Chapter 49 : Chapter 49
Chapter 49: Army at the Gates, Betting Everything!
That black wall symbolizing hope finally transformed from a vague silhouette on the horizon into a towering reality.
Among the crowd, an old man named Elson gripped his granddaughter Lily's hand tightly, mixed in with the rest.
His cloudy old eyes stared fixedly at that wall, his throat bobbing up and down, but he couldn't speak a single word.
Too big.
What the fuck kind of wall was this? This was clearly a black mountain range, a wonder that giants from mythology had built in a single night.
When he was young, he'd traveled with a merchant caravan to a count's capital, and that wall had already seemed insurmountably high to him.
But compared to the one before his eyes, that was just a child's sandcastle.
The wall was estimated to exceed five meters in height, with a tall wooden watchtower atop it every fifty paces.
Soldiers clad in black armor stood atop each tower.
“Grandpa… can we… can we really get in?”
His granddaughter Lily's small hand clutched his tightly, her little face deathly pale.
The gazes of those soldiers on the wall made her skin crawl.
Elson said nothing, only tucking his little granddaughter further behind him and quickening his pace with gritted teeth.
The crowd packed together like a reeking can of sardines, blocked beneath the massive city gate.
“CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!”
Three heavy shield strikes, and a squad of Black Dragon Guard soldiers formed a wall of steel with their halberds and tower shields, forcibly pushing back the several thousand people.
The few at the very front who had been pushing hardest were struck by the shields until blood spurted from their mouths and noses, falling to the ground with screams, then trampled into silence by those behind them.
The chaotic crowd instantly quieted.
Barrett stood like a man-eating beast on a hastily erected wooden platform.
His one eye was filled with fierce light as it swept over the fearful faces below.
“All of you shut the fuck up! Get in line!”
Barrett's voice was like a whip tempered with iron filings, lashing at everyone's ears.
“If you want to live, then follow the fuck rules! Otherwise the wild dogs outside the city will be eating well today!”
Behind him, those black-armored soldiers were silent as mutes, but the tightly gripped halberds in their hands and the fist-sized iron hammers hanging at their waists were more effective than any words.
The crowd that had been trying to push forward scrambled backward in terror, beginning to unconsciously form crooked, uneven lines.
“Men! Those who can fight, who can work, stand on the left! Cripples and blind bastards go to the right!”
“Those with skills—blacksmiths, carpenters, stonemasons—stand in the middle!”
“Don't try to fool me! If you delay the lord's business, I'll twist your heads off and use them as chamber pots!”
“Women, brats, and you old bastards who gasp three times with every step—stand on the right!”
Barrett's orders were simple and brutal, yet terrifyingly efficient.
The crowd was rapidly sorted.
Elson was assigned to the “elderly, weak, sick, and disabled” line on the right.
He gripped Lily tightly, watching as the strong, able-bodied men on the left were led away by another squad of soldiers, his heart sinking.
It's over. They're picking soldiers, and the rest will be discarded?
However, that didn't happen.
When his turn came, a clerk in charge of registration merely glanced up at them, briefly asked their names and origins, then stamped a small wooden seal on their wrists.
“Take this and go over there to get food. Then someone will take you to the shacks.”
The clerk didn't even lift his head, his tone cold as ice, but Elson's heart, which had been lodged in his throat, finally dropped back down.
They… had been accepted.
When a steaming bowl of thick soup floating with small chunks of meat and sweet potato was thrust into his hands, the few tears Elson hadn't shed in his entire life could no longer be held back, rolling down along the wrinkles on his face.
There was really meat in it!
Lily had already forgotten what meat tasted like. She buried her little face in the wooden bowl that was bigger than her head, wolfing it down ravenously, the steam making her face flushed red, her mouth corners covered with grease.
In those large eyes, for the first time, there was a light that didn't belong to fear or hunger.
Elson didn't touch his own bowl, only watching his granddaughter, his shriveled lips splitting open in a smile uglier than crying.
He knew—this gamble, he'd won.
On this wasteland ruled by the Reaper, this city was the only place still cooking meals for people.
……
High on the city wall, Caesar and Anneliya stood side by side.
The cold wind tousled his deep black hair and made Anneliya's golden hair ripple like waves.
“My lord, in three days, over four thousand people have flooded in.”
Anneliya's voice carried barely suppressed anxiety.
“Our total population has exceeded six thousand.”
“The rate of food consumption is three times faster than my worst estimate!”
