The End of Blood

“M-My Lord... it’s my fault, I deserve to die... I shouldn't have...” Beside the docks of West Sail Port. Tied up like a trussed pig, Naji knelt trembling on the ground, his trousers soaked through. His lips quivered as he pleaded for his life, cursing himself for being utter scum. Yet as fate would have it, right as he reached the crucial part of his “I deserve to die”s, his tongue tied itself in knots. For a moment, he actually forgot which “shouldn't have” he was supposed to start cursing himself for. The torches beside him flickered in the dark. After a moment, his eyes finally adjusted to the gloom. It was then that he noticed the thick pool of blood on the ground, the severed human intestines draped over broken wooden crates, and the pale strips of flesh strewn across the cobblestones... His stomach churned violently, and he could barely keep from throwing up. “*Gag—!*” After a bout of dry heaving, he immediately resumed his trembling supplication without skipping a beat. Janusz watched the expressions crossing the man’s face with amused detachment, like someone admiring a stray mongrel whose limbs had been snapped. “Right, right... Orissa!” Naji finally remembered the name, looking around pleadingly at the people surrounding him. “It’s my fault... I got him killed! I beg of you, give me a chance to make amends...” Regardless of whether he was truly responsible for the man’s death, his only choice was to shoulder the blame. He knew. These people were entirely beyond reason. Only by humoring their fury was there any chance they would stop. Seeming to have grown tired of his performance—or perhaps not yet sated from tasting the blood of the Wilante—Janusz let out a yawn and waved to the men beside him. “Skewer this rotten bastard up. Use that flagpole in front of the Governor's Mansion.” Naji, still kneeling on the ground, had not yet processed what was said, and neither had the laborers gathered around him. However, a few cleverer ones quickly caught on. Cruel grins broke out across their faces, mingling with expressions of vicious glee. “Now that’s a good idea!” “Brilliant!” “As expected of the boss!” In the end, only Naji seemed to remain entirely in the dark, staring in dazed terror at the men closing in on him. “W-What are you... what are you doing?! Ahhh! No—! Let go of me!” Paying no heed to his shrieks and desperate pleas, the men grabbed him roughly by the arms and dragged him toward the Governor's Mansion... ... Following the defeat of the Wilante, the chiliarch commanding the West Sail Port garrison fled without a trace. He knew better than anyone what sort of caliber his men were made of. Besides, they only had a single thousand-man cohort to begin with. In terms of weaponry and equipment, they were hardly better than the security guard, with little more than a handful of artillery pieces. None of that was of any use; the blast had ripped through the fortress from the inside. Not only was their firepower thoroughly suppressed by the rebels, but in sheer numbers, they were utterly outmatched. Not to mention, the rebel ranks were also salted with veterans from the Gray Wolf Army. Janusz personally led his men into the garrison’s barracks—and only after he had finished “tending to business” elsewhere. He had expected a bitter struggle, but the garrison’s chiliarch had simply vanished, and when the remaining troops saw the sea of people outside, they promptly hoisted the white flag and surrendered. After disarming the leaderless troops, Janusz did not treat them as harshly as he had the lion-kin at the harbor. Instead, he broke them up and integrated them into his own ranks, instructing his decurions and centurions to keep a close eye on these former garrison soldiers before returning to the port district to resume the unfinished “carnival.” The revelry dragged on until three in the morning, when the rasping, agonized screams were finally drowned out by deep, drunken snores. The rioters had finally had their fill of violence, and the whole of West Sail Port fell as silent as if it were asleep. A terrifying silence. Every resident kept their doors and windows bolted tight, terrified of making the slightest noise that might draw the attention of the “insurgents” with cloth strips tied around their arms. Their slogans had been loud and proud—they claimed they would not only slaughter every last Wilante, but also kill every noble and running dog who collaborated with them, building a realm where all were equal... Yet when the dust settled, the Wilante were far from the only ones who had died. Naji had been the very first to face reckoning. Naturally, the man fully deserved it. Ironically, the one who sold him out was a member of his own stick squad—a slave he had only recently bought out of bondage. In truth, even without that betrayal, it was doubtful he would have survived. After all, the place he chose to hide was exceedingly ill-advised. Seeing that things had gone south, he had ducked into an abandoned Wilante mansion. He had assumed the rioters