Chapter 60: The Power of Death

  Ten days passed quickly.

  Though General Sanders knew he would soon be stripped of his command, he still clung to a hope: that his replacement would be another military man, someone who could continue leading the army into battle. So he did his best to fulfill his duties as a general.

  To this day, details about the orc army remained unclear. Most of the scouting parties he sent out returned empty-handed. The general had even begun planning to send an advance force of several thousand men to Oufu City— to probe the orcs’ defenses and launch a surprise attack.

  Ethan had fiercely opposed this. Only he, who had firsthand experience, knew how reckless the move was—nothing short of suicide. He also understood Oufu’s strategy: they were buying time. Oufu had never wanted to go to war with the empire. If the enemy didn’t know their true strength, they would dare not act rashly. And the situation in the capital was clear—an order to cease hostilities and withdraw was only a matter of time.

  Ethan knew his own mission now boiled down to time: he just needed to stop the general from sending troops before the emperor’s order arrived. So these days, he’d struggled to persuade the general with words—something he was not good at. Fortunately, his rich experience in the wild and in battle gave him plenty to say, and he managed to hold the general back. The key was that he had truly witnessed the orcs’ terrifying strength and the efficiency of Oufu under Sedros’ rule. He explained the orcs’ mobility beyond the wasteland, and most importantly, their ability to see in the dark (unaffected by night) and hearing a hundred times sharper than humans. This was nothing like the rigid orc tribes the general had wiped out in the past. The orcs would take the initiative, using flexible tactics to fully exploit their advantages—changing the very nature of battle. And they still had wyverns, which could soar far beyond the range of arrows to spy on the army’s movements. With the enemy hidden and his own forces exposed, constant night raids alone would shatter the army’s morale.

  As their arguments continued, the general’s attitude toward Ethan softened—gradually giving way to approval and admiration. This young man had wisdom and battle experience far beyond his years. And as a warrior with a keen instinct, the general could tell Ethan was no ordinary fighter. Unlike other clerics, who spent their days feasting in tents or debating abstract theological questions with priests, Ethan was different. He was a natural leader, a born fighter. More than once, the general had wanted to ask why a man like Ethan would serve the Erney family—but he never spoke up.

  Finally, the imperial messenger arrived with the emperor’s decree. True to his fears, the general was stripped of his command. He was no longer a general. The military and the Erney family had clashed over who would replace him, but in the end, Duke Mrak—respected by both factions—had been approved. He would arrive soon to take over. The emperor ordered the general to stay and wait for the duke.

  The general listened silently to the decree. When it ended, he asked, “When Duke Mrak takes over… will the war continue? Will he lead our troops here to attack that orc city-state?”

  “The emperor has decided to withdraw,” the messenger replied. “Envoys from other countries have strongly urged it, and Bishop Ronis has also insisted we recognize Oufu as an independent nation. I hear Oufu will soon send envoys to negotiate a peace treaty. This war won’t just end now—it may never be fought again. The forty thousand troops here will be transferred back to the southern border under Duke Mrak’s command. If necessary, half of them will be demobilized and sent home to farm.”

  The general fell silent. Then his body began to tremble slightly. It took all his strength to say, “Your servant… obeys the decree.”

  That evening, Ethan was summoned by the general. The old man led him out of Bracada.

  They climbed a small hill outside the city; no one else was around. The general stared at the blood-red sunset for a moment, then spoke. “These past few days, I’ve seen you’re a true warrior. Now I want to talk to you—putting aside this damn political nonsense. Just two warriors, talking.”

  The general gave Ethan a powerful look, full of regret and resentment. “Why do you debase yourself serving those filthy politicians in the Erney family? I can see it in you—the aura of a true warrior. It’s the kind of strength you only gain by walking the line between life and death, by tasting death, by trampling your enemies’ blood and flesh underfoot with your own hands and teeth. How can you stand those pig-like, dirty politicians? When they play their sleazy tricks and plots… doesn’t it sicken you, as a true warrior?”

  “I’m not with the Erney family,” Ethan replied. “I was sent here by Bishop Ronis.”

  The general looked surprised. “Bishop Ronis? What did he send you here to do?”

  “The bishop told me to ease tensions and wait for the ceasefire.”

  “Ease tensions?” The general didn’t fly into a rage—his energy seemed to have been drained by the decree. “No wonder you’ve been stopping me from sending troops these days. But what will happen to us soldiers after the ceasefire? We can fight—we can use our blood and flesh to expand our country’s borders, then give our lives to defend them. But in the end… once there’s peace, they don’t need us anymore. It becomes the world of those sniveling politicians. Swords can’t beat tricks and schemes. We who risk our lives on the front lines are just tools of politics. We can’t play their dirty games, so we get pushed aside. And our country slowly falls into the hands of those drunken, gluttonous noble pigs. What are they good for? They’re coddled, weak, can’t tell wheat from chaff, can’t lift a finger to work. Besides women and feasting, what do they know? We could crush them with one finger—like squashing a bug.” Anger flared in the general’s eyes. “Why do we let them manipulate us? Why do they take the land and glory we fought for with our blood and flesh?”