“And… with so many people crammed into the temporary shantytown, if an epidemic breaks out…”
A city of six thousand people—the management and logistical pressure increased exponentially.
“Epidemic?”
Caesar's voice was like a cold northern wind, devoid of any warmth.
“Roland will manage them with military law.”
“Those who don't maintain hygiene get whipped the first time. The second time, they get thrown directly outside the city walls to show the newcomers what rules mean.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the refugees below who were moved to tears by a bowl of meat soup, his eyes containing no pity, only cold calculation.
“They're not here to eat for free.”
“Anna, every single one who can still breathe is a resource.”
“You and Barrett handle it.”
“From this group, screen out two thousand of the strongest, most ruthless men who have no parents or attachments.”
“Tell them—join the Black Dragon Guard, get meat at every meal, and receive one silver coin in military pay or fifty work points each month.”
“If they die, their families get ten silver coins in compensation.”
“Those without families—that money goes toward buying their coffin.”
“The Black Dragon Guard must expand to two thousand men.”
“That's the bottom line.”
Anneliya's heart skipped a beat.
A standing army of two thousand! That was already a count's core military strength! What the hell was Caesar trying to do? Did he want to become king?
“The rest will all be organized into labor camps.”
“Men go quarrying and logging. Raise and thicken the walls for me, build new barracks.”
“Women go to logistics—sew clothes, cure meat, process grain.”
Caesar's speech was extremely rapid, orders pouring from his mouth.
“I want every part of this city moving! Before the real avalanche comes, we have no time to waste!”
Anneliya looked at Caesar's handsome yet ruthless profile, feeling a chill in her heart.
In his eyes, these people really were just strings of numbers to be utilized.
But she had to admit, in this godforsaken hellhole that felt like the end of the world, perhaps only this kind of extreme ruthlessness could carve out a path to survival for everyone.
She lowered her head, replying softly.
“Yes, my lord. I'll handle it immediately.”
Caesar said nothing more.
His gaze crossed over this city that was rapidly expanding like a rising loaf of bread, projecting toward the distant east.
Lionheart City.
……
At the same time, Lionheart City.
The viscount's castle was currently silent as a tomb.
In the council hall, the atmosphere was so oppressive it could wring out water.
Viscount Simon sat in the gilded high-backed chair at the head position, his face iron-gray.
His well-maintained hands had actually deformed the jeweled armrest from excessive force.
He stared fixedly at the several people kneeling below, his gaze as if he wanted to devour them alive.
Knight Commander Reno knelt on one knee at the very front.
His right arm, cursed by the undead, had completely turned into charcoal, with several flies buzzing ignorantly around it, emitting a sweet, putrid stench.
Fire mage Lilith and gray-robed mage Martin cowered on either side like defeated roosters, their faces deathly pale.
In the hall sat several nobles with various expressions.
Baron Croft under Simon's command was fat as a pig fresh from the pen, constantly wiping the greasy sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
Another, Baron Fitzwilliam, was thin as a bamboo pole, his eyes darting about, calculating something.
In the upper seat sat a distinguished middle-aged nobleman—Viscount Armand.
He was Simon's neighbor and also his competitor.
Called here today, his face clearly read “I came to watch your disgrace.”
“Simon.”
Viscount Armand swirled the wine glass in his hand, the mockery in his tone undisguised.
“You called us all here just to let us admire your knight commander's… uniquely styled arm? The aesthetic is quite distinctive, I must say.”
Viscount Simon's face twitched violently.
He took a deep breath, practically squeezing the words through his teeth.
“Reno, tell every lord present what you saw. Don't leave out a single word!”
“Yes, my lord.”
Reno's voice was hoarse as a broken bellows.
He began his account, starting from that dead city of Grayrock Town.
He spoke of Baron Ralph transformed into a corpse walker, of the unkillable, uncuttable undead army.
When he described how arrow volleys were useless, how thrusting swords into them was like stabbing cotton, Baron Croft's fat began to tremble.
When he described that stitched-face monster called Marcus who could devour souls and transform freshly killed soldiers into his puppets, even Viscount Armand, who had been watching the show, unconsciously straightened in his seat, the mockery fading from his face.
“…Master Lilith's dragon breath fire did clear a large area.”
“But that wasn't killing enemies—that was feeding it! That monster sucked all the souls dry in one gulp and became even stronger!”
Reno's voice carried a sobbing quality.
Lilith's body shook violently, and she buried her head even lower.
