Chapter 102: Redistribution
The wind swept across the frozen river, carrying with it the heavy, iron scent of blood.
The war was over.
The Shaman, leaning heavily on his staff, emerged from the tribe's hiding place. Behind him trailed the survivors—the elderly, the women, and the children, all shivering in the biting cold.
They looked upon the battlefield. The once-pristine ice was now a scarlet slaughterhouse. The corpses of Orc warriors carpeted the riverbed; those once-vibrant faces were now frozen in final roars of defiance and agony. Gugell, their greatest champion, lay twisted in a grotesque shape, his eyes wide and staring into a void that offered no glory.
Honor had not arrived. Only the cold reality of extinction.
Thousands of Skeleton Soldiers remained standing in a silent, monolithic vigil, their hollow gazes fixed on the survivors. A small Orc cub, seeing the broken remains of his father, let out a piercing wail. The sound was contagious. Soon, suppressed sobbing rippled through the crowd.
The Shaman watched the scene, two tracks of tears carving paths through the grime on his face. He let go of his staff—the symbol of the tribe's ancestral wisdom and dignity. It clattered onto the blood-slicked ice like a useless piece of driftwood. He led his people forward and knelt before the towering Skeleton Archmage on the opposite bank.
"We... submit."
As the words fell, every surviving Orc, regardless of age, lowered their heads until their foreheads pressed against the frozen earth. They abandoned their resistance and their pride, bartering both for a single, fragile chance to keep breathing.
The Soul Fire in the Archmage's eyes watched them with absolute indifference. An invisible pulse of information was dispatched through the link.
The next moment, the space behind the Archmage began to distort. The Skeleton Soldiers, having completed their evolution through the blood of the Saru, were enveloped in ripples of blue light and teleported away. In a matter of minutes, the vast majority of the legion had vanished, leaving only a hundred-man garrison to hold the riverbank.
The teleportation array flared once more. A figure stepped through the light.
It was a man clad in an exquisite black suit, his skin deathly pale and his silver hair combed back with surgical precision.
A Vampire.
He approached the Archmage and offered a shallow, graceful bow. "Hard work, General."
The Archmage—Skele-Avarice—simply nodded in acknowledgment. He handed a small bone plate to the Vampire. "This is the jurisdictional permit for this sector."
The Vampire accepted the plate, his crimson eyes scanning the prostrate Orcs. A faint, nearly imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "I shall handle the processing."
Without another word, the Archmage stepped into the still-open array and vanished.
Now, the supreme ruler of this land was this Vampire—a member of Greed's State Affairs Legion, responsible for the integration of "purified" territories into the Evernight Empire. He looked down at the Orcs as if he were inspecting a herd of livestock waiting for the pen.
"Stand," he commanded. His voice, amplified by Mana, rang clearly in the ears of every Orc.
The Saru hesitated, looking at one another, too terrified to move. The Vampire showed no impatience; he simply snapped his fingers. Several dozen skeletons detached themselves from the garrison and began to clear the battlefield. The Orcish dead were piled together, then vanished into blue light along with a Skeleton Swordsman.
"I said: Stand."
His voice carried a new edge of irresistible authority. The Shaman was the first to rise, his legs trembling. The others followed suit, keeping their heads bowed, daring not to look the new master in the eye.
"From this day forward, this land is a province of the Evernight Empire," the Vampire's voice echoed across the riverbank. "And you have become its subjects."
"However, the Empire has no room for the useless."
He paced slowly to the front of the Orcish line, his gaze piercing through their terror.
"You shall remain here for a three-month period of Re-education. You will learn the Empire's culture, memorize its laws, and master a craft capable of providing value to the state. In three months, there will be an evaluation."
"Those who pass shall be relocated to Jade Territory or Iron Fortress. There, through your labor, you will earn food, shelter, and the formal status of an Imperial Citizen. You will be given the chance to see a new world—one of prosperity and order beyond your primitive imaginations."
The Vampire paused, his gaze settling on the Shaman. "As for those... who fail the evaluation."
His tone remained deceptively gentle.
"They shall be confined to this barren land under mandatory supervision. They will stay here until they learn to be proper subjects... or until they cease to exist."
Silence. The Orcs were stunned. They had expected chains and whips; instead, they were being offered a curriculum. Yet the underlying threat was clear: the Empire would either mold them or discard them.
The Shaman's lips moved as if to ask a question, but he remained silent. He knew they no longer possessed the right to speak.
"Now, bring forth everything the tribe owns," the Vampire issued his first administrative decree. "Food, tools, pelts—everything. From this moment, all resources are the property of the state. I shall manage them and distribute them based on necessity."
"Your performance each day will dictate your rations."
The Orcs dared not refuse. Led by the Shaman, they returned to their huts and hauled out their meager possessions. The Vampire looked at the crude stone tools and the pitiful scraps of dried meat, shaking his head.
"Uncivilized savages," he murmured. He turned to a Skeleton Centurion. "Contact Logistics. I want a shipment of standard agricultural tools, construction materials, and winter clothing delivered here immediately. Also, requisition a five-man instructor unit to teach them basic Common Language and tilling techniques."
"As you command, My Lord."
The Vampire watched the Orcs again. His task wasn't just management; it was Filtering. He was here to extract the valuable labor and prune away the dead weight that couldn't adapt to the New Order. The Purge hadn't ended with the battle; it had simply changed its form, continuing in every corner of the Empire.
As night deepened, a new fire was lit.
This time, there was no roasted meat. Instead, a massive pot of steaming, fragrant wheat porridge was prepared. Every Orc—man, woman, and child—was given a full bowl. They clutched the rough wooden bowls, tasting food they had never encountered before. Many began to weep again.
But this time, the tears held something besides grief.
The Vampire stood at a distance, watching them eat. He knew that the most effective way to conquer a race was never the sword. It was food, order, and a tangible, visible promise of a future.
Even if that hope required them to pay with their dignity and their traditions.
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