would never dare lay a hand on Wilante property, never imagining they had become brazen to the point of outright madness, kicking down the door without a second thought. The furious mob ignored his screams, dragging him straight to the harbor. After subjecting him to every humiliation, they skewered him onto the scorched flagpole. From the bottom up. It was said that he was able to scream at first, but later, the agony grew so unbearable that he bit off his own tongue and lost consciousness entirely. As for the members of the stick squad who had betrayed Naji, they fared no better in the end. The enraged insurgents settled every grievance and grudge in kind, taking the very staves once used to beat them and bashing the turncoats into near pulp. And that was far from over. The true purge had only just begun! Anyone wearing Wilante clothes, using Wilante goods, having done work for the Wilante, possessing dinars without wearing an armband, or even individuals with no connection at all were swept up by the butcher’s blade. Like Govinda’s neighbor. It was only because the man was utterly spineless that the “bayonet” spared him from shedding blood. The common folk were terrified out of their wits by this blood-crazed mob. Perhaps some within the mob had even terrified themselves by their own deeds, yet by this point, all they could do was tie the cloth strips around their sleeves even tighter. Otherwise, before the Wilante could even retaliate, they might well be struck down by mistake by their own comrades. Yet those who retained their senses with blood splattered across their faces were a tiny minority. Most of the blood-crazed men had abandoned all thought. Swept up in the frenzy of victory, some even boasted that if the Legion refused to negotiate, so be it—they would simply take Tiandu and march all the way to Triumph City! This was no mere boast spoon-fed by Janusz; they genuinely believed it in their hearts. After all, how could the hundreds or thousands of cannon fodder who had died in the streets count as actual human beings? As for the Wilante guards who had fallen in the port district, they had counted them meticulously: exactly sixty-one, every single one beaten to a gruesome pulp. As for the rest, they were either citizens of West Sail Port or servants from the Legion’s other colonies, adding up to less than two hundred in total. A few had likely stripped off their uniforms and fled, and no one could be bothered to count them accurately. What Legion? They were nothing special after all! ... Inside the church of the Silver Moon Church. Hiding behind the curtains, Isher peered outside, his brow tightly furrowed. A believer crouching beside him swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “...These people have gone completely mad.” Just moments ago, he had watched with his own eyes as several men with cloth armbands kicked open a front door and dragged an entire family out. The man appeared to be a security guard from the Labor Registry. He remembered the fellow vaguely—seemed to be horse-kin. Yet precisely because he remembered him, he knew the man had done nothing to deserve death... Naturally, the mob cared nothing for that. Soon, sounds of smashing filled the room, followed by the man’s furious shouts, children crying, women screaming, and then gunshots that brought everything to a dead stop. Watching the devils emerge from the doorway, Isher clenched his teeth so hard he nearly drew blood from his gums. He could not believe these monsters were his own countrymen. Even if they had been persecuting the Wilante, it would have offered him at least a shred of comfort... Yet what tormented his soul even more was that the towering, stalwart figure in his heart was crumbling piece by piece. He had once revered “Boer” beyond measure. He had believed that the people could unite, even if they were a destitute mob who couldn't read a single word. Yet reality had struck him with a ruthless slap in the face. In the end, he realized with a shock that he himself, babbling lofty nonsense, was the pathetic clown driven into the corner with clubs by the mob—the very character named “Ken” in *Awakened Boer*. The snows of Boulder City fell across his heart again and again, burying all hope and beauty. All his hatred burned in his eyes. He hated the Legion, and he hated the Empire, but he hated these vermin before him even more! If one day in the future, the survivors of Bolo Province finally walked free of this humiliating memory, whoever led them out of the wasteland would surely grind these fiends underfoot and bury every last one of them in the red dirt! They surely would! The leader of the mob clearly noticed his gaze, yet only sneered with indifference, even gesturing provocatively toward him as if to say, *Come out and talk if you have the guts.