Chapter 64: Bloodstained Rations
The darkest hour before dawn.
Caesar’s figure appeared once more beneath the walls of the City of Miracles.
He was just about to slip back into the city through a concealed entrance.
Then his steps halted.
He lifted his head and looked toward the top of the wall.
A broad figure stood there in silence, like an ancient statue that had never changed with time.
It was Roland.
The old knight was not wearing his heavy armor. He had on only a simple suit of leather armor, one hand resting on the hilt of his weathered two-handed greatsword.
He simply stood there, facing the biting wind, his gaze fixed the entire time in the direction Caesar had gone.
Clearly, he had been waiting all night.
He had not obeyed Caesar’s order to remain in the city.
But neither had he followed him, because he knew that with his size and presence, he would only expose Caesar’s movements.
So he had chosen the clumsiest method.
And the most loyal one.
He would stand guard here.
If his lord returned, he would be the first to see it.
And if his lord did not return…
Then he would tighten his grip on his sword and walk alone toward the Temple Knight camp in the east, or the land of the undead in the south, and with his life, ignite one final beacon of vengeance for his lord.
Looking at that silent figure atop the wall, something soft in the deepest part of Caesar’s heart was lightly touched.
He did not call out.
He merely nodded once, very slightly, toward that backlit silhouette from within the shadows.
Then he turned, slipped into the castle through a hidden passage on the other side, and returned without making a sound.
When the first ray of dawn tore through the darkness and lit the wasteland, Roland finally saw a lamp being lit on time in the room at the very top of the lord’s castle.
The lines that had been taut all night on the old knight’s face, firm as stone, slowly softened at last.
He withdrew his gaze, turned around, and the steady sound of his footsteps vanished into the passageway along the wall.
A new day had begun.
And a storm that would sweep across the entire Wailing Wastes was about to unfold.
…
At first light, the entire City of Miracles began moving with an efficiency greater than ever before.
The blacksmiths’ furnaces burned red-hot. Bare-chested smiths swung great hammers in turns, hammering away with ringing clangs as they repaired weapons and armor. Sweat fell onto glowing iron, bursting into white steam with sharp hissing sounds.
In the kitchens, for the first time, the fragrance of food overpowered the smell of mold. Great cauldrons of thick wheat porridge simmered over the fires. There was still little oil in it, but at least it would fill the stomach.
And yet the atmosphere at the training grounds on the western side of the city was entirely different.
Murderous.
Oppressive.
Mixed with the savage hunger of beasts.
Barrett stood atop a hastily built platform, his single eye sweeping across the three hundred pieces of “scum” he had personally selected.
Some of them were refugees who could no longer survive.
Some were wanted fugitives.
Others were violent troublemakers who had survived earlier battles and nearly been hanged for fighting over the spoils.
Every one of them bore scars.
Their eyes were filled with numbness, cruelty, and utter indifference toward everything.
They were trash. Cannon fodder. And at the same time, desperadoes who longed more than anyone else to change their fate.
“All of you bastards, listen well!”
Barrett wasted no words. He dragged a sack out from behind him and kicked it open with a single boot.
Clatter, clatter, clatter—
Gold coins spilled across the ground, gleaming under the morning light with a brilliance enough to drive men mad.
The lifeless eyes of all three hundred men came alive in an instant, blazing with greedy fire.
“Do you want them?”
Barrett bared his teeth in a savage grin.
“We do!”
Someone in the crowd roared back.
“Do you want meat at every meal? Do you want to sleep with the palest women in the city?”
“WE DO!!”
Now the roar of all three hundred men carried the panting breath of wild beasts.
“Good!”
Barrett planted a boot atop the gold coins, his single eye sharp as a hawk’s.
“Then first you learn how to be a good dog! A mad dog that can bite enemies to death and carry even more gold back to its master!”
He pulled out a thick stack of parchment scrolls from his chest. These were copies of the techniques that had been reproduced through the night.
“This is the supreme technique bestowed upon you by our lord—our god—Lord Caesar!”
“If you master it, you’ll be able to condense Battle Energy and become men above other men!”
“But—”
His tone turned sharply, becoming grim enough to chill the blood.
“This thing isn’t for everyone! It will hurt. It will hurt badly! If your will isn’t strong enough, you may go mad! If your body can’t endure it, you might explode on the spot and spill your guts all over the ground!”
Looking at the stirred crowd below, he smiled with outright cruelty.
“So now, anyone afraid of death may leave! No one will stop you! But whoever stays will hand over his life! To Lord Caesar, and to me!”
Not a single man moved.
For people who had spent their whole lives rolling in filth, death was not frightening. What was frightening was endless hunger and endless despair.
“Good! Looks like every one of you has some spine after all!”
Barrett nodded in satisfaction and swept his arm forward.
“Now, your first lesson begins!”
“Carve everything written on these pages into your bones!”
“Three days!”
“I’m giving you only three days! Three days from now, anyone who hasn’t mastered it can crawl back and keep being the trash he’s always been!”
Those three hundred desperadoes lunged forward like starving wolves pouncing on meat, snatching up the parchment scrolls before sitting down right where they were, taking the first step toward either rebirth—or the abyss.
Very quickly, the training grounds were filled with screams rising and falling one after another.
They were not sounds a human should be able to make.
They were more like the shrieks of beasts being flayed alive.
Some convulsed all over, foam bubbling from their mouths.
Some twisted into knots, as though countless worms were writhing beneath their skin.
And one particularly unlucky wretch suddenly swelled up all over, then burst apart with a bang like a bladder inflated far beyond its limit, spraying blood, flesh, and organs all over the men around him.
That bloody scene did not frighten the others away.
Instead, it stirred the savagery in their bones.
They wiped the scraps of flesh from their faces, their expressions growing even more frenzied, even more concentrated as they threw themselves deeper into cultivation.
Roland stood in the distance, looking at the hellish spectacle, his brows drawn tightly together.
He could sense the violent and predatory nature hidden within that technique. Although it could force power forth at astonishing speed, it would also corrode the hearts of the men who cultivated it just as severely.
“My lord, this…”
He walked to Caesar’s side, where Caesar was observing the scene as well, then stopped halfway through the sentence.
“This is their own choice, Roland.”
Caesar’s voice was calm.
“I gave them the fishing rod. But if they want to catch fish, then they must use their own flesh and blood as bait.”
“This unit does not need a sense of honor. Nor does it need loyalty.”
“They only need to know that if they obey me, they will receive everything they desire.”
“That is enough.”