"Come out, Garcia Greene."
Through the unlocked wooden door, Finley called out loudly.
Greene, not daring to delay, clumsily ran out of his cell, dragging the chains locked around his ankles.
He was one of the twenty-six inmates similarly summoned to the corridor. The dim light from the wall-mounted oil lamps cast shadows on their faces—all were bald and beardless, dressed in identical round-necked tunics and knee-length trousers, their cheeks swollen, faces pale, dragging slightly long iron chains.
Greene knew he looked just like the rest of them.
After counting the inmates and confirming everyone was present, Finley handed them buckets and large pieces of ragged cloth, gesturing for them to get moving.
The twenty-seven men, including Garcia Greene, hurried to the only water source at the end of the corridor, carrying the buckets and rags. The militia had installed a water pump, drawing groundwater to the faucets on each floor, making it convenient for the inmates to fetch water nearby.
After lining up at the faucet to collect water, the inmates energetically began cleaning every area—corridors, toilets, empty or occupied cells, and more. All of them, once living luxuriously and unaccustomed to such menial work, had adapted. Repeated tasks led to proficiency, even for the unwilling.
Amid the clanking of chains, the twenty-seven prisoners managed to scrub the entire basement level spotless in just over half an hour.
Finley, who had been standing at the end of the corridor, conducted a random inspection of several cells and checked his pocket watch. Nodding in approval, he stated indifferently, "Completed 20 minutes ahead of schedule. You'll get extra food today."
Like the others, Greene, standing obediently against the wall, involuntarily swallowed at the mention of extra food.
When Finley brought down two buckets of food, none of the prisoners squabbled or fought over it. They all patiently waited to receive their share, sat cross-legged in two rows against the wall, and devoured their meals. They even made sure to clean the wooden buckets and utensils afterward before returning them to Finley.
Finley had no interest in praising their docility. He left with the empty buckets, showing no concern for the inmates.
All twenty-seven prisoners on this floor were deemed "extremely heinous" and "serious offenders." Unlike other prisoners, they couldn't step outside for fresh air during meal times, nor could they work for better treatment. Since the day they were thrown in here, these inmates hadn't gotten to see the sky again.
With minimal staff for supervision, there was neither the patience nor the energy for detailed management. Even the doors to their cells were left unlocked, with only the passage to the surface sealed off. They were like forgotten rats, left to survive or perish in this underground facility initially intended as a temporary holding area.
This neglectful treatment was, in its own way, terrifying.
On the first two days, they fought fiercely, still possessing the energy to gain dominance over the others.
On the third day, when Finley brought down boiled potatoes and saw the chaotic state of the corridor and cells stained with blood, vomit, and excrement, he took the food back up, informing them that if they couldn't maintain basic hygiene, everyone would go hungry.
Faced with hunger, some reluctantly cleaned their cells, thinking they would be fed, only to be told that maintaining the communal areas was everyone's responsibility. With no food provided unless every single cell and area was cleaned, they had no choice but to submit.
Finley was exceptionally cold toward them, sparing no harsh words or even a glance. It was evident that he didn't care about their well-being. Even if they all killed each other, Finley would likely see it as less trouble for him.
Such indifference eliminated any leverage for bargaining with Finley—they had none to begin with.
One day, Finley casually mentioned that he could offer them a bit more food if they cleaned faster and didn't make him wait too long—beyond the daily ration of boiled potatoes, they could also receive leftovers from the communal kitchen, like a few meat-filled dumplings (frozen) and flavorful soup with vegetable leaves (instant noodle broth).
This sparked unprecedented enthusiasm among the inmates of this floor…
This method of passive-aggressive control, targeting their mental state rather than physical abuse, proved more efficient and less laborious than Hal's direct violence.
The subtle change in behavior wasn't because Finley was a master of psychological manipulation; he simply didn't have the time or energy to micromanage them—with over a thousand prisoners in the militia, just keeping track of names and faces was enough to drive him to the brink!
Back on the ground floor, Finley handed the buckets and utensils back to Mia, who was in charge of the communal kitchen. He grumbled, "I always say there's no need to feed those bastards so well. Those scum underground are getting fat."
Mia, aware of the immense stress on Finley and his fellow brothers, replied with a smile, "Mr. Rex mentioned that some of the people brought in yesterday will work for the Lord like us, lightening our load soon."
