Chapter 139: Chris
Twilight.
The sun hung low on the horizon, its dying light filtering through the clouds of settling dust and lingering smoke that blanketed the battlefield.
Chris struggled to a sitting position amidst a heap of corpses. Every movement was a fresh agony, pulling at the jagged gashes in his flesh and forcing a muffled groan from his throat. His iron breastplate bore a fist-sized dent over his sternum, and his left arm hung at a grotesque, sickening angle.
The pain brought back flashes of the chaos before the blackness took him—the terrifying shockwave of the Elven Queen moving at terminal velocity, a gale of Mana that had tossed him aside like a dry leaf.
"That damn Elven Queen..." Chris spat, shaking his head to clear the stars from his vision. He spotted a heavy axe lying in the dirt nearby. "Once I'm back, I'm paying a bard to tell the real story of how she 'started from zero.' I'll make sure it's a tragedy!"
Chris propped himself up with his one good hand. The world tilted dangerously, but he forced himself to stand. He began to pick his way through the mounds of the fallen, his eyes searching for a specific, barrel-chested silhouette.
"Block? Hey, you stubborn rock! You down here somewhere?"
There was no reply.
Beneath his boots lay a carpet of ruin: severed limbs, shattered plate, and the dark, tacky stains of congealed blood. Orcs, Humans, Drow—death had stripped them of their banners and their bloodlines.
Suddenly, Chris spotted a face he recognized. It was the youth from the first day of training—the one who had been so terrified he couldn't hold his hilt, the one whose wrist the instructor had snapped as a "lesson." The boy had a broken blade through his chest, his eyes wide and fixed on the darkening sky.
Chris didn't linger. He shoved past the corpse of an Orc and stepped over a mangled Goblin, calling Block's name again and again.
Silence.
"What's the deal? Did that greedy bastard beat me to the rally point?" Chris muttered, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. "We said we'd go back together. If he left without me, I'm charging him double interest on that ale he owes me."
As the thought crossed his mind, he spotted a unit of Ghouls.
They were working. Methodically, they were dragging bodies from the mire, sorting them by race and laying them in neat, clinical rows. One Ghoul held a ledger, scratching symbols into the parchment with a jagged claw. The creature noticed Chris, its grey face lifting for a second before it approached.
"Name. Number."
Chris answered by instinct, his voice a raspy croak. "Chris. Number 734."
As the Ghoul recorded the data, Chris leaned in, his eyes scanning the ledger with a desperate hunger. He traced the list of names and codes written in the Common Tongue.
And then, his finger stopped.
[Block Hammer-Hand. ID: 315. Status: KIA.]
The Ghoul finished updating Chris's entry and pointed a long, grey finger toward the distance. "Registration complete. Proceed to the Survivor Sector for extraction."
Chris didn't move toward the sector.
He bypassed the Ghoul, his gait unsteady as he walked toward the row of Dwarven corpses. He began to search, using his functioning hand to push aside the cold, heavy bodies of the mountain-folk.
Finally, he saw it.
That familiar, broad frame. Block lay there, his chest heaving no more. A wolf-tooth pendant hung from a cord around his neck, resting against the cold iron of his armor. Half of his torso was missing—a devastating wound that exposed splintered ribs and ruined organs.
Chris fell to his knees beside him. He reached out, his hand shaking so violently he had to pull it back before he could touch the Dwarf's face.
The Dwarf who had saved him with a single axe-swing.
The Dwarf who had acted as his shield during the charge.
The Dwarf who had sat by the campfire, drinking sour ale and bragging about his son. The one who swore he would return to teach the boy how to forge his very first axe.
Dead.
"Hey... you idiot... this isn't funny," Chris whispered.
Tears began to track through the dirt and blood on Chris's face. He remembered the song Block had hummed during the long nights in the trenches. A Dwarven folk song about the end of a campaign and the return to the hearth.
Chris opened his mouth, and in a broken, trembling voice, he began to sing in the harsh, gutteral tongue of the Dwarves.
"...The drums of war have stilled their beat..."
"...The horns no longer scream..."
"...Heave up your axe... the journey's done..."
"...To home, and ending dream..."
The song was discordant and out of tune, a lonely sound in the graveyard of the plains. A few other survivors of the Penance Legion heard the melody. They looked over, said nothing, and lowered their heads.
The Ghoul keeping the records paused. Another Ghoul, responsible for maintaining order, stomped over to the kneeling Chris.
"ID 734. Your behavior is obstructing the census."
"Move to the extraction zone immediately."
"Repeat: Move now."
Chris ignored the command, clutching Block's cold hand as he continued the verse.
"...The hearth-fire glows for tired feet..."
"...The ale is poured and deep..."
The Ghoul's Soul Fire pulsed with irritation at the lack of response. It raised a jagged claw.
"Interference with primary mission objectives. Warning ignored. Commencing mandatory compliance."
The claw reached for the nape of Chris's neck. Chris felt the movement, but he didn't care. He didn't even flinch.
Just then—
"Cease."
A voice rang out from the shadows. The Ghoul froze, its claw hovering an inch from Chris's skin. In a heartbeat, the creature retracted its hand and dropped to one knee, along with every other undead unit in the vicinity. They lowered their skulls in absolute submission.
Chris stopped singing. He turned his head slowly.
A figure stood behind him. It was a skeleton, its frame bleached clean and seemingly ordinary. But it was the Sovereign of the Evernight Empire. The Master of all who did not breathe.
Kaito didn't look at the kneeling undead or the terrified soldiers. His gaze was fixed solely on Chris and the broken Dwarf in his arms. He stepped forward, coming to a halt beside the boy.
He spoke, his voice a calm, resonant hum.
"What was his name?"
Chris's mind was a whirlwind of primal terror. He had never imagined he would stand within arm's reach of an existence that felt like a localized eclipse. Yet, looking at Block's lifeless face, a spark of "unreasonable" courage flared in his chest.
"His... his name was Block."
"He was a true hero."
Kaito's gaze lingered on Block's remains, then swept across the field of thousands.
"You are all heroes," Kaito said.
The words caused the survivors to stumble. Heroes? They were convicts. They were fodder meant to be spent.
Kaito didn't wait for them to process it. "The Evernight Empire acknowledges your service and your sacrifice."
He raised a bony hand, giving it a light, effortless flick.
"The bones of a hero shall not be abandoned in a foreign land. I will not rewrite their records."
"Take your comrades."
"Go home."
The survivors stared in disbelief. The Ruler of the Dead—the Monarch of Annihilation—was permitting them to take their dead? And he had promised not to convert them into thralls?
Chris looked at Kaito's back. He released Block's hand and pressed his forehead into the dirt with a heavy thud.
"My gratitude... for your mercy..."
The other survivors followed suit, prostrating themselves in the dirt, expressing a gratitude that words could not contain.
Kaito offered no further words. He turned and walked into a rippling teleportation gate, vanishing from the field.
Chris watched the spot where the Sovereign had stood, his eyes filled with a complex, unreadable emotion. Then, with a grunt of exertion, he heaved Block's heavy corpse onto his back. It was a crushing weight, but Chris didn't feel it.
The other survivors rose, moving silently toward their fallen friends. They worked in pairs or trios, hoisting the broken bodies of their brothers-in-arms. No one spoke. The process was unnervingly, respectfully quiet.
The last sliver of twilight faded into the void.
Night fell.
Ten thousand skeletons remained behind to clear the wreckage, acting as a silent honor guard. The convicts, carrying the weight of their dead, began the long, staggering walk toward the horizon.
Their destination was Iron Fortress.
They were going home.
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