Chapter 402: The Walking Dead

The lord’s order to “cleanse” had spread like wildfire among the soldiers of Cecil’s army. The pursuit had entered a near-mechanical phase—at least for the Cecil Combat Legion.

Every day, scouts at the front and spies embedded within the noble coalition fed the latest intelligence to the legion’s commanders. Even without these reports, the disorganized noble forces, in their frantic flight, could hardly conceal their movements. Cecil’s troops kept the massive enemy force locked at a steady distance—not too close, not too far. Whenever the nobles halted, artillery fire would rain down immediately. There was no proper food, no real sleep, barely even a moment to rest. This relentless chase was a test of willpower for both sides, but it was clear the nobles were suffering far more.

Cecil’s soldiers had shifts to rest, and the momentum of victory fueled their drive forward. Along the way, they destroyed garrisons in noble territories, securing enough supplies to keep going. With the homeland safe, reinforcements arrived from the lord’s domain, easing the pressure on the pursuing forces.

The noble coalition, by contrast, was being pushed to the brink.

In truth, they had long since reached their limit. For these noble mercenaries—who lacked any real cohesion or discipline—when the heavy magic crystal shells obliterated their vanguard, and even the nobles, knights, and mages with extraordinary powers fell like common foot soldiers, most of the rank-and-file lost all will to fight.

The reason they still fled was twofold. One, the knights and nobles tried to maintain a shred of dignity. Cecil’s “Heavenfire Explosions” were terrifying, but the presence of powerful supernaturals nearby was an even greater deterrent to ordinary soldiers. The long-standing aura of authority these “upper-class” figures wielded was deeply ingrained in the minds of serfs, mercenaries, and conscripts, barely holding the ragged force together.

The other reason was the propaganda spread before the war by Count Hosman, and the rumors still whispered among the scattered remnants. Many believed the Cecilians rose through dark sorcery and blasphemy, that falling into their hands meant a fate worse than death. Their lands were said to be riddled with lies, sin, desecration, and madness. Such baseless rumors might have been dismissed by the rational, but among the superstitious and ignorant mercenaries, they took root deeply. Coupled with Cecil’s relentless pursuit and overwhelming force, these prejudices kept the fractured noble mercenaries clinging on—against all odds.

But no matter how long they held out, their strength and will were finally breaking.

A cold night wind swept across the plains, carrying the faint sweetness of spring bells. Bartel, a knight from Krittland, sat in a cold earth pit with two fellow knights and nine attendants, silently counting the hours. Around them were a few dozen scattered men—mercenaries, archers, laborers, and serfs from Krittland.

These were all who had survived the flight from Krittland. Their lord was dead. Over a hundred brothers and sisters had been lost along the way. Even they themselves had lost contact with the main force before nightfall. In the darkness, no one dared light a fire to search for comrades, nor call out to other noble units that might be nearby. The few who had managed to regroup huddled silently in the cold night, waiting for a tomorrow that might never come.

No one spoke. Even as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, no one lifted their heads to look. Bartel stared down at the ground, bloodshot eyes heavy with exhaustion and hunger, unwilling to say a word or make a move.

He hadn’t slept for days—none of them had. Even the supernaturals were nearing their limits; the ordinary men were barely holding on. Bartel just wanted to lie down, to sleep, to return to his warm manor, drink a hot cup of ginger wine, and rest for days. But he knew that was impossible. Just yesterday, his unit had passed by that very manor, only to be driven out by a sudden barrage of falling shells.

Bartel reached into his coat and silently pulled out his last food: a small, coarse piece of black bread that felt like wood. Around him, others produced their last scraps—small cakes, dried cheese, bread slices, or nothing at all.

These were not rations but stolen provisions taken from farms and villages along the way. Most times, they didn’t even get the chance to snatch a bite—the Cecilians drove them relentlessly across the barren wilderness, like wolves herding sheep.

No fires were lit; no cooking pots boiled. Smoke would draw the “Heavenfire” down upon them. This was one of the few hard-earned lessons from their flight. The small group brought the meager food to their lips and began to eat silently before the first rays of sunlight touched their faces. Bartel bit into the bitter bread with a force he never would have mustered before, his bloodshot eyes heavy with fatigue.

He wanted to sleep—no matter the cost. He just wanted to eat, then lie down, and have nothing, nothing disturb him.

A sharp whistle pierced the distance, slicing through the air from high above.

That piercing sound was the language of demons—death, disaster, curses upon the gods. At its first note, Bartel felt every pore on his body instinctively tighten. But just as his muscles were about to jerk him upright, another, stronger, more irrational force stopped him.

He didn’t want to get up. He just wanted to rest. To hell with life and dignity! He refused to rise!

His eyes bloodshot, Bartel ground his teeth and stared at the ground. Around him, his two knight companions, nine attendants, and dozens of mercenaries trembled briefly, then remained rooted in place.

No one stood. Only a few pairs of numb eyes lifted, lifelessly scanning the surroundings.

The shrill whistle cut through the sky again, followed by a terrifying explosion in the distance. The ground beneath them trembled slightly from the blast—power enough to lay even high-ranking knights and mages dead in their tracks. Bartel listened to the not-so-distant explosion, silently raised the food to his mouth, and bit down.

His companions did the same. After a brief hesitation, they resumed eating.

A second whistle screamed overhead, and moments later, a second explosion thundered across the land.

The shockwave and his own weakness caused Bartel to drop the hard bread onto the dirt. He stared blankly at the soiled piece, expressionless, then reached down to pick it up and continued chewing it like wood, biting fiercely.

A third whistle sounded—this time, the explosion seemed closer.

Even if the “Heavenfire” fell right above them, he wouldn’t rise! Neither would they!

They tore at their last bread and cakes. The spirit of sharing even stirred in some minds—those with food divided it in two, feeding their famished neighbors. Amid the deafening roar of the blasts, the knights from Krittland and their soldiers ate their final scraps in silence, until the explosions faded and the acrid scent of magic dissipated.

Then they sat quietly among the pits and stones, doing nothing, thinking nothing.

When a Cecil “recovery squad” found them, the squad’s captain was stunned.

Several noble knights and dozens of mercenaries sat just a few hundred meters from the last shelling. Half were already asleep; the few awake wore numb expressions as they watched the Cecil soldiers appear. Their eyes, like those of the dead, left a deep impression on the captain. Years later, he described the scene:

“…Once they crossed that limit, their will was utterly broken. They moved across the plains like walking corpses. When their strength ran out, they just stopped, sitting wherever they were. Our shells landed nearby, and they didn’t flinch. They ate their last food, then just waited. Surrender? No—they weren’t thinking about surrender. They were just… there. When we arrived, they cooperated, throwing down their weapons. Their only request was to sleep… It seemed that if we let them rest peacefully for a while, they’d do anything.”

Eight days after the Battle of Shattered Stone Ridge, the fleeing noble coalition began surrendering en masse—or rather, simply stopping and quietly waiting to be “recruited” by Cecil’s forces.

Knights Philip and Walder Perich witnessed the most incredible sight of their military careers: utterly broken men wandering the plains like the walking dead. Capturing prisoners required no fighting—just a few shots at their feet or a thrown crystal grenade at a distance.

They would stop on their own. Given a rope, they might even bind their own hands.

Ten days after the battle, the Cecil Combat Legion entered the western region of the southern territories. Through a series of maneuvers, they curved around Carol-Consk, continuing their relentless pursuit of the Hosman domain. That afternoon, Knight Byron led a thousand reinforcements and a large supply convoy from Cecil’s homeland to join Philip’s forces.

(End of chapter)