely one in ten survives.】
【Enemy is undead, not resistible by mortal strength. Their leader can absorb souls for power, cannot be killed completely, the dead all become their slaves.】
【Knight Commander Reno gravely wounded, afflicted by death curse. Mage fled in defeat.】
【Blackrock Town has become a death ground, an undead nest. Repeat, undead nest!】
Caesar's breathing stopped the moment he saw the first line.
When he finished reading the last line, the final trace of warmth vanished from those deep purple eyes, leaving only an abyss-like darkness.
The parchment in his hand crinkled as his fingers unconsciously tightened.
Thirteen hundred elite troops.
One Grand Knight.
Two official mages.
This kind of force was enough to walk sideways through most of the Eastern Reaches, even capable of delivering a devastating blow to an unprepared count's territory.
Yet such an army, before that stitched-face monster called Marcus, hadn't even lasted a day before being routed.
“Barely one in ten…”
Caesar murmured in a low voice devoid of any emotion, yet the entire room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Anneliya couldn't help but hug her arms, watching Caesar in terror, not understanding what could be written on that small slip of paper that would make this lord—who always remained composed even if mountains collapsed before him—emit such a terrifying aura.
Caesar's mind erupted like towering waves.
The scout's description was simple yet lethal.
“Their leader can absorb souls for power, cannot be killed completely, the dead all become their slaves.”
What a horrifying ability this was!
This meant conventional warfare was completely ineffective against them.
Any casualties would only become nourishment for the enemy to grow stronger.
That stitched-face called Marcus, who could so easily defeat a Grand Knight and afflict him with a death curse that even a gray-robed mage was helpless against, must possess at least Magister-level power!
A Magister specializing in the death school!
Such beings were rare as phoenix feathers and qilin horns throughout the entire Empire, forbidden existences that could make entire duchies tremble.
Then…
What about that woman?
That silver-haired woman who called herself a saint, named Elizabeth.
She was the true authority holder of the Church of White Bone.
To command the devoted obedience of a Magister, to make them willingly serve—what terrifying level of power must she herself possess?
Star Wizard?
Perhaps… even higher?
An almost unimaginable thought, like the most venomous Viper, coiled around Caesar's heart, making him feel suffocating pressure for the first time.
Such monsters, such a terrifying force capable of overturning an entire province—why?
Why did they come seeking him?
When the City of Miracles was still just a fledgling form, that woman had appeared with her followers beneath his city walls, all courtesy and politeness.
She had politely extended an invitation to him.
She had politely displayed that “gospel” which blasphemed life and toyed with death.
After he ruthlessly refused her, she hadn't shown the slightest anger, only leaving behind the words “we are willing to wait.”
At the time, Caesar thought it was a threat, a form of surveillance.
Looking back now, it seemed more like… a playful declaration from a higher dimension, one that had seen through everything.
As if a deity, watching an ant about to be drowned by a flood, calmly told it: you will need me.
What had they… or rather, what had the “Lord of White Bone” behind them discovered?
His identity as a transmigrator?
The Supreme Lord System in his mind?
Caesar fell into prolonged silence.
He stood by the window, motionless, like a cold statue.
Outside the window, the night was thick as ink, as if countless invisible eyes were peering from the darkness at this city with its feeble lights, peering at him.
All this time, he had thought his greatest enemies were his father and brother far away in Valerius Fortress, were those greedy and shortsighted neighboring nobles.
All his plans, all his arrangements, had been developed around how to counter these “mortal” threats.
But now, a truly over-spec “natural disaster” was entrenched right beside his bed.
Compared to this threat, the likes of Baron Ralph were like a pack of laughable insects scurrying about.
Viscount Simon's so-called elite force was merely a larger meal being delivered to the door.
“My lord…”
Anneliya finally mustered her courage, speaking in a trembling voice.
“What… happened?”
Caesar slowly turned around, all emotion vanished from his deep purple eyes, leaving only absolute rationality.
“Anna.”
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
“Relay my orders. Starting tomorrow, all supplies within the city will be under Level Three wartime control.”
“Everyone's food rations will be reduced by thirty percent, with the saved portions entirely invested into the military workshops.”
“Additionally, notify Barrett to select all qualified able-bodied men from the newly recruited refugees and form reserve forces.”
“No upper limit. Recruit as many as possible.”
“Finally, summon Roland.”
