Barbarus was forever shrouded in mist. The mountains belonged to the Overlords, while the valleys were pens where mortals were kept.
Vast farmlands surrounded defenseless villages. Each nightfall, the villagers would gather in the open square at the center of the settlement.
To save precious fuel, they lit bonfires there and kept them burning all night.
If the village population was small enough, they abandoned the square and huddled together inside the largest house.
But no matter where they gathered, the outcome was always the same.
The fire could ward off the cold, but it also revealed their position. The overlords' puppets could come knocking at any time.
All they could do was pray in despair that the overlord atop the mountain might show a shred of mercy, seeing how their numbers dwindled, and allow them to survive and reproduce.
Wise overlords never drained the pond to catch the fish. If they gave mortals no room to live, they would be forced to risk everything and cast greedy eyes toward other overlords' territories.
And when they turned to another's land, their plunder was merciless.
Seizing population from an enemy was far quicker than waiting decades for mortals in one's own domain to multiply.
"Tonight… maybe we're safe."
Someone whispered in the dark.
No one knew whether to believe it. They were already numb.
Not long ago, they had thanked the overlord for his mercy.
By custom, the lord only came twice a year to harvest people.
But now, in just a few months, the harvest squads had swept through villages like locusts, taking away every able-bodied youth.
More absurd still, the puppets blamed the villagers for failing to protect the overlord's property.
Yet the villagers couldn't even tell which overlord the puppets belonged to; they all looked equally grotesque and terrifying.
And even if they recognized them, what then? Could they resist?
Resistance only brought more brutal slaughter. They had already learned that lesson.
Darkness pressed just ten meters away, beyond the reach of the firelight.
Thick blackness swallowed everything past ten steps. The wavering flames were as weak as the breath of the dying.
The bonfire smoked heavily, stinking of rotting wood. Damp logs groaned in agony as they burned, coughing out choking smoke more than heat.
Mothers clutching infants curled closest to the fire. Their children needed warmth most, but were often the first to fall silent, smothered by the smoke.
Thud!
From the fog came a rustling, scratching sound, like countless claws raking bone.
The villagers knew what it meant. Puppets in the dark were watching them, choosing tonight's harvest.
No one dared run. No one dared resist.
Most were already numb; even fear seemed unnecessary.
A few instinctively huddled tighter, trembling as they pressed toward the fire, not for warmth, but for the faint comfort of proximity.
Those on the edges weren't necessarily spared. The fire offered no protection.
A twisted humanoid silhouette staggered out of the dark. Its swollen body barely held a grotesque human shape. Two deformed legs dragged in a strange rhythm. Tattered burial cloth rasped dryly as it moved.
Its face sagged like melted wax. Bloodless pale skin stretched tight. Its mouth curled upward at an impossible angle, frozen in a horrifying smile.
They called it the Pale King. It seemed born from the deepest nightmare. And there were hundreds, thousands of such monsters among the overlords' puppet armies.
It lumbered into the crowd, picking and choosing without restraint.
A baby's piercing wail suddenly split the silence.
The mother shuddered, instinctively clamping her hand over the infant's mouth and nose. Tears shimmered in the firelight but dared not fall.
The Pale King's head twisted at a grotesque angle. Its waxen face locked onto the sound. Like a mantis, it raised its claws high to strike.
In that instant, a cold gleam tore through the dark.
A giant scythe carved a perfect arc of death. When its blade sank into the Pale King's rotting back, it made a wet, muffled sound.
The scythe ripped free, dragging out clots of thick, decayed black blood, pulling the puppet deeper into the shadows.
The villagers sat frozen. None dared look back.
They didn't know whose scythe it was, perhaps another overlord's executioner, or maybe their own lord finally showing authority, punishing rival plunder.
Either way, the harvest would still happen. Protection was never free.
The fire crackled, lighting blank, faces.
Some even wished it hadn't happened. If the Pale King had finished its harvest and left, they wouldn't have to keep trembling.
Then came screams, tearing sounds, and gunfire from the dark.