"That's a long way off. Who knows when those Sokrians will be of any use!" Finley scoffed, running his hand through his hair. "They told us to 'just watch the prisoners for a few days,' and now, more than three weeks have passed. It's as if Yang has completely forgotten about us!"
Suddenly, Mia pointed behind Finley, exclaiming, "Lord Yang is here!"
Finley turned around in surprise.
And indeed, there was Lord Yang standing at the door, gazing at him with an unsettling calm.
Finley: "…"
I can't be that unlucky… It's just a casual complaint!
Yang Qiu gestured for Finley to come over.
Finley reluctantly approached, his face showing a mixture of reluctance and obedience.
"How are the Sokrian prisoners behaving?" Yang Qiu inquired.
Finley, relieved that the conversation was about the prisoners, reported, "A bunch of them was causing trouble, so Hal planted them in the ground."
This so-called 'planting' was a punishment devised by Hal, burying particularly stubborn troublemakers in a hole with only their heads exposed. Usually, most would submit in a few hours, and even the exceptionally stubborn ones couldn't endure more than 12 hours.
Yang Qiu walked around the militia building to the backyard and indeed saw two rows of pale, half-dead heads sticking out of the ground.
Standing before this "field of Sokrians," Yang Qiu raised his voice slightly, "Who is Captain Kenn of the Sea Lions group?"
A bruised and swollen head managed to tilt up slightly and look toward Yang Qiu.
Yang Qiu nodded slightly at the unfortunate soul buried up to his chin.
"Nice to meet you, Captain Kenn. I am Yang, a black mage."
Upon hearing Yang Qiu introduce himself as a black mage, Kenn seemed to shiver, straining to open his bloodshot eyes wider.
The middle-aged man standing before Kenn, with combed-back, shoulder-length hair, holding a staff in hand, looked more like a dignified nobleman than a black magician. His brown suit, striped shirt with a bow tie, and a white handkerchief in his vest pocket painted the picture of a respectable figure, not a practitioner of dark arts.
Yet, to Captain Kenn, this seemingly respectable man appeared far from benign.
After just two seconds of eye contact, Kenn, who had appeared ragged but emotionally stable, began to sweat profusely, his lips quickly lost color, and his facial muscles uncontrollably trembled as if he had seen some horrifying monster.
Yang Qiu merely smiled.
This Sokrian prisoner seemed to hold some value.
"Welcome to Weisshem," Yang Qiu said with a smile. "I hope you find this land full of vitality to your liking."
Kenn, terrified, kept his eyes locked with Yang Qiu's as if afraid that blinking would lead to his being devoured by the monstrous entity before him.
Meanwhile, back in the militia headquarters, Wagner gathered all his soldiers on the ground floor hall and made them form up.
With the entire Sea Lions mercenary group captured by the undead, even though Wagner had merely been a bystander, Yang kept his promise—forty-three of Wagner's men would be granted their freedom.
Wagner singled out six senior soldiers and instructed them to stand behind him. Then he addressed the remaining 43 men, "You've worked here in Weisshem for nearly half a month. According to the rules of Weisshem, you are entitled to the wages accumulated during your service. You guys come with me to settle the remuneration. You'll also be able to take something back for your families."
The soldiers, aware of Wagner's deal with Yang, were visibly excited. Being natives of Indahl and away from home for so long, these young men were understandably concerned about their families.
While the bunch was rejoicing, a discordant voice suddenly interrupted, "Wait! What about me?"
This voice belonged to one of Wagner's squires, James Horn.
A distant relative of the City Defense Commander Horn, he had officially served as Wagner's squire. In truth, everyone in the squad knew that he was placed there to gain experience, waiting to succeed Wagner's knight title and duties.
He often used this status to subtly coerce ordinary soldiers into doing his personal tasks, earning him the nickname "Eye Roller" among them for his haughty attitude and disdain for direct communication.
Wagner calmly looked James in the eye and said, "You are my squire. Since I cannot leave, neither can you."
"But you gave up the chance for these grunts!" James protested loudly, raising his voice.
During their confinement, while others willingly worked hard for better treatment, James refused to demean himself. He frequently had conflicts with other prisoners and was sick of the bland boiled potatoes.
Wagner shook his head in disappointment. "I wish Commander Horn valued you as much as he shows. Then I wouldn't have to listen to this foolishness from you right now."
James's face twitched, and he tried to argue further, but Wagner, impatient for more discussion, had him escorted out by the others who were also staying behind.
Turning back to the ordinary soldiers excited to return home and see their families, Wagner sighed softly.