* Presumably, his superiors had issued orders not to touch this moon-bearing church for now. Several patrols had passed by, and not one had come up to knock on the door. Even so, no one dared let down their guard. None could say how long that order would hold. These people were utterly devoid of reason. They did whatever came to mind, going wherever their whims carried them; changing their minds took nothing more than a passing fancy. “...There are too many Wilante here. We shouldn't have taken them in.” A believer looked back, swallowed nervously, and whispered in a trembling voice. There were fully two hundred Wilante sheltering inside, outnumbering even the church’s own flock. Most were women, with a handful of children, every pair of eyes wide with terror. “This has nothing to do with who they are... What we want to abolish is the privileges of the nobles, the privileges of outsiders, not the slaughter of unarmed people. Otherwise... we will eventually become the very demons we once feared.” Isher’s words cut off abruptly, for he realized this line of reasoning convinced no one. He was still trying to imitate those great figures. And in that moment, he suddenly grasped what Father Melchior had said to him before sunset. This could not go on... Taking a deep breath, he adopted a different tone, continuing in terms every resident of Bolo Province could understand. “...Think about it. The Wilante colonies aren't far from here. Once the Legion’s troops arrive, the mob outside will die sooner or later. If we want to survive, we have to prove our innocence... and they are our best proof. If they die, none of us will survive. But as long as they remain alive, not only will we live, but our families will too.” A look of understanding finally dawned in their eyes. Those who had been conflicted or hesitant settled down at last, no longer speaking of driving the refugees out. Even if only one survived, someone had to remember that not everyone in this city was a madman. Otherwise, just as Isher had said, they would all end up buried in the dirt, dragged down into the grave alongside those lunatics... Sitting near the edge of the crowd, Margot’s face was deathly pale, her forehead beaded with sweat, still shaken from the terror she had survived. At the time, she hadn't given it a second thought. Leaving all their luggage behind, she had grabbed Ruby’s hand and sprinted, slipping out of the port district before the fighting ended and ducking into this church. Plenty of people had shared her thought, yet barely a hundred had succeeded. She dared not imagine... Had she made a single wrong move back then, what gruesome fate would have awaited her and Ruby... “Mama...” “Don't be afraid,” Margot said, taking Ruby’s little hand and forcing the tremor from her voice as she gently comforted her. “It’s going to be fine... Don't you want to go play with little Ansuya? You’ll see her soon. Do you want her to see Ruby crying just because things got tough? She looks up to you, you know.” With red-rimmed eyes, Ruby nodded, then shook her head, ultimately holding back the tears brimming in her eyes and refusing to let out a sob. Margot forced a faint smile, gently wiping away the tears at the corners of her daughter's eyes. “Good girl...” “Wilante don't cry. Our tears dried up the moment we were born.” The church remained hushed. Apart from quiet whispers and muffled sniffles, not a single person wept out loud. Looking at the Wilante sheltering in the church, Melchior’s face was etched with deep sorrow. The elderly sister beside him looked at him, whispering in a low, gentle voice. “Our provisions aren't enough to feed this many people. Not even for a single meal. And if the rebels find out so many Wilante are hidden here... they will tear everyone inside to pieces.” “I know...” Melchior stared with furrowed brows at the bright moonlight outside the window and sighed softly. “Yet I cannot simply abandon these poor souls to their fate...” Though he had not gone to the harbor to see it himself, the piercing, agonized screams alone were enough to imagine the horrors taking place. Even if he disliked the Wilante—even if he despised their noses—he still could not push these innocent people into the fire... even if he stood on the brink of the blaze himself. This was not merely the teachings of the Silver Moon Goddess and the Spirit of the Sand Sea; it was the dictate of his own conscience. “I know... we can't abandon them, but keeping them here indefinitely is no answer either,” the old nun said with a bitter look, lowering her voice. “We must find a way to get them out of the city... Only beyond the walls will they truly be safe.” The rebels had only just taken control of the harbor; they had not yet fully consolidated their grip on the settlement. If they wanted to slip out, now was likely their only window of opportunity... Yet how could so many Wilante slip away? Melchior’s face was filled with worry when suddenly, a knock sounded at the door, sending everyone’s hearts into their throats. *Thump, thump—* The crisp knocking sounded like the footsteps of Death itself. Sitting on the pew, Margot held her breath along with the rest of her kin, clutching her daughter’s little hand tightly. Just then, however, a hushed call drifted through