The commotion was loud. They even heard shouting.
Still, no one turned their head.
Children tried to look, but adults forced their faces down.
Footsteps approached. A lean figure strode into the numb crowd.
The young man rushed to the mother, who still smothered her baby.
"Let go, you'll suffocate him!" His voice was sharp, commanding. He seized her wrist and twisted it free.
The infant's face was purple. The youth knelt in the mud, laid the baby face-down on his forearm, and patted its back until weak coughing gave way to frail crying.
The cry grew louder, alive, angry, like a protest against this absurd world.
The villagers remained curled, unmoving, faces buried in arms, as if refusing to see could erase the nightmare.
Only the mother lifted her head. Her vacant eyes slowly focused on the youth, watching him cradle the baby, watching the crease deepen between his brows.
When the baby's cry finally pierced the silence, she saw his jaw unclench ever so slightly. His bloodstained hands trembled faintly.
He handed the child back, scolding loudly: "Let him cry! What are you afraid of? We're here!"
The mother turned, and in the dim firelight she saw battle raging in the dark.
The Pale King's warped outline was clear. But those fighting it were not rival puppets, they were mortals.
Mortals, livestock of the overlords, now battling the Pale King.
The youth's glowing palm clenched the air. The Pale King froze mid-pounce, its waxen neck snapping backward at an unnatural angle.
From the side, a woman with braided hair lunged. Her scythe carved another perfect arc. The blade sank into pale flesh with a wet thud. The nightmare head flew high, spraying foul blood.
The youth whistled. "Beautiful strike, Quell!"
She arched a brow. "You too, Calas."
She flicked black gore from her scythe and plunged back into battle.
Through years of training, the youth's psychic power was strong enough to crush a Pale King's skull outright. But he restrained himself.
He used his power only to shine light in the dark, or to bind puppets so others could strike.
Henda Skorval swallowed hard, wrenching his neck free from a Pale King's claws before hacking off its head.
Black blood sprayed. He turned, throat working, and rasped: "Thanks, Typhon."
His gore-soaked fingers clenched the scythe, bits of flesh still stuck between them. That single thank-you seemed harder than killing ten monsters.
Typhon's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Words don't count. Buy me a drink when we're back."
Skorval's shoulders eased. He wiped blood from his face, voice hoarse but solemn: "If I live through this, I swear I will."
Typhon smirked. "That's a dangerous promise. But don't worry, just for that drink, I won't let you die."
He hummed lightly, strolling through the dark, binding more Pale Kings.
The warriors instinctively rallied around him. Each time a puppet froze under psychic grip, they swarmed and hacked it apart.
At last, the final Pale King collapsed. Silence fell.
Skorval jammed his scythe into the mud, panting heavily.
Typhon staggered, pale-faced. Skorval caught him. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Typhon gasped, voice trembling. "Just… used too much power."
The strain left black specks in his vision. Controlling puppets was far harder than killing them.
But it was worth it.
His teacher had taught him: if he wanted acceptance, he had to join them. If he always stood apart, why would anyone treat him as one of their own?
Mortarion earned respect because he always led from the front.
The giant's heavy steps crushed the bloody ground. His shadow loomed. "Typhon, are you alright?"
Typhon shook his head. The giant meant his spirit, not his body.
He heard no strange voices. If he did, he would tell Mortarion immediately. Only fools tried to bear everything alone.
"Seventeen warriors dead. Many wounded." Quell's bloodstained braid clung to her face. Her expression was grim.
They had annihilated the overlord's minions, but at great cost.
Many of the dead were her kin, the earliest warriors under Mortarion. Once raiders, now Death Guard.
And the bitterest truth: their sacrifice might bring no reward.
The villagers still huddled by the fire, soulless husks, not daring even to lift their heads to look at the warriors who had fought for them.
Mortarion walked silently toward the fire.
At last, the villagers stirred. Led by their elder, they approached the warriors.
