Chapter 61: Spring in Diya Valley

  The general had gone out to clear his head.

  The day after Ethan refused him, he temporarily handed over command of the army to Ethan, saying he needed to go out and relax. Ethan had worried the general might do something reckless in a fit of rage—so he was relieved… yet a faint sense of unease lingered.

  For after that night, the general’s expression had grown unnaturally calm. All traces of his fiery passion from the day before were gone—even his usual authority and ferocity had vanished, replaced by the gentle steadiness one would expect of an old man.

  Such a drastic shift in emotion felt wrong on this old soldier. Ethan had not feared the general when he was blazing with murderous rage—but now, staring at that eerily peaceful face, he felt a chill creep up his spine.

  A man overcome by fury or madness was manageable. Uncontrolled emotion clouded reason, making him easy to deal with. But when all emotional force was bottled up inside—when every impulse was tamed into calm, merged with reason and will—that was when he became truly terrifying.

  Yet logically, the situation was stable. Ethan had told every officer in the army about the emperor’s decree. Even if the general tried to rally the troops, he couldn’t. Perhaps that calm was the apathy of someone who had finally accepted reality.

  He hoped so. Ethan waited anxiously in Bracada.

  Three days later, the general returned—bringing with him more than twenty people. They looked like ordinary villagers: an elderly man nearly seventy, young men in their prime, and others in between. The general housed them in the town hall, then summoned all the mid-ranking and junior officers, whispering orders to them. Many of these officers had served under him for decades; they were still willing to obey small requests.

  Next, the general hosted a grand feast to reward all the priests in the army—naturally including Ethan. The feast adhered strictly to the church’s dietary rules for priests, yet was still lavish. The general said he wanted to thank the priests for their long-standing spiritual guidance to the soldiers, urging them to enjoy themselves.

  By etiquette, priests had cumbersome mealtime rituals: they must pray before eating, chew slowly and politely, then pray again before leaving the table. Not everyone followed these rules strictly in private—but with hundreds of fellow priests watching, and the cleric himself present, no one dared to slack. So hundreds of priests prayed in unison, as if for a grand ceremony, before finally picking up their utensils.

  “What are you playing at?” Ethan—leader of these hundreds of priests—did not pray. He sat in the top seat, frowning impatiently at the general beside him.

  The general remained calm, smiling like a well-mannered host. “I just want to treat everyone to a good meal. Rest assured—I wouldn’t dare tamper with a priest’s food.”

  Ethan sighed, helpless. “Please, old man—just stop. Can’t you wait quietly here for Duke Mrak?”

  The general said nothing, only smiled calmly. Ethan felt a cold prickle on his back. This face, once contorted with so many intense emotions, now wore an unnatural gentleness that felt uncanny.

  “Why aren’t you eating, Cleric?” The general smiled faintly, gesturing to the delicacies on the table.

  Ethan shook his head, sighed, and dragged a plate of food toward himself, shoveling it into his mouth. “Of course I’ll eat,” he mumbled. “Why refuse a free meal? I’ve never had a grudge against food.”

  The food was delicious. Below them, the priests ate with grace and decorum—occasionally glancing up at their leader, who was stuffing his face like a bandit. None dared to imitate him.

  Soon, Ethan’s plate was empty. He let out a satisfied burp, wiped his hands, and stood up to leave.

  “Where are you going, Cleric?” the general asked.

  “Ate too much. Gotta take a shit.” The noble cleric walked out without looking back.

  Bracada’s streets were unusually quiet. It was still noon, yet no soldiers wandered the roads—a strange, eerie lull. Ethan walked around, determined to uncover the general’s scheme.

  Passing an inn, he heard voices inside. He crept to the door and peeked in.

  Only the spacious common room of a Bracada inn could hold two or three hundred soldiers sitting in a circle. These were young men—most in their teens or twenties—with no older veterans among them. They must have been specially selected from the army. They gathered around an old man, listening intently to his words.