If he could, he didn't wish to dampen the spirits of these fellows at such a time…
"Everyone, listen to me," Wagner finally said with some difficulty. "Adra III's steward, Mr. Gould, left Weisshem early this morning. During his stay, he never called to meet me… I-I regret to inform us that we might have been abandoned."
The previously jubilant young soldiers fell silent immediately.
These Indahl natives, some from the city and others from the surrounding towns, ranged from their early twenties to no older than thirty. The city defense force was more of a straightforward military unit, less entangled in internal politics than other official departments. But to say that they were oblivious to the struggles of hierarchy would be untrue.
Non-commissioned officers like Wagner, even if disliked by superiors, could still retire with a generous pension. But ordinary soldiers weren't as fortunate. Every three years during the discharge season, some would be replaced by new recruits, losing their near-middle-class income and leaving with just a severance package.
Once forced into retirement, a non-commissioned officer like Wagner, with some social standing and political savvy, could seek a position as a town sheriff. Options for ordinary soldiers were more limited—either becoming precarious mercenaries or returning to the humble trades of their ancestors.
The soldiers struggled to accept this harsh reality; some looked lost and anxious, others lowered their heads in sorrow.
Wagner sighed once more.
His personal grievances with Commander Horn shouldn't have led to the disbandment of the entire squad.
However, their entire squad being captured in Weisshem had indeed infuriated Adra III. His lack of effort to even send Steward Gould to pacify them was a clear indication of his rage over this disgraceful incident.
The City Defense Force had 24 cavalry squads, and Commander Horn, already at odds with Wagner, was unlikely to risk the emperor's wrath to save Wagner's unit.
"Once you guys return… report to the headquarters and see what they say," Wagner did his best to maintain his composure as he spoke. "If headquarters seeks accountability, remember to describe the situation as it happened. The fault for our capture lies with me due to my misjudgment leading to this disaster. Do not speak in my defense as it might make you complicit, and the military tribunal could withhold your severance pay."
"Lieutenant Pitt—" A soldier visibly upset wished to speak up, but Wagner raised a hand to stop him.
"If we give the tribunal an excuse, they won't just deduct the severance pay from one or two of you. It could affect everyone. Think of the others, not just yourselves."
The soldier fell silent once more.
"If…" Wagner sighed again, "If you have nowhere to go after all this… Once you've settled your families with your severance pay, you can come back to me."
The downcast soldiers looked up in surprise.
Wagner managed a bitter smile. "As much as I don't like saying this… Weisshem is likely to offer many new positions, more suitable for young people like you than in Indahl."
Weisshem was short-staffed; its town hall clerks consisted solely of rescued sex workers, with no formal employees yet. Ben, the fit and capable-looking former bouncer of a brothel, was still assisting Miss Mia.
From Wagner's observations, Yang's support for Rex as the local lord wasn't impulsive. Complex as his feelings might be, he had to admit that these young men he knew so well would have better prospects in Weisshem than if they were discharged to fend for themselves.
After all, even as a prisoner, he couldn't deny that both Lord Rex and the undead mayor—difficult to distinguish from ordinary skeletons—were doing an impressive job.
Having briefed them on the situation, Wagner led the 43 men to collect their earnings for their "jailed" period…
Upon entering the administrative office (formerly the militia commander's office) and seeing Hal instead of Miss Mia, Wagner was taken aback. "Isn't Miss Mia in charge of payments?"
"Cut the crap. Are you here to collect your pay or not?" Hal was as irritable as ever.
Wagner expressionlessly extended his hand.
Hal, with veins bulging on his forehead, picked up a ledger and scribbled calculations on paper for the "early release" pay of these 43 men. Then, he took the keys from his waist and opened the large safe behind the desk.
Seeing the safe filled with copper and silver coins made Wagner's jaw drop in astonishment.
"Don't even think about it. No one who can steal from me has been born yet," Hal barked rudely. He skillfully counted the coins, dividing them into small pouches.
"Forty-three men, 14 days of labor, daily wage of 30 copper… 420 copper for 14 days work. Each person gets 4 silver and 20 copper."
While dividing the money into small pouches, Hal used his palm to push the filled pouches to the front of the desk.
"Take and count them. No takebacks once you step out of the door!"
Wagner, knowing Hal's temper, silently signaled the soldiers waiting in the corridor to come in and collect their pay.