“Then came the corpse explosion… Baron Ralph's body was detonated.”
“My infantry formation… like a rotten watermelon, split open from the middle… and then, everything was finished.”
“My cavalry were dragged alive from their horses by those fearless monsters… torn apart… I personally witnessed my deputy commander being eaten alive by three corpse walkers, shared between them…”
Reno closed his eyes, tears and snot mixing together.
“Finally, I was hit by that monster's curse.”
He raised that charcoal-like right arm.
“Master Martin said this is Withering Touch. Only a cardinal archbishop from the Church, using the highest-tier divine magic, might possibly purify it.”
In the hall, a deathly silence.
Only Baron Croft's heavy breathing, like a pig awaiting slaughter.
“What about… those two bone giants?”
Baron Fitzwilliam asked in a shrill voice. His territory was closest to Grayrock Town, and he was nearly frightened to death.
Lilith jerked her head up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, shrieking.
“I drained my staff's core completely to shatter the skull of one! The other… the other one looked at me. It was smiling!”
After speaking, she clutched her head, muttering to herself as if mad.
All eyes fell back on Viscount Simon.
“Armand.”
Simon looked toward his neighbor, his voice carrying a pleading tone.
“You have two thousand elite soldiers and a powerful combat mage.”
“If we join forces…”
“Join forces?”
Viscount Armand sneered coldly and stood up.
“Join forces to die alongside you? Simon, are you lard-brained or scared stupid?”
He walked to the center of the hall, his face dark enough to drip water.
“This isn't warfare! This is suicide!”
“You send a thousand men, it's feeding them. We join forces and send five thousand, it's still feeding them! Just making that monster fatter and giving him more undead servants!”
“Hasn't your knight commander made it clear enough? Unkillable! Uncuttable! They die and get back up to hack at you! What is that? That's an undead scourge! Forbidden black magic! This isn't something you can solve by throwing bodies at it!”
Armand's words were like a bucket of ice water, chilling everyone to the bone.
“Then what do we do?”
Baron Fitzwilliam nearly cried.
“Just watch as that cursed place grows day by day until it swallows us all?”
“Of course we can't wait for death.”
Gray-robed mage Martin, who had remained silent, finally spoke.
His voice was weak, yet it silenced everyone.
“What can counter death is only life. What can counter blasphemy is only the sacred.”
Martin's gaze swept over everyone present as he slowly spoke.
“This matter has already exceeded what we secular nobles can handle.”
“Our armies, before that level of necromancy, are just lambs awaiting slaughter.”
“Looking across the border regions of the Eastern Reaches, only two places can handle this.”
“One is our liege lord, the Eastern Reaches Sword Saint, Count Tiberius.”
“His Falcon Knight Order might be able to conduct an aerial decapitation strike on that undead mage. But the risk is too great.”
“And the other, the only one that can truly solve the problem from the root…”
A trace of awe flashed in Martin's eyes.
“Is the Church of Light.”
“Only the Church's holy light, only those combat priests and Temple Knights, can truly purify those undead.”
“Lord Reno's curse can only be lifted by them as well.”
The hall once again fell into silence.
Requesting aid from the count meant admitting incompetence, offering one's face for a superior to slap.
Requesting the Church of Light? Those vultures were greedier than the undead!
Once they came, under the banner of “purifying evil,” who would own this land afterward became questionable.
Viscount Simon looked at his two terrified vassals, then glanced at Armand with his “clean up your own mess” expression, and finally, his gaze fell on Reno's arm, which was beginning to drip black pus.
A bone-chilling coldness shot from his tailbone straight to the crown of his head.
He knew he had no choice.
Compared to his life, dignity was worth nothing.
After a long while, Viscount Simon collapsed into his chair as if all his strength had been drained.
He waved his hand, his voice hollow as a ghost's.
“Martin, you write it.”
“In my name, present the most urgent battle report to Count Tiberius.”
“Everything we know, exactly as it is, report it all.”
“And… attach my most humble request…”
Simon closed his eyes, using a voice barely audible to speak the final sentence.
“Request that Count Tiberius… contact the Church of Light… dispatch the Inquisition… to purify this… cursed land.”
As his words fell, all the nobles present breathed a sigh of relief.
But immediately after, a deeper shadow descended over everyone's hearts.
They knew that from this moment on, for the game board called the Wailing Wastes, these small viscounts and barons had completely lost the qualification to play.
The true major players were about to enter the stage.