"You should not have killed them," the elder rasped. "If they had harvested, they would have left. Now you may leave, but we must pay the price."
The warriors' bloodstained faces twisted with fury. Their knuckles whitened around their weapons. They had never imagined that those they saved would not even offer a word of gratitude, but instead accuse them!
They had cowered before the Pale Kings, yet now dared to rebuke their saviors.
Mortarion gazed down at the villagers. His gaunt face showed no contempt, only judgment.
He had saved them because they still bore human form. But he would never allow such hollow souls to join his army.
These husks, who even muffled their own cries, would only rust his blades with cowardice.
His army needed resilient Barbarans, not timid livestock.
"They are not strong enough," Mortarion said flatly. Then, turning: "Typhon."
Typhon understood. "Take the children. They turned their heads just now."
Mortarion had no patience to persuade the adults. It would be useless. They lacked even the courage to look back; how could they ever show gratitude or loyalty?
But the children were different.
Their numbness was not innate, but shackles forged by their parents. Generation after generation had taught submission, engraving silence before the slaughter into their bones.
These young souls could still be reshaped. They only needed a good teacher.
"No… please!" A mother clutched her child desperately, voice breaking with sobs. "Take anything you want, but not my child!"
Quell sneered. "You nearly killed him yourself just now, and now you claim to care?"
Her child wailed from her crushing grip. Skorval pried her hands open and tore the child away without mercy.
Mortarion watched coldly, unmoved. They could have followed the Death Guard into new life, but chose instead to wallow in decay. When their children were taken, they clenched fists and swallowed useless rage.
How ironic.
Before the overlords' minions, they were walking corpses. Yet now they dared to hate the Death Guard who had saved them, only because the Death Guard were human too, only because saviors showed more mercy than tyrants.
Pitiful, but not innocent.
"This one… not needed." Typhon pushed a child back into the crowd. He had already learned his parents' numbness. Such a soul could not be saved.
"Drink?" Skorval offered Typhon a waterskin.
"Thanks."
Skorval frowned. "Stop saying thanks."
Typhon smirked. "Didn't you thank me just now?"
"That was different. You saved me. This is just a small thing."
"Why shouldn't small things be thanked?"
"We're comrades. It feels too formal."
Typhon's lips curled. "I thought you didn't see me as a friend."
Skorval turned aside. "I admit I was prejudiced before. That's past."
"Alright then. I forgive you."
"What do you mean, you forgive me?" Skorval bristled, then faltered when he saw Typhon's lowered gaze, the hint of loss in his eyes.
"So you weren't planning to apologize? I was mistaken. Sorry." Typhon's voice softened deliberately, twisting guilt like a knife.
Skorval nearly choked on shame. "I'm sorry."
Typhon raised a brow, making Skorval flush. "I already apologized!"
"And I already forgave you. So… we're reconciled?" Typhon's tone stretched teasingly.
Skorval turned away again, throat tight, before muttering grudgingly: "You… barely count as a competent warrior."
Typhon protested. "Barely? What do you mean by barely?"
"I admit your psychic power is strong. But without it, you're not my equal."
"Skorval, just wait. When we're back, I'll challenge you to a duel!"
"Ha, look at you, angry already."
"Skorval, I'll- damn you!"
The Death Guard returned in laughter. As they crossed the final ridge, the towering gray granite walls came into view, their longed-for refuge.
This city had once been a raiders' camp. Generations of bandits had survived here, hiding from overlords and their minions.
Until Mortarion brought the people of Heller's Pass, defeated the raider chief in single combat, and persuaded them to join the war against the overlords.
From then on, the city became the rebels' base, a haven for mortals in poisonous Barbarus.
Inside the walls, the battle-hardened warriors finally relaxed.
Mortarion and Typhon left their troops behind, striding quickly through the stone streets. Turning the last corner, they saw little Debbie pacing anxiously at the doorway, her young face full of worry.
Mortarion's eyelid twitched. "Debbie, what happened?"
The girl burst into tears at the sight of them. "Teacher… Teacher is gone."