Seven days had passed since we left the Black Citadel.

  Seven days of rain. Seven days of mud. Seven days of silence.

  I sat atop Coin-Biter, my golden warhorse, swaying with the rhythm of the march. My coat was soaked, my goggles were fogged, but my HUD was the only sunshine I needed.

  "Three hundred thousand," I whispered, the number tasting sweeter than the finest wine. "I could buy a Duchy. I could buy a fleet. I could buy a new personality for Volpert."

  But for now, I was spending it on them.

  I looked back at my purchase. The Royal Army.

  They didn't march like men. They flowed like a landslide of scrap metal.

  The culture of Moonclaw was not just depressing; it was an production of misery. And over the last week, I had learned every horrifying detail of their existence.

  I rode alongside a unit from the Barony of Lament.

  Their armor wasn't polished. It was matte grey, rubbed with the ash of their dead relatives. It swallowed the light.

  But the design... it was genius in a sick way.

  The helmets had channels engraved into the steel. As the rain fell, it was funneled down the metal, collecting at the eye slits and dripping out.

  Every single soldier looked like they were weeping constant, metallic tears.

  At their waists hung bronze bells. Hundreds of them.

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  But they didn't ring. The clappers had been removed.

  "The Prayer that has no sound," Ser Erebus had explained. "Because God stopped listening long ago."

  There were no trumpets. No drums.

  Instead, there was The Hum.

  Two thousand throats vibrating at a low, sub-bass frequency. It wasn't a song. It was a groan. A collective, rhythmic moan of existence. It shook the puddles on the ground. It made my teeth ache.

  HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM... HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM...

  It terrified the birds. The forest around us was dead silent, because nothing living wanted to be near that sound.

  I watched a soldier from the County of Perdition stumble. His pack looked incredibly heavy.

  Another soldier stopped. He didn't offer a hand. He opened the fallen man’s pack, took out a large, jagged rock, and put it in his own pack.

  "The Burden of Memory," Gutrum Falken noted, riding beside me. "They carry a stone for every fallen comrade. The longer they survive, the heavier they become."

  "Inefficient," I muttered. "But... impressive."

  Ahead of us, Melina Milkwright was trying to be cheerful. Her yellow dress was a beacon in the grey fog.

  "Look!" Melina gasped, pointing to the side of the road. "A purple flower! It survived the rain!"

  She ran toward it.

  But a soldier from House Fester got there first.

  He didn't pick it. He stomped it into the mud with his iron boot. Squelch.

  "Hey!" Melina cried. "Why did you do that?"

  The soldier didn't look at her face. Eye contact was forbidden; looking up meant looking for hope. He stared at her chin.

  "Color is a lie, luminous one," the soldier droned. "It mocks the grey. We return it to the mud."

  He kept walking. Melina looked at the crushed flower, her lower lip trembling.

  Just then, a massive, mangy Carrion Crow landed on the shoulder of another soldier.

  Melina expected him to shoo it away.

  Instead, the soldier smiled a rare, grim twitch of the lips. The soldier next to him patted his back.

  "Congratulations, brother," the comrade whispered. "You have been marked."

  "Marked?" Melina asked, confused.

  "The Crow-Blessing," I explained gently. "They think it means he's going to die soon. To them... that's good news. He's 'available' for the afterlife."

  Melina looked horrified. "This is the worst road trip ever."

  Night fell. The army stopped.

  There were no tents.

  I watched as the men of the County of Abyssal Reach took out their entrenching tools and dug shallow, body-sized holes in the wet earth.

  They laid their bedrolls inside.

  "Grave-Sleeping," Gerald whispered, shivering. "They say the earth waits for them anyway, so they might as well get comfortable."

  Dinner was served.

  They took the hardtack bread. They didn't break it. They crushed it in their fists until it was crumbs, symbolizing the destruction of the body.

  They drank sour "Rust-Wine" from cups that looked suspiciously like human skulls.

  I walked past a campfire.

  A group of soldiers was using their hands to make shadow puppets on a large rock. But they weren't making bunnies.

  One hand-shadow stabbed another hand-shadow. The victim spasmed and died. The soldiers watched in silence. But it wasn't just violence; it was art.

  The "killer" hand didn't just stab; it hesitated. It trembled with regret. The "victim" hand didn't just fall; it curled its fingers, mimicking a dying man reaching for a forgiveness that wasn't there.