Anneliya's face went deathly pale.
Level Three wartime control? This was the highest-level martial law, only invoked when facing a crisis of national extinction.
She opened her mouth, wanting to ask why, but when she met Caesar's unquestionable gaze, all words stuck in her throat.
She could only lower her head, responding in a slightly trembling voice.
“Yes… my lord.”
She quickly withdrew, her footsteps carrying a trace of panic.
Soon, Roland's towering figure appeared in the doorway.
The old Knight seemed to have sensed something from Anneliya's expression, his face bearing the steadiness and solemnity of a mountain.
“My lord.”
Caesar didn't speak, only repeating the scout's intelligence report in the most concise language.
Roland listened quietly, his hand gripping his sword hilt tightening inch by inch, his knuckles going white from the pressure.
When he heard “the dead all become their slaves,” that weather-beaten face showed incredulous shock for the first time.
“This… this is black magic that blasphemes the gods… this is the undead calamity recorded in ancient texts…”
The old Knight's voice was hoarse and dry.
“I thought those were just legends…”
“Now the legend is right at our doorstep.”
Caesar coldly interrupted him.
“And it just devoured thirteen hundred elite soldiers.”
Roland fell silent.
As a Grand Knight, he understood better than anyone what this meant.
“My lord, do you mean…”
“Expand the army.”
Caesar uttered two words, decisive and unwavering.
“We're now like people trapped on an island.”
“On one side is an undead tsunami about to devour everything.”
“On the other side is a noble fleet waiting to watch us fail, perhaps even kick us when we're down.”
“We can rely on no one.”
“The only thing we can do is, before the tsunami drowns us, turn this island into an impregnable fortress at sea!”
Caesar's eyes flashed with an almost maniacal, obsessive light.
“Roland, I need you to drill those green recruits into shape as fast as possible!”
“I don't care what methods you use—whips or blood—I want them to become soldiers capable of taking the battlefield in the shortest time possible!”
“And myself.”
Caesar's voice dropped even lower, carrying an unquestionable resolve.
“From today onward, except for necessary orders, don't disturb me for anything.”
“I'm going into closed-door training. Before the next crisis arrives, I must break through, I must possess the power to directly confront those monsters!”
Earth Knight!
Only by advancing to Earth Knight would his dragonkin bloodline awaken further, would his Battle Energy reserves and recovery speed undergo a qualitative transformation, would he truly possess the trump card to protect himself and this city in the coming Tempest of death!
Roland looked at this young lord, seeing in those deep purple eyes not fear, not retreat, but the fighting spirit and ambition that erupted when one was forced into a corner.
The old Knight's heart, at this moment, inexplicably settled.
He solemnly knelt on one knee, right hand over his chest.
“Your will is my path.”
“Until… eternity.”
……
News had legs.
Especially in a place like the Wailing Wastes, information-starved yet filled with agents from all sides.
The terrifying news of Lionheart City's army being completely annihilated and Grayrock Town becoming an undead nest spread like a cold wind carrying plague and death, sweeping across every corner of the wasteland's edge within just a few days.
Those bandit camps and wanderer settlements scattered throughout the wastes, surviving through raiding or desperate struggles, completely exploded into chaos.
On the western side of the wastes, in a bandit camp called War Axe.
Bandit chief Griz, a man with a face full of scars and a build as massive as a bear, kicked over the campfire before him. Sparks scattered, making the surrounding lackeys yelp and scramble back.
“All of you shut the fuck up!”
Griz's eyes were bloodshot, filled with violence and fear.
“What's with the crying? I'm not dead yet!”
A man missing an arm—someone who had barely escaped from the direction of Grayrock Town a few days ago—spoke in a trembling voice.
“Boss… those aren't human… they're things that crawled out of hell!”
“Blades don't make them bleed, heads fall off and they keep running! How… how do we fight them?”
“Fight them? Like hell!”
Griz grabbed a barrel of ale beside him and took a huge gulp, the liquid running down his messy beard.
“I'd rather lick the boots of noble lords than die and turn into that kind of ghostly thing, to be used like a dog by some stitched-face monster!”
He slammed the barrel down, producing a loud “BANG.”
“Pass my order! Everyone, pack up immediately! We're not staying in this cursed place anymore!”
“Boss, where do we go?”
“East!”
Griz pointed toward the plains, a flash of resolve in his eyes.