the closed doors. “Excuse me... Is Lady Margot inside? I am Count Sharma’s butler... If you are within, please answer.” Hearing the voice, Margot gasped and covered her mouth in shock, then raised her hand to signal that the person outside was calling for her. Every pair of eyes turned toward her, including Isher’s by the door. Isher was uncertain what to do and looked toward Father Melchior standing in the hall. The priest was silent for a moment before nodding. “...Open it.” Hiding here would mean certain death eventually. Perhaps whoever arrived had a way out. As the church doors swung open, an elderly man of relatively sturdy build entered, accompanied by a man with a cloth strip tied around his arm. The moment he saw the cloth band, Isher’s eyes went wide, and everyone nearby gripped their weapons tightly. One of Janusz’s men! They couldn't let this bastard leave alive! As if sensing the murderous intent in the room, the old man quickly raised his hands. “Don't be alarmed... I am Sahadu, servant to Lord Sharma. This is my nephew, Parven. He may have done something foolish, but I swear on my life that he is not like the men outside. He came to his senses in time.” The young man named Parven was clearly terrified as well, but seeing Sahadu’s meaningful glance, he regained his composure and stammered out an explanation. “I... I was forced into it too. Those bastards were slaughtering everyone in sight...” “Why should I believe you?” Isher kept his voice low, his grip tightening around his blade. Parven swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “I have no way to make you trust me... but unless someone is utterly insane, they should know those people outside are doomed. Not only will the Alliance refuse to help them, but even that devil Rasi won't lift a finger. I don't want to die... Is that reason enough?” “Enough. That’s very clear,” Isher stepped forward, patted him on the shoulder, and pulled him aside. “Forgive my earlier offense. We are in the same predicament as you.” Pausing, he continued, “Do you have a way out?” Parven nodded hurriedly, words tumbling out. “I do... I’m technically a decurion. In about ten or fifteen minutes, around four in the morning, this street falls under my watch. When the time comes, I’ll find a pretext to send my men away. Most of the mob has been whoring and drinking at the docks all night; four o'clock should be when the patrols are at their slackest.” Noticing the desperate, longing stares fixed upon him, Parven felt his scalp tingle and whispered, “...Though getting everyone out isn't realistic. A handful of people, though—that won't be a problem.” Old Sahadu the butler added quickly, “I have a carriage waiting outside the city... Sent to bring Lady Margot and young Miss Ruby back.” Margot asked anxiously, “Can you bring more carriages?” Sahadu swallowed and nodded hastily. “It should be possible... but only after returning to the master’s estate. I have no way of contacting the master right now.” Truthfully, he had no desire to invite further complications. Slipping into the city at a moment like this had been a massive gamble; one wrong move could cost both him and his nephew their lives. Margot bit her lip, squeezed Ruby’s hand, gave a glance to the maid beside her, and rose from the pew. “Wait for me here... Once I get out, I swear I’ll bring people back to save you!” She would not abandon her countrymen. She would do everything in her power to persuade Count Sharma. Hadn't that man been desperate to rely on Wilante backing to climb into Tiandu’s inner circle of power? The opportunity was right before him! As long as he could rescue some of them—even if only a dozen or two—once the situation settled, he would at least be granted the title of duke! “The Silver Moon Goddess has witnessed your vow... Go, my lady,” Melchior said softly. “I believe you will not forget your people.” Margot nodded resolutely. “I swear it. I swear upon my little Ruby—” Her words had barely left her lips when a voice as cold as a devil's drifted abruptly from beyond the doorway. Every heart froze in an instant, as if struck by a wicked hex. “Ruby? Tsk tsk... what a lovely name.” ... Inside the imperial palace of Tiandu. Emperor Wutu lay fast asleep in his bedchamber, dreaming sweet dreams of battleships and Xilan coins. Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps and an urgent report jolted him awake. “Your Majesty! Disaster! The, the rebels—” “Rebels?” Jerking upright from his bed, Wutu hurriedly straightened his robes and glared at the eunuch kneeling on one knee. “Where is there a rebellion this time?” The eunuch barely dared to breathe, his forehead pressed flat against the gold-trimmed plush carpet. “...West Sail Port! It’s West Sail Port!” *West Sail Port?