Zeta, silver-haired and dressed in a black uniform beneath a white cloak, stood motionless as his men in blue-green uniforms hauled hundreds of corpses toward the edge of the cliff.
He didn't want to see any of this. Not even a glimpse. It was the most revolting sight his eyes had ever endured.
He had resisted this massacre from the beginning, but no one in authority had listened.
"Hurry up!"
Martius—the bearded man beside him—barked the same order he always did.
Poor Tundians.
Zeta thought it bitterly as he watched the bodies being lowered from the carts and tossed over the cliff one after another.
Three years ago, the Royal Court of Tessalian had formally decreed the extermination of the Tundians. That moment had marked the start of a bloodbath—not a war, but a genocide.
The Tundians vanished from the Empire along with the lands they occupied.
The Land of Forest, the Land of Mountain, the Land of Rain… even though they weren't under imperial control, none of them could withstand the cold-blooded purge.
"When they're alive, they cause problems. And even after they're dead, they still cause trouble," Martius muttered, frustration dripping from every syllable.
They weren't entirely extinct—not yet. This wasn't the Empire's first attempt.
It was the fourth genocide in recorded history. The first happened after the fall of the Tundian Empire, and another followed every three centuries.
This time would likely be the last. There were almost no Tundians left.
Zeta took out a cigarette and lit the tip with a spark of electricity from his fingertip.
"Don't forget to wash up," Martius reminded his men before giving Zeta a salute.
"Let's go back," Zeta said. The longer he stayed here, the more it felt like his mind was cracking.
Children, adults, elders, men and women, the sick and the healthy—all of them slaughtered without mercy.
Their blood and flesh mixed together, flooding into the river and staining it bright red as it rushed toward the cliff's edge, spreading a foul stench for many league.
Zeta had ordered the corpses thrown directly over the cliff to stop the river from turning rancid. It was the smallest act of mercy he could offer.
"But no matter how much we hate them, we should've at least been allowed to cremate the bodies. Gods above—these higher-ups…"
It was Martius's tenth complaint of the day.
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The sun drifted lower toward the horizon, its fading rays spilling across the land and striking the tragic, motionless bodies below.
Tial yawned as he looked down the cliff, where the corpses lay in a tangled mass.
Beside him, Gailius relieved himself over the edge without a care.
"We need to wash it." Sirius said to the both of them.
A flock of crows cut across the reddening sky. Some swooped down, landing on the dead and tearing at cold flesh with sharp beaks.
A vast sea of corpses—a graveyard of the forgotten, a hell on earth where life rotted into nothingness.
But beneath one layer of bodies, an eye slowly opened. Hidden beneath the weight of the dead, not lifeless at all—it stared up through a small gap at the sky, while a crow hopped closer, tilting its head at the living gaze staring back.
I'm not dead…
The thought flickered through Sartoo's mind as his eyes met the crow perched above him.
The last thing he remembered was the slaughter—those men storming into the village, cutting down everyone in sight. He had taken up his sword and fought, but there were too many. Eventually, he had fallen.
Something had struck him hard.
Maybe that was the only reason he was still alive—because those bastards weren't even smart enough to finish him properly.
As his thoughts steadied, Sartoo pushed himself up from beneath the heap of corpses smothering him. He lifted his gaze toward the cliff towering above.
But even with his mind awakening, his body lagged behind. His vision swam. His limbs trembled. Everything inside him felt unsteady, half-numb.
Even so, he forced his shaking body forward. He had to climb—had to drag himself back to the top of cliff.
Sartoo hands rose one after another, climbing not on rock, but on the cold bodies of his own kin.
It was a cruel act—disrespectful, even shameful—yet he had no other choice. His weakened body no longer had the strength to scale the cliff as he once could.
Tens of thousands of corpses, perhaps even a hundred thousand, formed a grotesque staircase beneath him.
Even though many were torn or mangled, their faces were still clear… and some belonged to people he had known.
Forgive me… for stepping on your faces.
The thought echoed in his chest as he pulled himself upward.
At last, his trembling hand found real stone. Gathering the last remnants of strength inside him, Sartoo hauled himself up and over the cliff's edge.
Sartoo pushed himself to his feet.
Not far ahead, three men in blue-green uniforms were rinsing their blood-stained weapons with water, laughing and talking as if nothing mattered.
The moment he saw them, he didn't hesitate.
With a single snap of his fingers, a blade of wind tore through the air—clean, merciless. Two heads flew off before either man realized he was dead.
Gailius froze in shock as the bodies collapsed beside him. His eyes widened, and he scrambled to his feet, yanking the sword from his waist. He barely lifted it before the arm holding the blade was sliced cleanly off.
"Impossible… why aren't you dead?" Gailius gasped, clutching his severed arm, disbelief twisting his face.
Sartoo didn't answer.
He stepped forward and beheaded the man with the same cold efficiency as the others, leaving Gailius nothing but a silent question to carry into the afterlife.
Sartoo stared at the three lifeless bodies, his eyes as cold as the wind drifting over the cliff. Then he bent down and picked up the sword from one of the corpses.
A torch symbol was engraved along the blade. The moment he saw it, Sartoo's jaw tightened. Rage twisted through him, sharp and familiar. He clenched the sword—then hurled it away with all the strength left in his arm.
"Everyone must die," he muttered under his breath.