  The performance ended. The soldiers didn't clap. Clapping is loud. Clapping is joyous. Instead, they sighed. A collective, rattling exhalation of air from deep in their lungs.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh…”

  It was the sound of a tire deflating. The sound of a soul leaving the body.

  The soldier who had performed the murder a gaunt man with missing teeth bowed his head. The adjudicator, a Sergeant with a scar across his throat, handed him the prize. An extra ration of cheese.

  The winner didn't smile. He looked at the cheese with genuine fear. "Must I?" he whispered. "You won," the Sergeant droned. "You must bear the Burden of Flavor. Remind us of what we have lost."

  The winner closed his eyes and took a bite. He chewed slowly, tears leaking from his eyes as the savory taste hit his tongue. He wasn't enjoying it; he was suffering through the pleasure. The other soldiers watched him eat with a mix of pity and jealousy. To feel joy was a punishment. To taste richness was to remember that life could be sweet, which only made the grey reality hurt more.

  I stepped away, the sight making my own stomach churn. I stopped by the fire. A soldier looked up at me. He was scratching something into the inside of his shield with a sharp fingernail. Scratch. Scratch.

  "What are you writing?" I asked, though I had an idea. "My sins, Lord," the soldier murmured, not stopping. "The Nail-Confession. When I fall, God will read my shield and know my debt."

  I leaned closer. The inside of the shield was a chaotic spiral of text. Thousands of tiny, frantic scratches covering every inch of the metal. I activated my HUD.

  "You're running out of room," I noted, pointing to a tiny patch of blank metal near the handle. The soldier stopped scratching. He looked at the empty spot with panic. "I know," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I have perhaps... three minor sins left. Or one Great Sin."

  "And then?" He looked up at me, his eyes wide and hollow. "Then I must die, Golden Undertaker. If I sin when my shield is full... where would I write it? If I cannot write it, I must carry it. And I am already so tired."

  He looked at his dagger. Then he looked at the blank spot. He was calculating. If he died tonight, his accounting was perfect. If he lived until tomorrow, he might have an impure thought and run out of space.

  "Don't worry," I said, my voice dropping to that cold, administrative tone that seemed to comfort them. "I plan to spend your lives very carefully. You will likely empty your ledger before that space is filled."

  The soldier relaxed. His shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank you, Lord," he breathed. "You are too kind. A balanced book is a beautiful thing."

  He went back to scratching. Scratch. Scratch. He was writing: 'I felt relief when the Lord promised me death.'

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  I walked away, realizing that for the Moonclaw, hope wasn't a light at the end of the tunnel. Hope was the guarantee that the tunnel had an end.

  He looked at my golden coat. My golden horse. My golden pockets.

  "Greeting, Golden Undertaker," the soldier said respectfully.

  I froze. "What did you call me?"

  " The Golden Undertaker," the soldier repeated. "You are the one who pays for the shovels. You are the one who ensures our graves are dug. We respect you for it."

  He nodded to his comrades.

  "May your grave remain dry" he blessed me.

  I stood there for a moment, the firelight reflecting in my goggles.

  They didn't see me as a hero. They didn't see me as a Commander.

  They saw me as the Administrator of Death. The man who monetized their end.

  I tipped my hat.

  "See you in the dust" I replied in their dialect.

  The soldiers nodded, satisfied.

  I walked back to my dry, heated tent (purchased with 5,000 Gold), realizing that I was the leader of a death cult.

  And honestly? With 308,000 Gold in the bank... business was booming.

  The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a silence that was heavier than the storm.

  I sat on a folding stool made of imported mahogany (150 G), situated comfortably outside my heated tent. I was watching the "Grave-Sleeping."

  It was a logistical nightmare, technically. Two thousand men burying themselves in shallow pits every night meant two thousand potential cases of trench foot, hypothermia, or accidental live burial. But my HUD showed their morale was actually increasing.

  "They look peaceful," I muttered, taking a sip of warm tea. "Like vegetables planted in a garden of depression."

  "They are starving, Wilhelm."

  I turned. Vasco Vane had emerged from the mist. He wasn't alone. Beside him stood a Quartermaster from the Barony of Lament.

  The Quartermaster looked terrible. Even by Moonclaw standards. His grey skin was translucent, his hands were shaking violently, and his eyes were rolling back into his head.

  "Starving?" I checked my inventory logs. "I spent 4,000 Gold on hardtack and dried venison yesterday. I saw them eating rocks. Surely they have calories."

  "They have calories," Vasco corrected, stepping over a puddle. "But they don't have sustenance. Look at him."