  Ethan said nothing. He could feel the storm of emotion in the general’s heart. He knew nothing about military politics, but he understood the old man’s anger.

  The general looked at Ethan, speaking slowly, one word at a time. “I have a favor to ask. It’s the first time I’ve begged anyone in my life. A warrior’s favor to another warrior… will you grant it?”

  For a man as proud and powerful as the general, this must truly have been the first time he’d begged.

  A lifetime’s single request. From a general who once commanded forty thousand troops—asking as an equal, out of respect. Could Ethan refuse?

  He almost agreed on the spot. But he didn’t forget the delicate situation or his mission. Instead, he said, “Tell me what it is.”

  The general fell silent for a moment. “Didn’t you notice? We were the only two present when the decree was read. And the messenger left right after delivering it. I arranged that on purpose.”

  “Did you?” Ethan frowned—he knew nothing about such schemes. “Why?”

  “No one else heard the decree. Which means… besides us, no one knows I’ve lost command of the army. Do you understand why I did this?”

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  “No,” Ethan said, waiting for him to continue.

  “I’ve led this army for nearly twenty years. Every officer here is loyal to me. As long as they don’t know I’ve been stripped of power, I can still order them around.”

  “What do you want to do?” Ethan asked, frowning.

  The general’s voice slowly regained its energy and authority. “Tomorrow, we’ll march the entire army to that orc den and destroy it. Once we level their city, other countries will fear our military might and dare not speak out. The emperor will see we soldiers are the ones who protect the country. Those politicians will be terrified, humiliated—they won’t dare play their tricks anymore.”

  Ethan stared at the general in shock. Desperation had turned his anger and resentment into the reckless passion of a gambler.

  “What do we have to lose?” the general continued. “History only remembers winners. If we succeed, no one will dare criticize us. Bishop Ronis will never blame you. The Paladin Order won’t object—Captain Roland is an old comrade-in-arms. He’ll support us secretly. If we work together, you can command the priests to coordinate with the troops. We’ll wipe out every last orc. We outnumber them ten to one!” A light ignited in his eyes, as if victory were already within reach.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t do it,” Ethan shook his head. “I told you—sending troops recklessly will only end in disaster. And my mission here is to stop you. I’ll go back and tell the other officers you’ve been stripped of command.”

  The general’s eyes dimmed—then flared with a hundred times more fury.

  Facing the general’s murderous gaze, Ethan felt no fear—only pity for the old man. “Isn’t peace better?” he said. “Who cares who’s in power? The soldiers won’t have to die. They can go home. Living in peace is better than dying here, isn’t it?”

  The general’s voice was a roar, almost a scream. “All men die sooner or later! As soldiers, what’s the point of going home to farm and sell vegetables—waiting to waste away on a sickbed? Better to die gloriously on the battlefield!”

  Ethan still shook his head, his tone calm. “Even if you think that way, these forty thousand soldiers don’t. Their families don’t. They want their sons and husbands to come home alive. General… don’t your wife and children want you to go home alive?”

  The general slowly pointed west, where the sunset blazed like blood. His voice trembled. “My wife and my last son died there. Killed by orcs.”

  Ethan froze.

  “Twenty-five years ago,” the general said, his toughness and power vanishing—only trembling sorrow remained. Backlit by the sunset, he looked like a broken statue. “My wife was traveling through the Barbarian Highlands with a merchant caravan. The orcs killed her… ate her. I never even found her body. Half a year ago, my last son led a group of mercenaries to scout deep into the highlands. He vanished without a trace. He was only twenty-five—such a brave warrior. Given time, he would’ve been a great warrior, a great general. You know that?”

  Ethan did. He pictured the brave figure standing alone on a barren mountain top, facing an ogre as massive as a war fortress.

  “Let me tell you something else,” the general continued. “Twenty years ago, villages and towns around the Barbarian Highlands were raided by orcs every year. Those beasts hunted humans like animals—capturing them alive, killing them, eating them. When I led troops to wipe out those beasts, I saw decorations made of human bones in their tribes. They used human skin as paper to write on… as clothes to wear. And now? Those beasts have the audacity to build a city. To negotiate with us humans. Put aside being a warrior—can you allow that, even as a man?”

  The general’s voice was no longer fiery—only sad and tiredly angry. But Ethan’s heart grew restless.

  No one was unaware that orcs had once eaten humans. For years, these subhumans had been defined by their bloodthirsty, savage ways. Hearing this tragedy from an old man who’d lost his family—rather than a passing mention from the brilliant Lord Sedros—stirred Ethan’s blood.

  But he knew sending troops to attack would be a death sentence. And under Sedros’ leadership, the orcs’ relationship with humans would never be the same. A war fought purely for old hatreds was meaningless.

