Chapter 129: The Penance Legion
The sun had not yet crested the horizon, and the morning mist clung stubbornly to the earth.
The central plaza of Iron Fortress was packed with a sea of living beings. The air was heavy with the thick, cloying scent of dozens of different races huddled together: Orcs, Humans, Dwarves, Drow. There were even several squads of Goblins and Lizardmen.
Every single one of them was draped in the same coarse, grey cloth of a prisoner's uniform. A string of numbers was embroidered in black thread over their hearts—their only remaining identity in this city.
Some were yawning; others leaned against their neighbors to steal a few more moments of sleep. A few scanned the perimeter with eyes full of hostility toward the other races.
A Centurion of the Extinction Legion marched to the front of the dais, his metal boots striking the stone with a resonant thud.
Thump.
The low buzz of the crowd died instantly. The mass of people went quiet, though their lines remained crooked and their postures slouched—there was no hint of discipline among them.
The Centurion's jaw clicked, seemingly preparing to bark a reprimand. However, he stopped mid-motion and respectfully took half a step back.
A figure emerged from the shadows behind him.
It was a skeletal wraith wreathed in the aura of the grave. Skele-Envy stood there, the death energy swirling around him so thick it was visible to the naked eye. With every step he took, the temperature in the plaza seemed to plummet. His gaze started at the far left and began a slow, rhythmic sweep across every face, row by row.
Finally, he spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it vibrated with a resonance that drilled directly into the ears of every soul present.
"Your pasts, your identities, your crimes... I find them utterly tedious."
"From this heartbeat forward, you possess only one title."
"The Penance Legion."
A graveyard silence followed.
"Though you are merely the dregs of the Evernight Empire, the Merciful Master has deigned to grant you a single opportunity for redemption."
"I shall now lay before you the two paths to your future."
Envy raised a hand, extending a single bony finger.
"First: Survive the coming war. Those who remain standing when the dust settles shall receive full Citizenship of the Evernight Empire. You will enjoy the absolute protection of Imperial Law. You will be assigned permanent housing and a job that provides a dignified life. Furthermore, you will receive a fixed monthly stipend of essential supplies. Your families and your kin shall receive immediate priority for Citizenship based on the merit you carve out with your steel."
In the crowd, the sound of heavy, greedy breathing began to rise.
Citizenship.
To the non-citizens living within the Empire's borders, that status was more than wealth—it was the right to exist without fear. It was the ladder to the "Paradise" everyone whispered about.
Envy extended a second finger.
"Second: Perish in the coming war. Your bones shall become the foundation stones for the Empire's expansion, and your death will add a microscopic stroke to the Master's grand epic. In exchange, one direct family member—or any single individual of your kin you designate—will be granted Citizenship immediately and without cost."
The crowd erupted into a feverish commotion. Murmurs and arguments in a dozen different tongues rippled through the plaza.
Trade one life for a family's future.
To those on death row or with no way out, it was an exchange that carried a lethal, intoxicating attraction.
"I do not care how you choose, nor do I care for your thoughts," Envy stated coldly. "But from this moment, your lives are no longer your own property. They belong to the Evernight Empire. They belong to the Supreme Sovereign."
With those final words, Envy turned. His form merged back into the shadows of the dais as if he had never been there at all.
As the General vanished, squads of fully armed officers from the Extinction Legion stepped forward. A Millennary Commander scanned the crowd before shouting:
"DISTRIBUTE THE GEAR!"
Heavy wooden crates were hauled onto the plaza, their lids pried open with violent force. Inside were the standardized kits produced by Paul's foundries: uniform iron breastplates, crude but sturdy leather bracers, and short swords with shields that still smelled of factory grease.
The prisoners had no choice. Under the barks and whips of the skeletal officers, they formed lines to receive their gear. A Dwarf picked up a short sword, weighed it, and curled his lip in disdain, muttering that he could forge a better blade in half an hour. He still buckled it to his waist. A massive Orc pulled on a breastplate, grumbling as the straps restricted his movement, only for a skeletal officer to deliver a sharp kick to the back of his knee. The Orc collapsed with a shriek, and the officer's bone-foot remained pinned to his back until he stopped thrashing.
