Chapter 8: The Theocracy
On the other side, the migration team from Bone Village stretched like a weary snake across the wasteland.
Wagon wheels groaned on the parched earth, each turn wearing down the will of the survivors.
"Chief, the soles of my feet are about to wear through. How much further is it?"
A young wife held her aching waist; she hadn't slept properly in three days.
The old Village Chief at the front of the line showed no sign of fatigue on his weathered face.
He looked back at the long procession and loudly encouraged the villagers.
"Soon! Just walk for another two days, and we'll see the walls of Iron Fortress!"
His words seemed to hold a power that injected a sliver of vitality back into the listless group.
"But... only half the village came. Will the Lord of Iron Fortress really take us in?"
Another man asked worriedly, clutching his family's most valuable iron pot.
"He will!"
The old Village Chief said decisively, his cane tapping firmly on the ground. Tap, tap.
"The Lord of Iron Fortress is expanding; he's desperate for manpower!"
"Forget free citizens like us with families—I heard that even refugees fleeing famine from the south, as long as they're human, he takes them all!"
These words were like a shot of adrenaline, reigniting hope for the future in the eyes of the desperate people.
Iron Fortress, that legendary impregnable city, was equivalent to heaven in their minds.
Just then, a faint cloud of dust rose on the horizon. A squad of cavalry grew from small dots into distinct figures, riding unhurriedly toward them.
The column instantly stirred.
"Is that... is that the Knight Lords?"
"Look at the banner. It seems so."
The old Village Chief narrowed his cloudy eyes. Years of hunting had given him eyesight sharper than most.
He shaded his eyes with his hand, the muscles on his face slowly tensing.
Something's wrong.
That banner, the style of that armor... It belonged to the Holy Theocracy of Gusteko!
Why would they appear on the edge of the Vollachian Empire's territory?
This was the Empire's buffer zone. Patrols from the Theocracy should never venture this deep.
His heart sank violently. His gaze locked onto the figure at the very front of the cavalry squad. A familiar figure.
Hamus! The villager who had left a few years ago to make a name for himself in Iron Fortress and became a militiaman!
The old Chief's brain raced. A Knight of the Theocracy riding with a militiaman from Iron Fortress? What kind of twisted joke is this?
Suddenly, a terrifying thought shot through his mind.
"Don't move! Everyone stay where you are!"
He lowered his voice, trying to stop the few villagers who couldn't hold back and wanted to go up to say hello.
But it was too late.
The villagers recognized Hamus too. Their exhausted faces instantly bloomed with the ecstasy of survival.
"It's Hamus! It's Hamus from our village!"
"Hamus! We're coming to join Iron Fortress too!"
Defant waved his arms excitedly, thinking his luck had finally turned.
The column fell into chaos instantly. People scrambled toward the cavalry squad like drowning victims grasping at the last piece of driftwood.
The old Chief's heart went cold. He didn't shout again.
In this feverish atmosphere, his voice would only be drowned out, and he himself would become the most conspicuous target.
Using the confusion of the surging crowd to shield himself, he retreated silently like a slippery old wolf, quickly disappearing into the roadside bushes.
He had to go back. He must go back! He had to warn the other half of the people still in the village!
In front of the cavalry squad, the man leading them wore magnificent Holy Knight armor.
His face wore a smile of compassionate pity. His armor shone in the sunlight, looking like a divine messenger walking among mortals.
He looked at the villagers swarming like ants before him, tilted his head, and said something to Hamus beside him.
Hamus kept his head lowered, gripping the reins deathly tight, veins bulging on the back of his hands.
His warhorse seemed to sense its master's unease, pawing the ground anxiously.
The next second, except for Hamus, all the cavalrymen removed the longbows from their backs in a uniform motion.
The sound of arrows being nocked was like the whisper of the Grim Reaper.
"Wait! What are you doing?!"
The smile on Defant's face froze. The villagers around him stopped, looking at the scene in confusion.
What greeted them was a rain of arrows blocking out the sky.
Under the sun, countless arrowheads flashed with cold light.
They converged into a dark cloud of death, like a sudden metal storm, instantly enveloping this small patch of wilderness.
Defant had a moment of trance.
He seemed to see years ago, when his father was still alive.
In the golden wheat fields, tossing heavy chaff into the air with a wooden fork. Those golden flakes danced in the brilliant sunlight, drifting down gently.
So beautiful.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The sound of flesh being pierced and bones shattering merged into one.
Shrill screams and desperate cries drowned out everything instantly, only to return to silence in an extremely short time.
Defant felt a chill in his chest, like he had been slammed by something heavy.
He looked down to see an arrow protruding cleanly from his left chest, bringing out a spray of warm blood mist.
He didn't feel pain, only confusion. He looked up at the fellow villager who kept his head bowed like a stone statue.
Why?
The next moment, as another arrow grew larger in his vision, his world went black, and he fell to the ground.
The Holy Knight looked with satisfaction at the bloody tableau he had directed.
The compassion on his face hadn't diminished in the slightest, as if those who fell weren't living people, but withered leaves swept away by the autumn wind.
He patted Hamus on the shoulder, his voice gentle yet powerful.
"Do not feel guilty, Hamus. This is for the Empire, and for your future."
"Their deaths are very valuable. The Empire will remember their sacrifice."
Hamus said nothing.
A trace of imperceptible contempt flashed in Sir Kyle's eyes when he looked at Hamus, but his smile remained flawless.
He issued a new order.
"Clean the scene."
The cavalrymen dismounted, their movements chillingly practiced. Like a group of efficient butchers, they began processing the meat on the chopping block.
They stripped the clothes off some villagers and dressed them in the items they had brought: worn-out clothes bearing the insignia of the Theocracy. Then, they dropped a few rusted weapons beside the corpses.
They didn't do it carefully; in fact, it was crude.
Because this was a play everyone knew was fake—a clumsy but effective excuse.
Hamus was forced to dismount and help arrange the scene.
He didn't dare look at those familiar faces, the neighbors he used to drink and brag with.
His stomach churned violently. Every breath felt like inhaling thick, congealed blood.
As his gaze moved, he saw the little girl who used to chase him asking for candy.
"Urgh..."
He couldn't hold it back anymore and vomited while holding onto his saddle.
"It's always like this the first time."
Sir Kyle's voice sounded behind him.
"You'll get used to it. Think of your future. When we return, you can become a true Knight."
"Hamus, greatness is always accompanied by sacrifice. You must learn to see the bigger picture."
Hamus wiped his mouth with his sleeve and nodded.
"Sir Knight, the objective... has been achieved. Should we... go back now?"
"Go back?"
Sir Kyle smiled. He shook his head, as if correcting a child who made a mistake.
"No, not enough."
He gazed in the direction of Bone Village, a nearly fanatical light flickering in his blue eyes.
"We have to go to Bone Village. Burn all the houses. Turn every living thing into a corpse."
"Hamus, you must understand. Only a thorough massacre, leaving no survivors, can truly ignite the Empire's fury."
"We need a story with enough weight. A story that fills Iron Fortress, and every citizen of the Empire, with righteous indignation."
Hamus's clenched fist slowly relaxed. He knew.
From the moment he agreed to Sir Kyle, there was no turning back.
"Yes."
He mounted his horse, turned it around, and continued to lead the way.
Behind them, the setting sun stretched their shadows long, casting them onto the blood-soaked earth like ugly scars.