  Ethan took a deep breath and looked at the general. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  The general’s tall body trembled violently. Despair, loss, and agony twisted his face—then slowly turned to rage. Killing intent flashed clearly in his eyes.

  If he killed Ethan, he could still command the army. Still take his revenge!

  Facing the general—now like an angry lion baring its fangs—Ethan shook his head calmly. “If your wife and son are watching from heaven, they would never want you to use these forty thousand lives to avenge them. Do you think they’d be happy knowing you’re offering living people as sacrifices to honor them? Do you think they want you to throw your own life away too?”

  The general still glared at Ethan—but slowly, his eyes grew blank and weak. The killing intent faded. He stood there for a moment, then turned silently and walked back the way they’d come, ignoring Ethan.

  Beneath the blood-red sunset, his tall figure had none of its former majesty—only a clumsy, weary slump. As Ethan watched the general vanish into the dusk, he prayed Duke Mrak would arrive soon. That the troops would withdraw, and this would all end. So he could report to the bishop, then travel far away—forgetting all these hateful things.

  An owl hooted twice from a nearby branch, its large eyes staring. Normally fond of animals, Ethan suddenly felt a surge of disgust. He turned and glared at the ominous bird of prey.

  That night, a hazy half-moon hung in the sky. It was a rare cloudy night in the highlands.

  The general lay in bed, unable to sleep. It was the first time he’d suffered from insomnia since he’d killed a man for the first time at thirteen.

  But unlike the tension, fear, and excitement of that night, now he felt only exhaustion and powerlessness.

  This was not physical tiredness—but a heavy weariness and despair weighing on his heart. Not a single muscle in his body could summon strength; even his spirit felt ready to shatter. His body seemed like an empty shell, drained of all vitality.

  Old and new wounds ached in unison. After decades of fighting, he had nothing left. His wife and son had been killed by orcs—and now he couldn’t even avenge them. Soon, he would be forced out of the army by politicians, left to live like a useless old dog—eating the scraps they tossed him until he died. Even dying gloriously, like a warrior driving a broken bone into an enemy’s chest, was just a distant hope.

  Living had no meaning. Even death would be unworthy. The general closed his eyes, drowning in helpless sorrow and despair. He felt as if he were melting into a puddle of mud—slowly dissolving, warping, rotting.

  “Father.” A deep voice roused him. The general opened his eyes—and saw his son. His youngest son, his favorite, his most gifted.

  His face was as bold and steady as the general’s had been in his youth. His expression was solemn, as if he’d just returned from a fierce battle. In his hand, he held a bare sword hilt. He stood straight; a gash on his forehead poured blood, dyeing his entire face red—but it couldn’t hide his bravery. There was a gaping, bloody hole in his chest, torn by some terrible weapon.

  “You…” The general didn’t dare move, afraid the vision would vanish if he disturbed it. He didn’t know if this was his son’s spirit—or a hallucination born of grief.

  “Father, I followed your teachings,” his son said. “I fought with all my strength until the end. I died in glorious battle—a warrior’s most honorable fate.” He stood proudly, gripping the hilt tightly. The terrible wound in his chest seemed like a medal.

  “Did you? You did well… so well,” the general murmured. “My good son.”

  “I saw countless innocent people killed by orcs. They died horribly. But they all praised you—called you a hero, who killed many of those brutal beasts to avenge them. I also saw the soldiers who died fighting orcs. They encourage you. They want you to keep fighting. You’ve always fought to avenge the dead. You may not be the greatest general… but you are the greatest warrior.”

  “Am I?” The general nodded. A tear fell from his long-dry eye.

  He had always hated and despised tears—seeing them as a sign of weakness, something no warrior needed. But now, he felt all his vitality and hope surging in his chest, carried by that single tear.

  “I also met Mother,” his son continued. “She said she’s waiting for you in heaven—waiting for you to come to her in the most honorable way. I want to see you fight again, Father. That’s the real you.” His voice faded, his form growing blurry. “Goodbye, Father. I’ll go ahead.”

  “My son…” The general sat up suddenly. Dawn was breaking.

  Had it been a dream? The general touched his face—there were real tears on his cheeks. He wiped them away, sitting up dazedly and glancing around. Nearby, something glinted on the floor in the early morning light.

  The general walked over slowly and picked it up with trembling hands. It was a bare sword hilt. The blade seemed to have shattered under great force—only a tiny fragment remained attached to the hilt.

  It looked old, worn by sun and rain—so ordinary it would go unnoticed if thrown by the roadside. But the general recognized it. On one end of the hilt was a recessed cross—the symbol of the Paladin Order. On the other were two words: “Courage” and “Glory.” He had carved them himself.

  The general pressed the hilt to his chest, as if trying to absorb its meaning into his heart. Then he stood up, feeling a surge of strength—stronger than he’d ever felt before.