Chapter 412: A Nation for the Dead (5)
"Impressive that you figured it out," Isaac said with a faint smirk.
The Immortal Order was always starving for new “population” since it couldn’t reproduce naturally.
However, unlike the raiders of Wallachia, they couldn’t simply abduct people. The Order didn’t need slaves or food; it needed citizens. Voluntary conversion out of fear of death was ideal, while coercing souls into servitude after death was a last resort. Only souls with autonomy could reach their full potential.
In this sense, the concept of “death insurance” offered by the Immortal Order was oddly civilized in the savage world they inhabited:
“Afraid of death? Worried about how your loved ones will cope with your passing? Fear not! We guarantee a fulfilling life after death! Sign up today to banish your fears—cancel anytime!”
"Give it another thousand years, and they might advertise like that," Isaac mused. "Assuming this world lasts that long."
There was another option: raising people as “citizens of the Immortal Order” from birth.
This village was one such place—a controlled environment designed to cultivate loyal citizens eager to serve the Order.
"To be fair, calling it a ‘human ranch’ might have been harsh," Isaac said. "It’s not as bad as it sounds."
"Not as bad?" Tuhalin scoffed. "How can you say that?"
"Why don’t we take a closer look first? They’re scared of us—let’s try to talk peacefully."
Though skeptical, Tuhalin agreed to Isaac’s plan.
***
The group soon arrived at the village, only to find its gates locked. Behind a flimsy wooden palisade, villagers hid inside their homes, seemingly petrified by the approaching army.
The barrier was so weak that Tuhalin could probably knock it over with a firm push, but the young men behind it huddled as though it were Ushak’s legendary triple walls.
Tuhalin cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"Who’s in charge here? We want to talk."
"Get lost, lackeys of Sarka Noir!"
The fact that someone dared to shout at an armed force astonished Isaac. Tuhalin, however, scowled at the unfamiliar name.
"Why do they keep calling us Sarka Noir’s army? Aren’t they under the Immortal Order’s protection?"
"Let me handle this," Isaac said, stepping forward.
He ruffled his hair for effect, leaning into the Nephilim charm that often swayed mortals. The tension behind the palisade eased slightly at the sight of him—a younger, well-groomed human was far less intimidating than a scarred, grizzled dwarf like Tuhalin.
"We have nothing to do with Sarka Noir," Isaac declared.
"Liar! You bear the mark of the Codex of Light! You’ve come to drag us into that suicidal march of yours, haven’t you?"
Tuhalin frowned, starting to piece things together.
Sarka Noir, now one of the Immortal Order’s Archangels, had conscripted countless humans to fuel his campaigns for the Dawn Army. Entire villages near the Holy Land had been emptied to serve as cannon fodder.
The ancestors of these villagers had likely fled into the mountains to escape conscription. While centuries had passed, their fear of Sarka Noir clearly lingered.
"They kept these people isolated and fed them lies to keep them here," Isaac remarked.
"But that was hundreds of years ago," Tuhalin argued. "Surely they wouldn’t still believe Sarka Noir is alive. Humans don’t live that long."
"Sarka Noir sought immortality, didn’t he? They must think he succeeded."
There was no need for undead guards. Fear alone had caged these people for centuries.
The situation reminded Isaac of an old urban legend he’d read online. Supposedly, anthropologists had discovered an isolated village in rural China whose inhabitants were terrified of outsiders, repeatedly asking, "Is the First Emperor still alive?" They believed the emperor had consumed an elixir of immortality and was still ruling.
"Leave now! If you don’t, our benevolent Immortal Emperor will punish you!"
"We are envoys of the Immortal Emperor," Isaac declared.
Tuhalin and Edelred turned to Isaac in shock, but he pressed on, unfazed.
The true charm of a Nephilim lay in their ability to weave lies, manipulate, and incite.
"We’re returning to Lua after defeating Sarka Noir’s army. Let me show you proof."
Isaac gestured to Hesabel, who quickly retrieved a bundle from one of the wagons. She dumped its contents onto the ground—old weapons, helmets, and scraps of armor scavenged after their battle with the Lord of the Graveyard.
Among the pile was a single intact piece:
[Helmet of the Restorer – Graveyard Lord’s Helm (S+)]
A helmet once favored by Sarka Noir in life. Increases resistance to miracles, prevents bleeding, and numbs pain. However, those who kill while wearing it are haunted by the spirits of their victims.
While functional, Isaac found it impractical. It was too large, lacked style, and, as a seasoned adventurer, Isaac prioritized aesthetics almost as much as utility.
He raised the horned helmet and proclaimed, "This is Sarka Noir’s helm. Surely you’ve heard of it?"
The murmurs behind the palisade suggested they had. Whether through lore or firsthand encounters, the villagers seemed to recognize the artifact. Still, the helmet alone wasn’t enough to dispel their doubts.
"If you serve the Immortal Emperor, why do you carry heavy mortal flesh instead of immortal bodies? Isn’t it inefficient for war?"
Isaac paused, realizing their skepticism was rooted in the Immortal Order’s ideals. He needed to address this carefully.
Tuhalin, still pondering Isaac’s earlier words, suddenly paled as a terrible realization dawned on him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.
"Isaac," he said, his voice unsteady. "These people… They’ve been isolated here since the Immortal Order was established. Feeding themselves, reproducing, and raising each generation to sustain the Order with… fresh population?"
Tuhalin’s pointed remarks demanded a response, and Isaac delivered it without hesitation.
"I am a convert," Isaac declared confidently. "I fought Sarka Noir to prove my loyalty to the Immortal Emperor. If I had died on the battlefield, I would have gladly offered my body for the blessing of undeath. Yet here I stand, alive and victorious."
