Chapter 7: I’ve come across a bloody idiot

The corrupted corpses weren’t like the zombies from horror films—any weapon driven into their bodies inflicted real damage.

More of them surged forward, clawing savagely at the wooden wagon wall.

But the slaves huddled behind the barricade soon realized the creatures weren’t invincible; they couldn’t reach through the carts. And when they saw their lord—and even the slight, seemingly fragile girl—fighting back, a number of the men snatched up farming tools and began striking at the undead beyond the circle.

Phield acted decisively, sword raised, cutting down foe after foe.

Gore sprayed in steady bursts; heaps of corpses fell beneath improvised weapons and Phield’s longsword alike.

A sharp scream pierced the battlefield. One of Connor’s knights, caught in the chaos of a charge, was seized by the cloak by a corpse dressed as a village woman. The violent yank sent him toppling backward, legs flailing.

His skull struck the ground with a sickening crack. The unlucky rider went still at once.

Connor swore furiously. “Fuck! Idiot!”

What enraged him more was that Phield hadn’t crumbled in terror—he was calmly directing the slaves in their defense.

“Sever every head and pile them together,” Phield ordered. “Burn them on the spot.”

He had been absorbing everything he could about corruption. Even in death, tainted human remains continued to poison the land. Left unchecked, they would soon spawn fresh sources of contamination.

He frowned, gaze drifting to the distant band of gray mist blending with the horizon.

“We haven’t even reached the Nightfall Domain yet, and already this many corpses… not a good omen.”

His family might despise him and want him exiled, but shoving him straight into a grave of walking dead felt excessively cruel.

“Thank you for saving us, my lord.”

The fleeing peasants, seeing salvation in their darkest hour, dropped to their knees and pressed grateful kisses to the toes of Phield’s boots.

“May the God of War light your path!”

Phield accepted the reverence without discomfort, scanning the ragged, beggar-like refugees before asking, “Where are you from? How did so many corpses appear? The corrupted creatures should be held back by Kazan Fortress’s towering walls.”

“It was the death-fog!” one villager choked out. “Gray mist from the north seeped through the fortress walls and enveloped our Oak Village. It struck at night—most folk were asleep when the fog corrupted them into corpses. Only we escaped.” Terror flooded back; the man’s body shook uncontrollably.

The death-fog was the root of all corruption. Inhaled by plant, animal, or human, it killed swiftly and twisted the host into a monster.

Only those with lordly gifts or Divine Chosen were immune.

The other defense was the Church’s lamps of atonement, which repelled the mist—at ruinous cost. Phield had spent fifty gold on just two, and only because of his noble status.

Phield listened in silence, brow furrowed. “And your lord? Every border fortress has a Divine Chosen stationed within. The mist should never have breached the walls.”

“The baron and his Divine Chosen rode out to investigate traces of a cult. Only the baron’s son remains in the castle.”

“Then let’s go meet the master of this place.” Once the column was ready, Phield swung into the saddle.

To reach the Nightfall Domain, he would need the local baron’s formal passage.

When Phield reached Kazan Fortress, the sheer scale of it stole his breath. Endless stone walls and towering battlements merged seamlessly with the jagged mountain spine, forming an unbreakable bulwark. Broad ramparts wide enough for mounted patrols bristled with ballistae, trebuchets, and cauldrons poised to rain boiling oil. Even a hundred thousand besiegers would dash themselves to bloody ruin against such defenses, achieving nothing. Everywhere, the banners of the Sacred Griffin Empire snapped in the wind, proclaiming imperial might and unyielding authority.

Yet the greatest problem stared him in the face.

“Where is everyone?”

Phield froze. The entire outer wall was utterly deserted—no sentries, no patrols, not a single soul in sight. The bare stone stretched on, eerily silent and wrong.

Connor’s face drained of color. “It can’t be an orc raid, can it? If Kazan falls, the whole province collapses in days.”

“That wouldn’t be this quiet,” Phield murmured.

Relief came only after they advanced farther: torches flickered to life along the inner keep’s walls.

“Don’t come closer! Who the hell are you?”

The shout from above carried sharp wariness. In the firelight, shadows of soldiers shifted—ordered, disciplined, ready.

Phield frowned. Why abandon the outer perimeter entirely?

“I am Baron Phield of House Ross, en route to take possession of the Nightfall Domain. Open the gates of Kazan Fortress and let us pass.”

The officer who had called out looked deeply troubled. After a hesitant pause, he summoned a young man—the son of Baron Bull himself.

“No! My father isn’t back yet, and no one tricks these gates open on my watch! Leave now, or we loose arrows.”

Phield’s mouth twitched at the uncompromising refusal. The young lordling must have been terrified witless by the corpses. He raised his voice again. “It’s me—Phield Ross. I’ve donated coin here before, remember? I’m no enemy.”

“A few paltry coins?” the youth sneered from the wall. “The whole empire tithes the border. Who are you to think I’d remember some nobody? Stinking outsider—coming here to make a fool of yourself!”

Phield ground his teeth until his jaw ached. Truly, few nobles were worth the name. The original owner’s final acts of charity—utterly wasted. If he had real soldiers under his command, he’d have stormed the walls without a second thought.

Swallowing his fury, he forced a measured tone. “These villagers—I rescued them along the road. You—”

He didn’t finish.

“Damn you!” the young man roared. “Are you trying to stuff my fortress with more mouths to feed? Who asked you to save those idiots?

Mind your own business! Bring them one step closer, and I’ll order every archer to loose.”

hield stood frozen for a moment, utterly dumbfounded. What kind of people were these?

“Fuck!” Frustration boiled over; he could feel the heat rising in his face.

Kaor shrank back, neck tucking into his shoulders. He had tried to warn him earlier—exactly about this. Neither Baron Bull nor his son were decent men.

From the wall above, the young lordling paused as his advisor whispered in his ear. Recognition dawned—but it brought no warmth.

“Wait! You’re the baron of the Nightfall Domain!” Richard called down, voice suddenly bright with malicious relief. “Perfect! Finally someone to act as a buffer for my fortress. Try to stay alive a few days at least! But when the corpses come chasing you, don’t bother knocking—I won’t open the gates.”

Kaor could hold it no longer. He sidled close and murmured, “The baron’s only son, Richard Bull—known as Richard the Coward. Best we avoid speaking with him further.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Phield growled, veins throbbing at his temples as he began backing the column away. “No point arguing with idiots.”

If everyone wanted to play dirty, fine—he’d play too.

“You can open the Nightfall gate yourselves!” Richard shouted after them, already retreating behind the parapet. “It’s perfectly safe out there!”

His voice dripped with mockery. “Now get out of my sight, you stinking outsiders!”

Beside him, the advisor mopped sweat from his brow. “Young master, tricking them like this… is it really—”

“Shut your mouth!” Richard snapped.

Phield turned his horse, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The outer gate—the one leading deeper into the cursed lands—stood unguarded now, abandoned by Richard’s craven retreat.

A cold, predatory smile slowly replaced his anger.

Since no one was watching… why not help himself to everything the fortress had left behind.

He glanced at Ashina, then at the thirty armed slaves waiting for his command.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. “We have looting to do.”

…

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