“To Imperial territory! Sure, there's Viscount Simon's patrol squads, other nobles' spies, even the damned Holy Church's inquisitors! But at least that's living people's domain!”
“We used to be bandits, robbing passing caravans.”
“Now we'll go serve those noble lords who need cannon fodder! We'll be their mercenaries, their dogs! Better than turning into walking corpses who don't even know who the fuck they are!”
Griz's decision was supported by most in the camp.
Unknown terrors beyond comprehension were far more despairing than known dangers one could fight.
So in the following days, a strange phenomenon appeared across the wastes.
Many bandit forces like War Axe, who had been entrenched in the wastes for years or even decades, began mass migrations.
They abandoned their carefully built nests and fled eastward toward Imperial territory like startled beast herds, willing to face those noble forces they had once considered mortal enemies.
However, not everyone thought this way.
At a wanderer camp less than fifty miles from the City of Miracles, the atmosphere was equally tense.
The members here were mostly farmers who couldn't survive, wanted fugitives, and pitiful souls who had lost everything in the wastes.
They lacked the martial strength of bandit gangs; for them, migration itself was a path to death.
By the camp's fire, a white-haired elder whose face was carved with wrinkles handed a piece of charred, unidentifiable dried meat to a thin, sallow-faced little girl beside him.
Listening to the terrified discussions around him, his cloudy eyes flickered with an unusual light.
“Grandpa… will those monsters eat us too?”
The little girl asked timidly, her voice barely audible.
The old man stroked his granddaughter's dry hair and slowly shook his head.
He stood up, walked to the center of the camp, and used his hoarse voice to silence everyone's noise.
“Listen to me, everyone.”
All eyes gathered on this oldest and most respected elder in the camp.
“I know what you're all afraid of.”
“Those things that crawled out of hell are indeed terrifying.”
“Going east, to the plains, might be one path.”
“But don't forget—what are we?”
“We're refugees! In those noble lords' eyes, we're worse than stray dogs on the roadside!”
“Will they accept us? No!”
“They'll just arrest us, throw us into mine pits, or hang us by the roadside, calling us bandits!”
The old man's words made everyone fall silent.
This was the bloody reality.
“But.”
The old man's tone shifted, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes.
“Going west, there's another path.”
He pointed toward the direction of the City of Miracles.
“Have you all forgotten?”
“A few months ago, that lord named Caesar sent people to recruit refugees.”
“I heard from people who escaped from Blackrock Town that there, as long as you're willing to work, you can eat your fill!”
“You can live in houses made of stone! Perform well, and you might even get weapons and become guards!”
“Some time ago, when the Bloody Hand bastards tried to capture people, what happened?”
“That Lord Caesar didn't say a word, took his army, and killed the Bloody Hand's Butcher along with his fifty-some followers—every single one!”
“Their heads are still hanging at Blackrock Town's entrance!”
“Now even more terrifying monsters have come.”
“Tell me, will that Lord Caesar who dared kill the Bloody Hand, who dared offend a baron—will he be afraid? Will he run?”
The old man answered his own question.
“I bet he won't!”
“That city is his foundation! If he runs, he'll have nothing left! He'll definitely fight those monsters to the bitter end!”
The old man's voice grew more passionate as he looked around at everyone, his eyes flashing with a gambler's madness.
“Yes, going to him is dangerous! Maybe tomorrow that city will be overrun by undead and we'll all die!”
“But staying here, we'll die sooner or later anyway! Going east is a brush with death!”
“Going to the City of Miracles, at least we still have a thread of survival!”
“At least we'll die standing like men with weapons in our hands!”
“Not like dogs, trampled to death randomly by those noble lords or undead monsters on the road while fleeing!”
“I'm old, I've lived enough.”
“But my granddaughter is young! I want to give her a chance to see a different tomorrow!”
Having spoken, the old man said no more, simply packing up his pitiful possessions, taking his little granddaughter's hand, and resolutely taking the first step westward toward that city rumored to have created miracles.
The camp fell deathly silent.
Then a mother holding a child bit her lip and followed.
Then a third person, a fourth…
More and more people joined this procession.
They were a group of gamblers forced into a corner, placing their own lives and their families' lives entirely on the option named “Caesar” on death's roulette wheel.
They didn't know that this desperate, helpless choice would inject an enormous and precious… new force into that City of Miracles which had just entered wartime readiness.