The column began to move. Under the escort of the undead, this patchwork army left the plaza, marching through the streets toward the city gates.
Residents who had woken early stood on the sidewalks to watch. They looked at the army of convicts with varying gazes: some with pity, others with contempt, but most with a profound sense of relief that they were not among the ranks of the "Penance."
Outside the city, in a vast, cleared-out training field, the tens of thousands of convicts came to a halt. Envy stood atop a high ridge overlooking them, flanked by his silent officers.
"From now until you depart for the front, you have exactly three days."
"In these three days, you must learn only three things."
"First: How to grip your sword."
"Second: How to raise your shield."
"Third: How to stay alive when a blade is seeking your throat."
"In three days, you will be sent to the battlefield."
Envy gave a curt wave. Dozens of Skeleton Snipers, acting as instructors, charged into the ranks of the convicts.
The "training" began.
A human youth named John was shaking so hard he couldn't keep a steady grip on his hilt. A skeletal instructor walked up to him without a word, seized his wrist, and twisted it with a violent, sickening crunch.
"Error demonstrated," the skeleton intoned. It tossed a vial of healing potion to the boy wailing on the ground and moved to the next man. Its empty sockets scanned the line for the next failure.
Elsewhere, a Goblin complained that his shield was too heavy and tried to slide it into the dirt. An instructor kicked him flat and used the edge of the shield to strike the Goblin's skull repeatedly until green blood smeared the stone. Only after being healed by a splash of [Emerald's Respite] was the Goblin forced back to his feet to continue.
"You! The Drow! Cease that ridiculous dancing!"
"There are no dance steps on the battlefield! Only phalanxes and death!"
"If you break rank again, I will snap both your legs!"
The air was filled with roars, screams, and the sound of breaking bone. There was no gentle guidance here—only the most direct, violent correction. Envy watched from the ridge, his Soul Fire still. He didn't care for their survival or their growth. He only needed fodder that knew how to charge in a designated direction and use their corpses to pave the way for the true Legions.
The three days bled away in a haze of blood and sweat.
On the first day, they learned to stand and obey.
On the second, they learned to hold the line. They were organized into squads of ten and forced to practice the Shield-Wall. If one man faltered, the entire squad was punished. They were forced to spar with their comrades; the winners received bread and stew, while the losers drank cold water.
On the third day, they learned to kill.
Instructors summoned tens of thousands of Skeleton Soldiers and ordered the Penance Legion to charge. Anyone who wavered or retreated was executed on the spot by the archers at the rear.
By the end of the third night, the Penance Legion finally resembled an army. They had learned to stand straight, to grip their steel, and to react the instant a command was given. They had also learned a deeper level of terror: fear of the instructors, fear of death, and fear of the silent General watching from the ridge.
Night fell on the third day. Envy appeared on the dais once more. Below him, the legion stood in dozens of perfect, silent squares. The moonlight reflected off their new armor in millions of cold, silver points.
"We move at dawn," Envy's voice drifted through the night air. "Remember: your sins are washed away only by the blood of the enemy."
With that, he turned and departed.
In the ranks, a heavy silence reigned. Chris, a human soldier, looked down at his blade. He had been arrested for stealing [Emerald's Respite] to sell on the black market—he had wanted to buy his sister a house of her own so she could be a Citizen.
"I have to go back," he whispered. "I have to survive."
"Hmph. Naive brat," a gruff voice grunted beside him. "You think a warzone is a playground for kids?"
Chris looked over at a stout Dwarf named Block. Block had been arrested for accidental manslaughter during a drunken brawl at a tavern. Chris didn't get angry; he simply asked, "And you, Block? You don't want to go home?"
The Dwarf went still. He was silent for so long Chris thought he wouldn't answer.
"I have a son," Block said, staring at the dark horizon. "I promised him I'd personally teach him how to forge his first axe."
Chris said nothing more. Tomorrow, perhaps only one of them would return. Perhaps neither.
High above on the walls of Iron Fortress, Envy looked down at his new tools. A Millennary Commander appeared behind him, bowing.
"General... can we truly win a war with only these people?"
Envy looked up at the fractured moon. "This is their only chance. And it is mine as well. I will prove to the Master that I am not inferior to any other General."
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