Smiling, Marcel pulled a brown scroll from his bag. Unfurling it with deliberate care, he cleared his throat and began to read aloud:
"By decree of His Majesty, the Sovereign Ruler, the Lord of All Humanity, Master of the Twelve Legions, the One Ordained by the Eleven Gods, and He who owns all lands under the watchful gaze of the gods: you are commanded to deliver one million pounds of meat to nourish the military for the War of Grace."
Tobias's stomach tightened, though he kept his expression as composed as he could manage. One million pounds? His thoughts raced, panic bubbling beneath the surface. He didn't even have that much livestock, and his Sanguine wasn't advanced enough to produce meat on such a scale. The cost of attempting this demand would ruin him entirely.
Marcel continued, ignoring the flesh cultivator's unease. "You have one month to fulfill this command. Signed by the Sovereign Ruler, the High Lords of Humanity, and the Ten Ministries."
Ten? Tobias clenched his fists discreetly. Of course. The Untamed Storm Ministry had sided with the opposition in this War of Grace. He knew better than to voice his frustrations, but the reality left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"You may rise," Marcel said, folding the scroll neatly and tucking it back into his bag. His ever-present smile remained fixed, his demeanor calm.
Tobias stood, adjusting his coat as he searched for the words to convey his desperation. "Sir Marcel," he began cautiously, "how is a small operation like mine supposed to produce one million pounds of meat in a month? This is... impossible." His words bordered on pleading, though he knew the notary could offer no reprieve. Marcel was but a messenger, not the Sovereign himself.
"I wouldn't know," Marcel replied smoothly, pulling a smaller scroll from his bag. "However, I'll need your signature to confirm receipt of this order. Once signed, the terms become official, and I will send this document to the Tome Vaults."
Contract? This is extortion! Tobias seethed internally, though he dared not voice his outrage. This is happening because my family is weak. If I were from one of the great houses, they wouldn't dare make such demands. His thoughts skated dangerously close to blasphemy, and he forced himself to stop. To insult the Sovereign was to insult the gods who had placed him in power.
"And once I sign?" Tobias asked, his voice even but resigned. He already knew the answer.
"Then my work here is complete," Marcel replied with a serene smile, rolling the smaller scroll between his fingers.
Tobias hesitated. Work complete? Then you're heading to Walter. But why? Walter is no flesh cultivator. He's a Pleasure-Master. Unless... His mind spun with possibilities.
"What about Walter?" Tobias finally asked.
Marcel turned to him, his expression unreadable. "I do have a task for him, yes. But it's quite different. Walter will be asked to provide... other services. Specifically, girls for the army. War takes a toll, and relief helps rebuild strength." Marcel's gaze drifted toward the red-dusted mountain, his words trailing off casually.
Just more exploitation. Tobias's anger simmered beneath the surface. All because my family has fallen. Once, we were strong. Not on the level of the Twelve Sanguine Families during the Fallen Empire, but a force to be reckoned with nonetheless. His jaw tightened as he pushed the thought aside. If everything is lost, shouldn't I be bold enough to reclaim it?
"Bring the contract tomorrow," Tobias said abruptly, his tone firm. "Then I'll sign it."
Marcel blinked, the faintest trace of confusion crossing his face. "Do you realize that you are indirectly refusing an imperial decree?" he asked, his smile returning.
"I've said no such thing," Tobias replied evenly. "I simply said you should return tomorrow. That was when you were scheduled to arrive anyway." His gaze drifted upward to the midday sky, now streaked with hues of red and gray. He ignored the half-amused expression on the notary's face.
"Very well," Marcel said after a pause, bowing slightly. "But remember: actions delayed are often treated as actions not taken. Rewards and punishments follow accordingly." He straightened, offering a final, practiced smile. "Be pure."
With that, Marcel exited the balcony, his footsteps fading into the manor.
Tobias remained on the balcony, staring into the distance. After a long silence, he muttered, "I have to contact Siegfried." His tone was grim, laced with reluctant determination. "To think I'd stoop to working with a secret faction... heretics, profane lunatics. But if their power offers me protection, so be it. The Adeiheid family must rise again—like the phoenix."
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Karl stared at the white sun, its light dimmed by the black-red clouds encroaching on its edges, tinged now with the deep hues of twilight.
The beastmen told stories of a time when the sun had not been white, when it had shone with a golden light and the skies were free from the perpetual rain of red dust. Stories of a world unstained by constant grayness and oppression. A world where beastmen were not slaves.
A time before the Empire. Before the First Order was declared.
A time when creatures other than humans had been allowed to exist.
But Karl had no memories of such a world. Were those stories even real? And if they were, did I belong to that so-called non-human lineage?
Blinking to shield his eyes from the falling dust, Karl followed the slow descent of the massive white orb as it inched toward the western horizon. His gaze lowered to the stone building ahead, shadowed by tall stalks of corn leaning against its dark walls as though seeking shade.
The pungent smell of blood carried faintly on the wind, making his nose twitch.
Astrid approached him with her usual cheerful smile, a stark contrast to the somber mood hanging over the fields. Her grin, as persistent as ever, was a contrast to the true vibe of the place.
Karl sighed, adjusting his tail as he began walking along the corn-lined pathway toward the Sanguine breeding shed.
Arriving at the shed, Karl watched as a middle-aged beastman stepped forward, his broad shoulders hunched slightly from years of labor. "Mr. Abraham," the beastman announced, "we're here to check on the drove."
A high-pitched squeal cut through the air, followed by the slow creak of the shed's door. A figure emerged, stepping into view.
Karl's stomach churned at the sight. So ugly.