  The old man was one of the villagers the general had brought back. His weathered face was crisscrossed with wrinkles; he hunched slightly, his hands hanging almost to his knees—a farmer who had spent his life toiling in the fields. Now he spoke to the soldiers:

  “I saw a human skin hanging from a tree. It had no face, but I knew who it belonged to. I recognized the scar on its leg—I’d dressed that wound with my own hands. By then, the ogres had pinned my sister to a stone altar. An ogre dressed like a priest danced around her, then slit her stomach open with a stone knife. She screamed and struggled, but the ogres held her down. I watched her blood flow across the altar—she kept screaming, kept fighting. That priest tore her heart out while she was still alive, held it in his hand, danced their sick dance, then laid it on their altar. She was my sister…” Tears streamed down the old man’s face, his body trembling. The years had not dulled the horror of that memory.

  The young soldiers stirred. Fire rushed through their veins; grief and shared hatred sparked in their hearts, fanned into a blaze by their youthful passion. If an orc had appeared before them then, they would have torn it to shreds.

  “Luckily, the village had hired mercenaries,” the old man continued, still trembling. “I ran away in the chaos. But I’ll never forget what I saw… Every year, someone from our village was captured and eaten by those beasts. It only stopped when General Sanders led his troops here and killed every last one of those monsters. We finally lived in peace. We owe him everything—General Sanders is our savior, the greatest general in the empire!”

  The two or three hundred young listeners were completely swept up in his emotion. Young hearts were easily moved—and these tales of horror would stir anyone with a shred of decency.

  “But now I hear the general has been dismissed,” the farmer said, his simple logic giving voice to his honest feelings. “I’m just an old fool who doesn’t understand state affairs, but I know this: the general is our savior. He fights for us, just like you soldiers. He’s a good man. But those officials and nobles? They just waste our tax money on feasts and wine. Why do they get to dismiss a good man like General Sanders?

  “I also heard the remaining orcs have built a city in the wasteland. They’re colluding with those nobles—making the empire sign a peace treaty, even recognizing them as independent. Is there any justice left? Are we just going to forget our dead loved ones? I haven’t slept a wink since I heard that. I hate that I’m too old to lift a sword. If I could, I’d march to that orc city alone. Even if they kill me, even if they eat me—I’d slash one of them with a knife first. I’d let my flesh poison them!”

  The old man’s voice and body shook more violently with every word. This was no rehearsed speech. No practice could make a simple farmer speak with such power—it was the raw force of true emotion, shaking every listener to the core. These soldiers were young and earnest; they felt that emotion deeply. Their faces were twisted with furious, fanatical passion.

  Ethan, listening at the door, broke out in goosebumps. He could guess what the general was planning.

  “Alright, time’s up—let’s go!” A soldier who looked like a captain stood up and led the men outside. Ethan stepped aside quickly.

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  Groups of soldiers began filing out of every inn—all young men, split into batches to hear the stories of the general’s villagers. No other officers came to stop them. The general’s prestige among his men was too strong to be erased by a single imperial decree.

  The soldiers paid no attention to Ethan. Guided by men who must have been briefed by the general beforehand, they marched toward the city gates.

  Ethan followed them to a small hill outside the city. The general was already standing atop it. The priests were presumably still eating— the food was delicious, and the general had no doubt ensured they would stay there, content and unaware.

  When all the soldiers had gathered, the general’s deep voice boomed over the crowd of furious young men:

  “Brave sons of Ainfast! Noble warriors of the empire! You all know I am no longer your commander. Because of noble plots, because of dirty political deals, this great war—fought to avenge our people—has been betrayed!

  “I could go home,” he roared. “I could take the imperial pension and live out my days in comfort. I am no longer a general, after all. But I will not do that. I will never do that!” His voice thundered, as if he were pouring his very soul into it. “Because I am still a warrior! I am a warrior!”

  The soldiers roared in response, caught up in his authority.

  Every cry from the heart stirs others’ souls—and this outburst was like the climax of a play, carefully built up with stories and emotion.

  Standing at the edge of the soldier’s ranks, listening to the tidal wave of rage, Ethan felt cold.

  “I will not go home to die in a bed,” the general continued, his voice clear enough for every soldier to hear. “I would trade every last day of that miserable old age for one chance—one chance to face those beasts as a warrior, to show them the dignity and anger of humanity with my sword!