  Vasco pointed a gloved finger at the Quartermaster.

  The soldier fell to his knees. He didn't ask for bread. He clawed at his own throat.

  "The... Hum..." the soldier gasped. "It is... fading. My blood... is too light. I need... the weight."

  I sighed and put down my tea. "Great. My army of super-depressed Knights is going through withdrawal. What do they need, Vasco? Vitamins? Iron supplements?"

  "They need Kyn-Sang," Vasco said gravely. "The Black Nectar. Their bodies run on processed guilt, Wilhelm. If we don't refuel them within six hours, they won't just die. They will forget who they are and start attacking the trees."

  He gestured to the north, towards a jagged tear in the landscape where the fog was thickest.

  "The Convent of Inverted Chalices is only an hour’s ride from here," Vasco said. "They are the only ones who brew it in bulk."

  "Send a runner," I dismissed, waving my hand. "Give him a bag of gold. I’m comfortable here."

  "Abbot Malvado does not trade with runners," Vasco warned, his voice dropping an octave. "He requires... a specific type of negotiation. If you want 10,000 rations of liquid sin, the Golden Undertaker must go in person."

  The Quartermaster let out a low, rattling moan. It sounded like a cello string snapping.

  "Please..." the soldier whispered, looking at my golden boots. "The emptiness... it hurts."

  I looked at the soldier. Then I looked at the 308,000 Gold in my treasury. Then I looked at my comfortable stool.

  "Business trip," I decided, standing up and brushing the crumbs from my coat. "If I have to buy misery to keep this war running, then let's go buy the premium brand."

  I tapped my head.

  "Saddle Coin-Biter," I ordered. "And bring the heavy saddlebags. We’re going shopping."

  Vasco smiled, a sharp, predatory expression.

  "A wise investment, Wilhelm. Though I suggest you don't eat lunch before we get there."

  "Why?"

  "Because the Convent has a very... unique smell."

  We mounted our horses as the moon struggled to pierce the grey clouds. Behind us, the army slept in their graves, waiting for the fuel that would let them march another week into hell.

  We turned our horses toward the gorge.

  "Lead the way, Vasco," I said. "Let's go feed the damned."

  The road to the Convent of Inverted Chalices did not go up. It went down. Deep into a gorge where the sun had surrendered centuries ago.

  The air here was thick, tasting of wet iron and sweet, cloying rot. The architecture was made of "Bone-Stone" porous, white rock that seemed to absorb the moisture from the air, sweating it back out as a milky fluid.

  Everywhere I looked, massive bronze bells hung from the cavern ceiling. But they were hung upside down.

  Filled with black moss. Silent.

  "Charming," I muttered, pulling my coat collar up. "It smells like a basement that died."

  "It smells like supply and demand," Vasco Vane corrected, riding beside me. He took a deep breath of the foul air, looking right at home. "This is where the Moonclaw army gets its fuel, Wilhelm. You wanted to know what keeps a depressive army marching? You are about to taste it."

  We reached the heavy gates. Two monks stood guard. They wore robes of coarse grey wool and heavy masks made of beaten lead.

  "Lead masks?" I asked.

  "To filter the 'Scent of God'," Vasco whispered. "Breathing the fumes raw causes... spiritual organ failure."

  We dismounted. I patted Coin-Biter, who was nervously chewing on a piece of bone-stone.

  "Stay here, greedy boy," I told the horse. "Don't eat the architecture."

  We entered the main nave. It wasn't a church. It was a farm.

  The ceiling was alive.

  Hundreds of massive, pulsating creatures hung from the rafters. They looked like Grief-Leeches the size of fattened oxen. They were blind, wet, and pale, their bodies undulating with a sickening rhythm.

  Below them, monks moved in silence. They weren't holding prayer books. They were holding Shields.

  Rusted, battered shields covered in scratches.

  I watched, horrified and fascinated.

  A monk lifted a shield up to a Leech. The creature extended a wet, sucker-mouth. It didn't eat the metal. It rasped its tongue over the scratches.

  SLURP. SCRAPE.

  "What are they doing?" I whispered.

  "The Nail-Confession," Vasco explained softly. "The soldiers scratch their sins onto their shields. The monks feed the shields to the Leeches. The Leeches digest the sin..."

  DRIP.

  A thick, black, viscous drop of slime fell from the Leech’s tail into a waiting vat below.

  "...and excrete the nutrient," Vasco finished. "Kyn-Sang. The Black Nectar. Literally processed guilt."