* Wutu blinked, the interrupted grogginess surging back as he rubbed his brow. “Isn't that Wilante territory... I already handed it over to the Wilante to govern.” The eunuch continued with a miserable expression. “That may be so... but the trouble lies precisely with those Wilante! Those laborers somehow got hold of leopard-like gall and raided the weapons the Wilante stored in the harbor warehouses, taking West Sail Port by storm!” Wutu’s heart gave a sudden lurch. His jaw dropped, and he froze on the bed. They took... The Wilante port?! Even he hadn't known that the lower-class scum under his rule possessed such capability! Wait— If they were truly this capable, how had they fought so pathetically at Ten Peaks Mountain? Because that expeditionary force had been so disgraceful, he hadn't even bothered to summon them back, simply abandoning them in the Empire’s tiny enclave in Haiya Province. Seeing his sovereign struck dumb, the eunuch stammered, “The rebels have already occupied the harbor... The Wilante living there are in dire peril. I fear the Legion will vent their fury on us. We must find a way to rescue the people there.” Snapping back to his senses, Wutu’s first impulse was to call on the Legion for aid, but he quickly remembered that both Governor Huye and General MacLaren had gone home for the holidays. Specifically, for the “Nativity Day” falling on the second weekend after the turn of the year. Wutu climbed out of bed, pacing back and forth in agitation. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He rushed over to the eunuch, looked down at him, and demanded, “What about the soldiers trained by General MacLaren? Weren't there still some stationed in Lion State?” The eunuch replied with a wailing grimace, “Those are all officers and non-commissioned officers! Together they barely number just over a thousand; they’re no match for the rebels at all...” Wutu asked anxiously, “Just how many rebels are there?!” “U-Unknown... It’s hard to say for sure. Some reports say fifty or sixty thousand, others say over a hundred thousand.” The eunuch swallowed nervously, flustered. “Your Majesty... issue the edict! Only by deploying your Imperial Guard will it be possible to deal with those fiends!” Wutu’s thoughts spun at lightning speed. He could not afford to sit on his hands. If he stood by and did nothing, the Wilante would settle scores with him afterward. Yet he had to consider not only the safety of the Wilante, but his own security as well! With the Gray Wolf Army currently fighting in Mammoth State, the Imperial Guard was the only card left in his hand. If he sent out his Imperial Guard, who would protect him? Rely on Tiandu’s city garrison? That was the most disgraceful rabble in the entire Xilan Empire; those dirt-caked paupers were completely useless! Sending the garrison would achieve nothing either; it would be practically marching them to their deaths. Choosing the lesser of two evils, Wutu gritted his teeth and made a decisive call. “Order the Lion State regional army to muster!” The eunuch blinked. He recalled that just recently, His Majesty had repeatedly emphasized the need to guard not only against the Alliance, but also against local factions growing too powerful. Both posed an existential threat to the Empire’s foundation. If the regional army of Lion State was permitted to mobilize, wouldn't that simply create another Tiger State or Leopard State in the west?! The regional nobility would gladly recruit soldiers and horses, but getting those soldiers to lay down their arms and return to the plow afterward would be nearly impossible. “But—” “The Wilante are in Lion State! Even if the regional factions grow stronger, they won't pose a threat! Enough talk, do as I command!” A sharp gleam flashed in Wutu’s eyes. His resolute tone gave the kneeling eunuch a shudder. It wasn't that he was terrified into wetting himself by His Majesty’s regal authority—without a catheter, he could hardly manage that anyway—it was simply that every time his respected sovereign made a snap decision on a whim, disaster invariably followed. He worried this time would be no different. *Shouldn't we discuss this with the cabinet before deciding?* That was indeed what he thought, but he dared not speak out of turn, bowing meekly instead. “Understood...” While Emperor Wutu’s edict and couriers galloped toward Lion State, the next day’s sun rose once more over the blood-drenched harbor. The stench of rot hung over the entire wharf, drawing countless flies, rats, and vultures circling in the sky... Just how many had perished the night before was impossible to calculate, but one thing was certain: this purge had been thorough enough that even Kent of Boulder City—who despised the Workers' Association from the bottom of his heart and considered them no different from inner-city nobles—would have been struck utterly dumb. Enough people had died this time. Thorough enough, indeed. Yet... something felt distinctly off. And so, the bloody carnival continued for two days and two nights. Not until the dawn of the third day did Janusz finally seem to remember what he had set out to do. Having finished acknowledging his supporters, he raised his arm in a rallying cry, leading the slaves who had shattered their shackles and chains out of the city, proclaiming that they