After the money was distributed, Hal, more anxious than those collecting money, chased them away. "Scram after you've collected your pay! Don't loiter here!"
Wagner, initially intending to thank Hal, held his tongue and let his men away.
The six senior soldiers, two squires, and Wagner himself would continue to serve their "sentence," while the 43 freed soldiers were now free to move about. Noting there was still time before dinner preparations, Wagner decided to take these men, who hadn't been outside during their "sentence," to buy some "local products"…
The town's main street's supermarket was still being constructed, leaving only the undead delicatessen and the orc bean product store open for business.
The soldiers, having eaten many standard meals prepared by the Undead Merchant Association canteen, were visiting the store for the first time. Despite initially dismissing the wages of 420 copper they had received, they were surprised by the purchasing power they held—
Half a kilogram of fine salt for just eight copper!
Bright red chili oil sauce (Lao Gan Ma chili) with various spices for only 15 copper!
A box of mixed spices for making flavorful soups, only 10 copper!
And there were also peppercorns, black pepper powder, chili powder in transparent packing… All were available for just a third to a fifth of what they would cost back home!
The soldiers, initially planning to only buy fabric, couldn't control themselves as they browsed the shelves of the undead delicatessen, mesmerized by the variety of products, each tantalizingly affordable compared to Indahl's prices.
After much deliberation, each soldier ended up purchasing over ten bags of salt and more than five boxes of the mixed spices, known as "Thirteen Spices."
The diligent young clerk, Brooke, cheerfully packed their purchases in greaseproof paper. Learning that the soldiers were taking local specialties back home, he enthusiastically recommended the neighboring bean product store.
The bean product store boasted two adjacent storefronts: the left side offered a free soybean oil press for locals, and the right side sold various tofu products made from residual soybean pulp.
The soldiers, clutching their remaining coins, were greeted by a long line at the right storefront. Behind the counter, a human woman and a grown orc were working tirelessly, yet the queue seemed endless.
"There are too many people here. Let's go to the town hall for fabric first," Wagner suggested upon seeing the crowd. "We can keep a few copper coins to buy bean products later. Everything here is surprisingly cheap."
Since the popularity of "Undead Cloth," Rex had stopped Hal and his team from setting up stalls and designated a room in the town hall as a fabric outlet. Whether for personal use or small business ventures, locals and nearby villagers could purchase fabric anytime.
When Wagner brought his men there, the clerk handling the fabric offered a "product catalog" made of scrap fabric for them to choose from—an ingenious idea from the resourceful Shirley, much more efficient than browsing through rolls of fabric.
"If you're making summer clothes, the first and second pages offer suitable materials. These eight types of fabric are soft and breathable," the young male clerk, strikingly handsome with a soft, charming voice, advised, with full professionalism. "For autumn and winter coats or long skirts, I recommend choosing from the third and fourth pages. Lining them with cotton will make the garments warm."
After much discussion, the soldiers unanimously chose the thicker, more ornate fabrics, seeing them as a better value for money.
Pleased with their fabric purchases and returning to the bustling bean product store, the soldiers regretted buying too much fabric. They should have saved a few more copper coins for these products—
The tofu they had in their standard work meals was just too cheap!
This sort of fried tofu cost only two copper a bag!
Dried tofu, delicious when cooked with any food or stir-fried with vegetables as the undead cooks did, was only two copper coins for a substantial piece!
And there was their beloved snack "spicy strips" made from chili and spices. A large pack cost merely one copper!
These young soldiers, with only a few copper coins left, agonized over their choices at the counter…
Wagner could hardly bear to watch. He called out loudly, urging them to hurry up, "Stop dawdling! Decide quickly what you want to buy; others need to do business too!"
In the end, the young men, prioritizing what they saw as "value for money," reluctantly forsook the dried tofu and spicy strips. Instead, they chose the fried tofu, which had a longer shelf life and could be shared with their families for a while.
By the time they finished shopping, it was almost three in the afternoon. Wagner hurriedly led the soldiers, laden with large and small packages, to rent horse-drawn carriages.
Fortunately for him, the town hall would cover the rental fee for transporting the soldiers back to Indahl. Otherwise, Wagner would have had a headache—these young men had spent every last copper coin they had just received!
As the four carriages left Weisshem, the soldiers seated inside enthusiastically waved goodbye to Wagner.
"Lieutenant, we'll be back!"
"Don't go singing Weisshem's praises back home before you get your severance pay!" Wagner yelled back, exasperated.