  “I cannot order you now. I cannot command you. I speak to you now only as a fellow warrior.” The general slowed his voice, emphasizing every word to fan the fire in those young hearts. “I ask you, my brothers-in-arms—will you follow me? Will you stand with me to kill those beasts?”

  “YES!” The shout was deafening—five or six thousand voices, screaming from the depths of their souls.

  “Good!” the general ordered, his speech a triumph. “Go back and gather your gear. We march at once!”

  The soldiers dispersed in an orderly fashion. Soon, only Ethan and the general remained.

  The general did not move from the hill. All trace of his passionate performance was gone; he had returned to that terrifying calm, staring down at Ethan like a statue.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Ethan asked coldly.

  The general’s tone was as calm as his face. “I’m just letting them know the truth of what’s happening—then letting them choose for themselves. Everyone has a right to the truth, don’t they? And telling the truth is never a bad thing.”

  Ethan snorted. “So you gathered all the priests together just to ‘spread the truth’?” Beyond healing and supportive magic, priests played a key role in managing the soldiers’ emotions. Warriors who danced with death were often devout; the priests’ teachings and small spiritual blessings usually helped calm their restlessness.

  “Faith is just a veil for the truth,” the general said. “It’s a crutch for the weak, something warriors never need. Give it a little time—once their fighting spirit is fully kindled, no words or gods will put it out.” He finally showed a flicker of curiosity as he looked at Ethan. “You know what I’m doing. Why are you still standing here? I thought you’d be rushing back to stop me.”

  “If you’ve gone this far, you must have other plans,” Ethan said, climbing the hill instead of running away. “But I’ll ask anyway—what would you do if I went back right now and told the priests to calm the soldiers?”

  “As soon as you tried, I’d kill you.” The general’s voice was still calm—no anger, no killing intent, even a faint smile on his lips. But Ethan knew he meant every word.

  “Do you think you could?” Ethan stood before the general, staring at him coldly.

  “I couldn’t do it alone,” the general admitted honestly—he had the eye of a warrior. “But five thousand men could. The five thousand young soldiers who just listened to me? If I told them you’re a spy—colluding with nobles and orcs—and stirred them up… they’d tear you apart.”

  Ethan looked into the old man’s calm eyes. Once filled with courage, resolve, ferocity, and fire, they were now empty—dead. At last, Ethan understood how the general had changed, how he could do these things.

  They were the eyes of a dead man.

  All his feelings, all his values, had died for a single goal. Even his own life was just a tool to achieve it. He would do anything—use all his wit, energy, and tricks—to reach that end. He would burn down the world without a second thought.

  “Five thousand men. All young,” Ethan said slowly, shaking his head. “You chose them specially from the army, didn’t you?”

  “Young men have passion. They have fire. They have the courage to act,” the general replied, his dead eyes studying Ethan. “The longer people live, the more they overthink. They stop wanting to die… to kill. So I advise you not to interfere. I don’t want more trouble—and you don’t want to die, do you?” He turned and walked back toward the city. “Besides, the priests are useless now, anyway.”

  Before long, the general led his five thousand soldiers out of Bracada.

  No other officers tried to stop them. The general’s lingering authority made his former subordinates reluctant to intervene. And his persuasion had convinced them: this was his personal madness. If anything went wrong, they would not be held accountable. With no risk to themselves and no desire to confront him, they let the soldiers—once their men—march away.

  Ethan did not stop them either. He did not tell the priests to soothe the soldiers, whose minds were clouded by anger and fighting spirit. He did not want to see these priests—loyal to Bishop Ronis—cut down by the general’s axe. A man like the general would stop at nothing.

  Now, he could only sit in the town hall and wait for Duke Mrak. At least the general was gone; there would be no more trouble. The mission Bishop Ronis had given him was not a complete success—but it was done. The general had only taken five thousand men.

  Five thousand. Just one-eighth of the army. Nothing to worry about. Events had exceeded his control, but he had done his best.

  Five thousand. Suddenly, Ethan remembered the three mangled corpses he had seen when he first arrived. Five thousand corpses—two thousand times more—would pile up like a mountain. He imagined their screams, their wails, the flesh and organs and bones flying through the air. In his ears, he heard the sound he would never forget—from that night half a year ago: a sea of cries, the sickening crunch of broken bones and twisted flesh, the whine of weapons slicing through air and muscle. And now it would be dozens of times louder. His skin tightened; his stomach churned.