were going to liberate even more slaves. Slavery had to be abolished, without a doubt. The examples of West Sail Port and Golden Gallon Port proved that there was a kind of shackle in this world far sturdier than mere contracts, and their new empire would need to make use of it. The thought of what he was about to achieve made him tremble with excitement, his face flushed with vigor. It was then that he realized the title of “Great King” was far too small, entirely inadequate to encompass his achievements. And so, he bestowed that title upon his subordinates, creating a full thirteen Great Kings, each corresponding to one of the thirteen states of Bolo Province. As for himself, he crowned himself the Heavenly King—the one and only king under heaven! To make his title sound even more grand, he wove legends of the Heavenly Wolf devouring the sun into the lore of the Heavenly King, claiming that the wolf-kin had waited for this moment for ages, and that he was the chosen one of the Wolf God. As for the future capital of this new empire, it would be established in Wolf State—his own homeland. Fully two hundred thousand people rallied under his banner, mostly slaves and serfs. Not all of them hailed from West Sail Port; many came from nearby estates. As for the dock laborers who had struck the initial spark, they had dwindled into a minority within the ranks... This was inevitable. Though West Sail Port held ninety-nine percent of Lion State’s wealth, its population accounted for barely more than a ninth of the entire state. Every rebel knew that relying on those few people would never stir up any grand waves. They had to sweep more people into the fold, spreading the fire further abroad; only then was there any hope of surviving! Furthermore, having decided to raise a grand rebellion, they naturally could not refer to themselves as rebels. Janusz quickly gave his organization a name: the Heavenly King Salvation Army, abbreviated as the Heavenly Army! Though it sounded rustic, as long as it had an imposing ring to it, that was enough. His men weren't scholars anyway. Most importantly, he couldn't conjure up anything better himself; unable to devise a more refined name, he had simply thrown together the most intimidating words he could think of. Frankly, the name gave a certain man who had just returned from the Southern Sea to Dawn City for the New Year a bit of a start. *The Heavenly Army!* *Why did that sound so... Heavenly Kingdom-esque?* By the time intelligence on the “Heavenly Army” passed through multiple hands and reached Chu Guang, it was already the morning of the fourth day following the West Sail Port Massacre. New Year’s Day of Wasteland Era Year 214. At the same time, the thousand-man cohort led by Ross finally closed in on West Sail Port, preparing to render support. The transport fleet comprised two transport vessels, one supply ship, and a shallow-water heavy gunboat. Though deemed a coastal vessel, the gunboat was fully capable of venturing into open waters. The Legion possessed no psychic interference technology, but by emitting specific sound frequencies via sonar, they could still deter certain dangerous mutant species. Once the two transports and the supply ship unloaded their cargo, they were to immediately begin evacuating citizens. The shallow-water monitor would remain near the shore to provide fire support. The plan was flawless. The only tragedy was that by all appearances, they had arrived far too late... Staring at the devastated, blood-soaked harbor, Ross felt his vision go black, nearly fainting on the spot. His hands gripped the railing so hard that flakes of paint dug into his flesh to keep him upright. Beside him, MacLaren’s expression was equally dark and grim. Holding his binoculars, his eyes were as cold as ice as he stared at the harbor. Atop the roof of the Governor's Mansion stood a blackened flagpole, skewering a corpse that had been picked so clean by crows that barely anything remained beyond bones and scraps of meat... Far more bodies lay scattered across the open ground, their blood having dyed nearly every cobblestone crimson. It was an open provocation to the Legion. Even more absurdly, several 100mm artillery pieces the Legion had gifted to the locals were arranged along the harbor. Those little toothpicks stood poised, pointed motionlessly right at them. The gunners and soldiers squatting along the docks didn't seem to take the four ships seriously in the slightest. “Animals...” Having chewed on that word a thousand times in his mind, Ross finally released the warped railing and turned his gaze behind him. He was not alone. Fury blazed in the chest of every soldier on deck, their eyes wide with bursting rage, their faces as cold and steely as blades. “They’re marauders...” Ross raised a trembling index finger, pointing toward the harbor as his expression twisted into sheer venom. Snatching the radio from his shoulder, he roared at the top of his lungs: “Naval guns! Load!” “Blast them to hell—!!” “Keep blasting until I tell you to stop!!”