Chapter 50: Barton
At that moment, a shift occurred within the undead ranks.
A single knight detached itself from the phalanx. Mounted upon a skeletal steed, it trotted unhurriedly toward the base of the city walls, halting just within the range of a longbow.
Aloft on the ramparts, the archers raised their bows by instinct, yet not a single man dared to draw his string. The pressure was suffocating.
The knight tilted its head back. Beneath the visor of its dark helm were hollow pits where two points of Soul Fire flickered like dying stars.
A voice projected outward, vibrating with the resonance of the grave.
"The General demands an audience with your Lord."
"This is your final opportunity."
The final opportunity.
Those words rippled through the silent ranks of the defenders like a cold wind. The soldiers began to whisper, their eyes darting—some intentionally, some subconsciously—toward Count Barton.
Terror. Hesitation. And a sickening, fragile sliver of... hope.
Count Barton read those gazes perfectly. The illusion from that night flashed before his eyes with jarring clarity: the image of himself being pinned to the cobblestones by his own most trusted guards, his head severed and offered as a trophy to the enemy.
The seeds Greed had sown were beginning to sprout in the fertile soil of human fear.
He knew that if he showed even a flicker of intent to resist, a portion of the men behind him would instantly transform into the executioners from his vision. They would slaughter their own Lord for the sake of a hollow, phantom peace.
Count Barton closed his eyes. When he opened them, the shadow of struggle had vanished, replaced by a crystalline resolve.
"Open the gates."
The Captain of the Guard turned ashen. "My Lord Count! You cannot! Those are monsters! They are the walking dead!"
Barton's voice was flat, devoid of any ripple. "I said: open the gates."
Without another word to his Captain, he turned and descended from the wall. Valerius intercepted him at the base of the stairs, blocking his path.
"Have you lost your mind? This is a trap!"
Barton stepped around him. "I am aware."
"You are a Noble!" Valerius hissed, trying to appeal to his reason. "The reason you spend a fortune maintaining an army is precisely so you don't have to face such things yourself!"
Barton stopped, his voice echoing from the shadow of the gatehouse. "But I am the one who must go."
He offered no further explanation. Mounting his warhorse alone, he rode toward the heavy timbered doors as they slowly groaned open.
Creaaak—
The gates parted just enough to let a single rider through. Count Barton rode out into the light. Behind him, the doors slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.
The world went silent.
He stood alone, a solitary man facing four thousand knights of the apocalypse.
Skele-Wrath watched the lonely figure approach, the Soul Fire in his sockets pulsing once. He rode forward. With every step, a warhorse composed of pure abyssal energy and calcified remains condensed beneath him, carrying him to meet the Count.
The two commanders faced each other in the center of the killing field.
"Arundel Barton William. Count of the Odri Empire, Lord of Jade Territory." Barton announced his name and titles, his voice clear and resonant.
"Skele-Wrath. First General under the Monarch of the Undead Empire, the Lord of Evernight."
Wrath's voice vibrated directly within Barton's skull. He didn't flinch. Instead, he asked calmly:
"What is it you wish to say?"
Wrath's tone held no room for negotiation; it was the cold finality of an ultimatum. "Greed has already spoken to you. What is your answer?"
Count Barton was silent for a heartbeat. He looked back at the high, sturdy walls of his home. He asked one final question.
"Will you truly spare the commoners?"
"Only a fool wastes resources," Wrath replied with a huff of disdain. "We are an Empire, not a den of bandits."
Upon hearing this, the look in Barton's eyes hardened into tempered steel.
"Then... my answer is..." He paused, every word etched with the weight of his soul. "I REFUSE!"
The Soul Fire in Wrath's eyes contracted. "Foolish. You have seen your end. Do you still fail to grasp the reality of your situation?"
"Humanity's greatness," Barton roared, "lies in the noble posture we assume when staring down the face of terror!"
The moment the words left his lips, Barton unsheathed his longsword. The blade that had accompanied him through decades of service flashed like a silver streak through the air. He spurred his horse, turning himself into a living projectile aimed straight for the Undead General!
Wrath was genuinely taken aback. He hadn't expected this human—an entity so vastly inferior in power, a mere insect in his eyes—to initiate an assault.
He raised a bony hand instinctively.
He used no weapon.
He simply swatted the air with a casual flick.
BOOM!
Count Barton's body, along with his sword, was sent hurtling backward at a velocity far greater than his charge. He traced a long, broken parabola through the air before slamming violently into the base of Jade Territory's walls.
Bones shattered. Blood erupted from his mouth and nose, painting the stone red.
He was dying. His life was flickering out like a guttering candle.
And yet, he smiled. He had done it. He had personally shattered the prophecy of the illusion! By dying here, he had ensured his men would not become traitors.
He looked up at the stunned soldiers atop the wall, using the very last of his strength to let out a guttural, blood-choked roar.
"SOLDIERS! FIGHT!!"
The voice echoed across the battlefield.
On the wall, there was a deathly silence. Everyone had witnessed it. Their Lord, having gone out to parley, was brutally struck down in a single, mocking blow.
Surrender? Peace?
The soldiers who, moments ago, had been calculating how to trade their Lord's head for their own lives, felt their minds go blank. Their Lord was dead. If they surrendered now, what would it matter? Wouldn't they simply be the next to die?
Every soldier still standing gripped their weapon until their knuckles turned white.
The terror remained. But now, it was drowned out by an overwhelming tide of despair and white-hot fury.
In the center of the field, Wrath looked at his hand, then at the broken corpse beneath the wall. He let out a sharp tsk.
"What a nuisance."
"He forced my hand. I wonder if the Master will bury me for this when I return."
He withdrew his gaze, ignoring the reaction of the humans above. He raised his bony arm high. Then, he snapped it downward.
The command was given.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
Four thousand skeletal warhorses began to gallop in perfect unison.
The earth began to heave.
The torrent of steel accelerated.
The Fearless Vanguard launched their final charge against the walls of Jade Territory.
The Knight Commander stood at the very front of the ramparts. He watched the black tide approaching, feeling the stone beneath his feet shudder. His hand drifted uncontrollably to his chest.
He pulled out a hard object hanging from a red cord. A wolf-tooth pendant. A gift from his daughter.
"Papa, this is the strongest tooth I found! It will protect you!"
His daughter's voice pierced through the roar of the approaching army, ringing in his mind.
The Knight Commander looked down. He looked at the broken body of Count Barton.
Slowly, he let go of the pendant. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword. He drew the steel with a scream of metal, pointing it straight at the oncoming flood of death.
With every ounce of breath in his lungs, he let out a shriek that tore the sky.
"FOR JADE TERRITORY!"
"FOR THE LORD COUNT!"
"HOLD THE WALL TO THE LAST MAN—!!!"
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