  I looked at the vat. It was full of the black sludge.

  Nearby, two monks were staring intently at a Leech’s tail. One held up three fingers. The other held up two.

  They weren't betting money.

  Drip.

  The first monk sighed and held his breath. He had lost the wager. The price was suffocation.

  "Master of Coin," a voice boomed.

  A figure emerged from the shadows. Abbot Malvado.

  He was seven feet tall, wearing a lead mask with no eye holes. His skin was the color of wet ash.

  "You have come to feed the Damned," Malvado stated. His voice sounded like stones grinding together.

  "I have," I said, stepping forward, the Merchant persona sliding into place. "My army is hungry, Abbot. I need 10,000 rations. I have the coin."

  I pulled out a heavy bag of gold. 20,000 Gold. Freshly minted from the Royal Storm-Forge. It shone brightly in the gloom.

  Malvado looked at the gold. He recoiled.

  "Put that away," Malvado hissed. "It is too bright. It insults the Leeches."

  "It's valid currency!" I argued. "It's 24-karat Aurium!"

  "It is Light Gold," Malvado spat. "It comes from labor. From trade. From... hope. We do not accept it. The Leeches cannot digest purity."

  He crossed his arms.

  "We only accept Heavy Gold, Merchant. Gold that has been weighed down by betrayal. Gold won through extortion. Gold that has blood on it. That is the only metal that carries the resonance we need."

  I blinked. "You want... dirty money? Metaphysically dirty?"

  "Precisely."

  I looked at my bag. It was clean income. Passive income. Honest(ish) work.

  I looked at Vasco Vane.

  Vasco was smiling. The smile of a man who had been waiting for this moment.

  "I believe I can assist," Vasco purred.

  He reached into his own cloak and pulled out a bag. It didn't shine. The gold coins inside looked dull, almost greasy.

  "This," Vasco whispered, weighing the bag, "is the bribe I took to betray the old Duke of Mistveil. And this... is the hush money from the Widow of the High-Tower. And this... is the extortion fee from the brothels of Kynoboros."

  He handed the bag to Malvado.

  Malvado took it. His hand dropped slightly under the weight.

  "Heavy," Malvado groaned in pleasure. "Yes. This gold screams."

  "We need to swap," I told Vasco. "I'll give you 20,000 of my clean gold. You give me 20,000 of your... nightmare gold."

  "A fair exchange," Vasco agreed. "Laundering money in a monastery. You are learning, Wilhelm."

  Malvado poured the Heavy Gold into a funnel. It clattered down into a pit beneath the floor. The Leeches above seemed to shudder in delight at the sound of the tainted metal.

  "The payment is accepted," Malvado said. "But the pact requires a seal. You must taste the product."

  He dipped a ladle into the vat of black slime. He held it out to me.

  "Eat, Master Storm. Understand what you are feeding your men."

  I looked at the black goo. It smelled like licorice and old blood.

  I looked at Vasco. He gave me a 'go ahead' nod.

  I took the ladle.

  "Bottoms up," I whispered.

  I swallowed a mouthful.

  It didn't taste like food. It tasted like... a rainy funeral. It tasted like the moment you realize you lost your keys, but forever. It was cold, sliding down my throat and freezing my stomach.

  (You try to remember the face of the girl from the orphanage... but it is just grey static for 1 hour.)

  I stood there. The disgust faded. The fear faded.

  Everything just felt... efficient.

  "It works," I said. My voice was flat. Monotone. "It is dense calories. High efficiency."

  "Good," Malvado nodded.

  He signaled the monks.

  They began to pack the slime. Not into barrels.

  They used Dried Stomachs. Large, translucent sacs harvested from fallen soldiers or beasts. They filled them with the black sludge until they looked like pulsating, dark sausages.

  "Sorrow-Sacks," a monk muttered, tossing one onto a pile.

  "I prefer the term 'Depression-Bonds'," I corrected emotionlessly. "They are an investment in stability."

  We loaded the cart with 10,000 units of the black sludge.

  As we rode out of the gorge, leaving the inverted bells and the blind leeches behind, Vasco looked at me.

  "How do you feel, Wilhelm?"

  I stared straight ahead. The horrors of the world didn't scare me right now. I just calculated the ROI.

  "I feel nothing, Vasco," I said. "And for 20,000 Gold... that is a bargain."

  We rode back to the starving army, bringing them the digested sins of their fathers to eat. And they would thank us for it.