The audacious claim silenced the young man behind the palisade, though he seemed ready to protest further. Isaac, sensing the moment, pressed forward.
"If you continue to question my loyalty, you’ll be committing treason against the Immortal Emperor himself! Do you think the sword that felled Sarka Noir cannot cut through this flimsy wall?"
Isaac hurled Sarka Noir’s horned helmet at the palisade.
BANG.
The loud crash sent shrieks echoing from the other side. The villagers now fully understood they had no means of stopping this army. A flurry of shouting followed, and after a tense pause, the gates creaked open.
Isaac turned to Tuhalin and Edelred with a sly grin.
"Shall we?"
***
None of the commanders voiced disappointment over Isaac’s lie.
As a Holy Grail Knight of the Codex of Light, Isaac’s pragmatism was perfectly in line with his role. Even the Furnace of the World zealots, who might otherwise object, found no fault in Isaac’s approach. The knights of Issacrea, sharing a similarly pragmatic outlook, respected the result over the means.
Only the devout followers of Elil appeared uneasy, though Edelred silenced their murmurs with a simple retort:
"Would you have us draw our swords against these poor, unarmed villagers instead?"
Hesabel, unsurprisingly, was delighted.
Thanks to Isaac’s deception, the soldiers now had a secure place to rest without the stench of bloodshed. Though there weren’t enough houses for everyone, the absence of the constant threat of attack was a relief in itself. The villagers’ archaic dialect ensured that no unnecessary conversations would risk exposing the truth.
In time, the initial discomfort faded for most—though Tuhalin remained troubled.
"There isn’t a single adult over thirty in this village," Tuhalin muttered after inspecting the settlement.
Having ensured the soldiers’ safety, he had spoken with several villagers and observed their living conditions. There was no sign of any immediate threat.
"Not just the elderly—there’s a distinct lack of anything remotely dangerous. The only weapons they have are wooden spears, and those look ceremonial at best. It’s like they’ve been deliberately stripped of any means of resistance."
"It’s a village under the Immortal Order’s administration," Isaac replied.
Tuhalin groaned. "Of course. And the reason there aren’t any elders is…"
"Because they’re harvested before their bones grow brittle," Isaac said with a casual shrug. "Just as you suspected."
The villagers were taken as soon as they had fulfilled their purpose: reproducing to sustain the population. It explained why there were so many young couples.
"They’re treating humans like livestock!" Tuhalin growled.
"Humans are animals," Isaac replied calmly.
Tuhalin’s anger deepened, but Isaac continued unfazed.
"Let’s be honest. If you asked these villagers to choose between a life of exploitation and hard labor under a lord, constantly fearing conscription into war, or living safely here until old age before becoming an immortal undead… I doubt many would hesitate to pick the latter."
"Did you sign up for their death insurance?" Tuhalin shot back sarcastically.
"Just pointing out the facts," Isaac said, unfazed. "That said, you’re right—they’re little more than livestock. The Immortal Order doesn’t care about their freedom, dignity, or choices."
Isaac sighed, then asked, "Tuhalin, when did you begin following the World’s Forge?"
"Since birth," Tuhalin replied without thinking. Then he froze, realization dawning.
"Exactly," Isaac said. "In this world, the most effective way to gain followers is through ‘cradle faith.’ When family, friends, and society all believe in a doctrine, it naturally becomes the framework for one’s values."
Even within the White Empire, a devout follower of the Codex of Light would be an outlier. Faith, Isaac observed, was often shaped by circumstance, not choice.
"From an extreme perspective, nations and religious orders are ‘human ranches’ themselves, aren’t they?"
Tuhalin stared at Isaac, momentarily lost for words. Finally, he lashed out.
"That’s different! At least we allow the possibility of conversion! These villagers are just livestock waiting to be slaughtered—they have no choice!"
"And you know how rare the freedom to choose faith is in this world," Isaac retorted. "Stray from the herd, and you’re butchered. Or worse, eaten by wolves."
Tuhalin glared at Isaac. "So, what’s your point? That all gods are shepherds and we’re just their sheep? That we worship them only because they feed us and protect us from predators?"
Tuhalin’s frustration boiled over. "The Furnace of the World believes in progress! We believe tomorrow will be brighter than today! That there’s a better, more radiant light waiting to replace the Codex of Light!"
Isaac nodded, his expression steady. "You’re right, Tuhalin. People aren’t truly alive just because they’re breathing. These villagers are alive, but they’re already dead. Stuck in the past, dreaming only of producing the next generation to die. I wouldn’t call that living, either."
Tuhalin’s eyes burned with conviction. "Exactly! Living means striving for something better, breaking barriers, and forging a future! These people have no hope, no future—they’re corpses clinging to a semblance of life!"
Isaac didn’t argue. Tuhalin’s passion for progress was genuine, and Isaac respected that. Yet, he also knew that Tuhalin’s belief system—like any other—had its limits.
Isaac leaned in slightly, his voice calm but sharp. "Then why don’t you strike the gods themselves, Tuhalin? Why not challenge the unjust, broken system they’ve created? Why settle for tinkering at the edges instead of dismantling the machine?"
Tuhalin froze, stunned into silence.
Isaac’s words were tantamount to heresy, a call to rebellion against the divine. It was a line Tuhalin, for all his ideals, could not cross.
"If you cannot break the rules, Tuhalin, you cannot rewrite them," Isaac said softly. "But I can."
Isaac’s voice carried a cold finality. "Are you prepared to be the hammer that strikes the gods themselves?"