The creature resembled a man but wasn't one. Dressed in tattered robes stained with both dried and fresh blood, he forced a grotesque smile, his long pink snout dripping yellowish mucus. Black, round eyes welled with tears, and faint squeals escaped him at irregular intervals.
"Abomination!" the middle-aged beastman spat with disgust.
The pig-man stepped aside, gesturing with an awkward attempt at elegance. But his motions came across more like a predator inviting its prey.
Karl's thoughts drifted as he followed the group inside. What goes through his head? Is he content with this miserable existence, or would he welcome death if it came?
Inside, the shed's interior was deceptively spacious compared to its small exterior. Wooden walls fenced off squealing pigs that scrambled within their pens. At the center of the room stood a massive cauldron, its surface faintly steaming with black, ephemeral smoke that dissipated almost instantly. The cauldron, ominous and cold, seemed to command the space.
A man sat beside it, his gaze fixed intently on its bubbling contents. Eternal lamps hung from the stone walls, their light casting long shadows across the room. Despite the shed's wooden roof, the lamps had been carefully positioned to avoid touching the flammable material.
Karl stood silently in a corner, observing.
Frederick Abraham, the man seated by the cauldron, seemed oblivious to the new arrivals. With practiced determination, he plunged his hands into the cauldron's icy depths. Though the water burned like boiling fire on his skin, the surface was unnaturally cold. His expression remained focused as he reached deeper, his hands searching for something within the cauldron.
The liquid resisted him, trembling violently as though the life within fought against being claimed. But Frederick was no stranger to this battle. His sharp gaze hardened, and his muscles flexed. Strength was the only answer.
Only the strong can bring life into the world, he reminded himself. This was the law of the old world, the principle of every mother.
At this moment, he was a mother.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping into the cauldron where it sizzled and vanished. His breath came in short, labored gasps as he fought against the resistance, his hands clutching at something soft and meaty. With a final, Herculean effort, he pulled.
The cauldron quaked violently, then stilled as Frederick emerged triumphant. In his arms was a small, pink pig the size of a human child. The creature squealed loudly, alive and writhing. Frederick's face broke into a wide smile, his dark, feminine hair cascading down his arms as he cradled the newborn pig close to his chest.
He looked like a mother meeting her child for the first time
Frederick Abraham stood and walked to the edge of the barn, cradling the squealing piglet in his arms. With a casual motion, he tossed the creature into the pig pen, its tiny body tumbling onto the hay-strewn floor. The other pigs squealed in response, their noise reverberating through the barn.
"A mother must also push her children to achieve their best," Frederick said, almost to himself.
He returned to his seat by the cauldron, glancing at the pig-man creature kneeling before him. The abomination squealed softly, tears pooling in its black, beady eyes.
"Don't be like this," Frederick said, patting the creature's large, round head. "Wouldn't you want brothers?"
The pig-man didn't respond with words but hugged him even tighter, its snout pressing against Frederick's arm. It was clear from its frantic squeals that it did not want to share its mother.
Frederick chuckled softly, shaking his head as if indulging a spoiled child.
The middle-aged beastman who had accompanied Karl stepped forward, his hands resting on his hips. "How's the drove coming along?" he asked, his voice gruff.
Frederick looked up at him, smiling faintly. "My children will be ready for slaughter by tomorrow. You don't need to worry."
His gaze shifted to Karl, who leaned silently against the blood-stained wall. "And how are you?" Frederick asked, his tone carrying an odd warmth.
Karl stiffened slightly. The same question, every day for the past two years. He always asked it. The response was always the same.
"The same," Karl replied, his voice flat.
Frederick nodded approvingly, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "That's how it should be. Son of the fal—" He abruptly cut himself off, his attention snapping back to the cauldron.
The bubbling liquid inside hissed softly, steam rising in faint, black tendrils. "It's going well," he added quickly. "The drove will be ready. No need to worry."
Son of the fallen. The phrase lingered in Karl's mind. Frederick always called him that. And yet, he never explained what it meant.
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Aurelian stood before a wooden notice board plastered with worn flyers. Each bore his face and the word "Thal'zin" written in bold letters beneath. The word was a stain upon his name, meaning "coward" in the language of the Maw people.
Coward? Me? Aurelian's fists tightened at the insult. I answered the call of my Archon. I fought with honor.
He had once respected his Archon, even loved him as a leader. So did all of them. That was before they were sent into the Nightmare Plains on a doomed mission. Rumors had warned of a winter elf encampment supported by traitor legions from Donnersburg.
But as soldiers of the Black Sand Regiment under the Chaos Hunter Legion of the Empire, they stood proud. He had stood proud.
It had all been a trap.
Aurelian's squad was ambushed, slaughtered in the chaos. His friends sacrificed their lives so he could escape and call for reinforcements. At the time, he still believed the Archon hadn't known about the danger.
But no reinforcements came.
The truth became clear: it had been a ploy. The Archon had sent a spy with them, not to secure victory, but to assess the enemy's strength. His squad's deaths had been a calculated loss—a tool for the Archon's strategy.
Today, that man would face justice.
Aurelian adjusted the white coat he wore, its buttons aligned neatly on the left side of his chest. His white trousers bore faint stains of red dust from the skies above. His brown hair fell across half his face, obscuring one eye, while the other—brown —beamed with resolve.
He walked through pathways lined with tents, their canvas stained by the blood-colored dust that rained endlessly. Guards moved about, hauling cannons or patrolling with tired expressions.
Ahead loomed the blackened red keep, its towers adorned with flags bearing the Archon's insignia. The swirling clouds above, a mix of crimson and darkness, created a sky as oppressive as the keep itself.
There was a time when Aurelian had been one of those soldiers, toiling in the same routine. A time when loyalty was rewarded with honor instead of betrayal.