  Ethan stood up abruptly, kicking over the table and smashing his chair to splinters. He cursed the general with the same foul language he had learned in taverns—no less vicious than the general’s earlier insults to Priest Nagas. Then he found a senior, respected priest, gave him instructions, and rode a horse to catch up with the general’s army.

  “What are you doing here?” the general asked when he saw Ethan approaching.

  Ethan glared at the reckless old soldier. “Here to die. Here to watch you die.”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” the general said flatly.

  “I hope you die quickly. Preferably first, as soon as the fighting starts. Then I might have a chance to lead the rest of these men back.”

  “Then you’ll be disappointed again,” the general replied, still flat. “I won’t die easily—not until my arms grow tired from cutting down those beasts.” Since making his decision, he had bottled up all his emotions inside, turning them into fuel. He would not waste a single moment showing them.

  Ethan looked up at the tall, burly old man—who stood a head taller than him—and at the two axes at his waist. He spat on the ground. “If I could, I’d kill you myself. Save us all the wait.”

  “In the past, I might have considered that offer,” the general said, glancing up and down at Ethan before turning his gaze back to the road ahead. “Now it’s impossible. What a shame.”

  “What a shame, indeed,” a necromancer muttered, flopping down onto a plush velvet cushion. He had just returned via a magic circle. “I failed.”

  “Nonsense—you put on quite a show!” another necromancer laughed, clapping. “More touching than anything I’ve seen at the royal theater.”

  “Didn’t I tell you before? People used to say my plays had the spirit of Dario Fo!” The first necromancer smiled proudly, then sighed. “But I ran out of time. I should have killed that imperial messenger first. Now our brave general had to scrape together five thousand soldiers— and only with my help, secretly dealing with the officers who tried to stop him. If he’d taken all forty thousand troops, he might have stood a chance against old Sedros. He might even have destroyed the city along with him. But five thousand? I doubt that’s even enough to fill Sedros’ stomach.”

  “Who cares?” said a third necromancer, twirling a crystal skull in his hand. “It’s just a game. We’ll sit back and watch. Let’s see how these five thousand lively young men ‘fill his stomach.’ Maybe they’ll stuff it so full, they’ll make old Sedros choke—knock out a tooth or two, make him bleed.”

  “I bet they’ll kill fifty orcs,” the second necromancer said.

  “Seventy,” another wagered. “I’ll put up a magic jade.”

  “I’ll also bet a magic jade. Twenty orcs, max,” said a fourth. “I heard that old man has a powerful half-elf friend. And if the orcs are well-equipped, they’re no pushovers.”

  “Five thousand soldiers! Can’t they kill even a hundred?” a fifth exclaimed. “I’ll bet ten phoenix feathers and ten thunderbird feathers.”

  A harsh, rasping voice cut in. “I bet they won’t kill a single one.” Vedenina’s half-face twisted into a smile. “But my wager is that you all agree to admit a new member to the guild.”

  “Whatever gives you such confidence, fair lady?” one necromancer teased. “But let’s be clear—you aren’t allowed to interfere. If you march into the orc camp and summon a Dark Dragon yourself, you’d only be helping old Sedros, wouldn’t you?”

  The lich’s smile—beautiful in the eyes of her companions, yet a nightmare for any ordinary person—never reached her desiccated lower face. Her voice, however, carried unshakable certainty: “Of course not. I’m not that cruel.”

  “Heh, I knew our lady was not only clever and beautiful,” said the necromancer who had orchestrated the general’s rebellion, flashing a charming grin, “but also kind and moral.” He met Vedenina’s gaze, his eyes glinting. “Very well—I’ll join your bet. I also wager not a single orc dies. And my stake is the same: we admit a new member.”

  Vedenina glanced at the necromancer who had trusted her judgment—but there was no gratitude or approval in her eyes.

  “Can you really find someone with enough virtue and skill to join our noble order?” one necromancer asked, feigning enthusiasm. “I have a feeling… spring is coming to Diya Valley.”