The grizzled old, but Ordinary soldier. He didn’t look like someone who could wander the battlefield so murderously as he chanted along with the others, perhaps he was a teacher in his past life before the war.

At least that’s what Osias felt from Geral during the few nights he was taught the language from him and the others.

Osias learned slowly — an entirely new language was something he wouldn’t ever think he needed to learn nor would learn when everyone spoke a common tongue in the Wailing Chain aside from a few sparse groups.

But it was a welcome change, and the old man taught him well, despite how little and slow he learned in the short time he awoke in this… place.

They haven’t even gotten to writing.

…The bloody edge of the golden blade hovered above the nape of the beaten-down and haggard Geral. Droplets of blood stained the ground below Geral, and some dripped into his already mucky aged hair.

Geral was wheezing out croaky breaths, probably trying to recover his strength from how much those of the Golden Hawk pummeled and maimed him before pushing him down the stone steps in a rough stumble.

Geral’s head was lowered as his chin hung tightly against the top of his chest. He was weakly planted on his hands and knees before his executioner, seemingly waiting for the blade to be swung.

Motionless, Osias continued to watch the old man he came to know so briefly await his death with narrowed and sunken eyes.

Osias didn’t blink as he burned the sight into memory, no matter of fabricated the Ordeals were — he was sure… sure that this sight shall never be forgotten.

But just as the Third Ordeal raised his curved golden blade tainted with the blood the shackled and bounded, Geral turned his head to his left towards Osias.

Geral met Osias’s eyes, and uttered something so quietly below his weak breath:

“Kassa relun, Visalro—”

A sickly crunch and cut of flesh and bone sounded.

…Then, Gerals head detached at the neck before he could finish his last words, but Osias already knew what was missing.

He watched the mottled and dirty greyish hair trail behind the rolling head as the slow, but heavy steps of the Third Ordeal continued to the next of his followers as Geral’s neck began to surge with blood.

Swallowing a lump of discontent back down, Osias shut his eyes tightly for a moment and then opened them into a bitter glare at the back of the executioner.

‘Kassa… relun?’ Osias inwardly recalled as his eyes traced the executioner once more raised his golden blade.

He didn’t know what either of those words meant, Geral hadn’t taught him them.

Nor will he ever get to teach Osias again.

Exhaling sharply, Osias burned the vision of this long series of executions and added it to his miserable collection of memories.

—

Osias trudges forward, following another survivor of the executions through the city. His body still ached and pulsed with pain, but it had been long since he had been accustomed to such things.

The metal bindings that wrapped around his wrists and ankles clanked and rattled with every step, a constant reminder of all the times he’s been reduced to nothing more than a… prisoner.

Just how many years of his life have been spent in chains? From metal to wood to metal once more, a welling deep resentment for shackles boiled in his heart.

…Behind and ahead, the other survivors—bloodied, stripped of all dressings shivered as they marched. So much so that Osias didn’t know if it was because of the cold wind or from their terrible wounds.

Some stumbled, barely able to walk, while the others drifted like ghosts, their eyes hollow and vacant.

Despite being paraded in the city, the air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat, and the cries of the onlookers were deafening. The people of this city had faces twisted in a blend of hatred and vindictive glee as they watched the people who would’ve razed their city to the ground being taken as prisoners. From windows and rooftops, they jeered and screamed, throwing whatever they could lay their hands on—stones, rotten fruit, clods of dirt. They spat on them, dirtying their stripped bodies even more.

Osias winced as a stone clobbered against his skull.

‘Weak.’ He huffed out inwardly.

But he wouldn’t dare act because of it, it’ll only provoke more attention to his already notable appearance. So his eyes continued to stay fixed on the ground, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

Because although he was beaten down, dirty, and stripped to his skin… the unfathomable pull he felt was becoming increasingly stronger with each step.

‘Towards the palace indeed.’ He mused darkly.

Suddenly, Osias’s ears perked up as he heard someone fall from behind him, their chains rattling alongside the plop of their torn body.

‘Another one.’ He noted with a faint wince.

“Kassa—” A tired voice croaked out in dark contempt, but before the prisoner could continue his curse, he was struck down, and the ringing of steel against bone sounded once more as the onlookers cheered loudly at the sight.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

…For those who couldn’t keep up with the broken procession, the punishment was swift. Too weak or wounded, they were executed immediately the moment their knees hit the road.

Osias’s gaze flickered ahead of him, finding another one of these slain bannerman.

Those donning the Golden Hawk drove spears through the man’s torso, desecrating the body even further before commanding a surviving prisoner to pick it up and carry it along with him on the march.

As the line of prisoners traveled deeper into the city, they eventually brushed sides along with the austere grandeur of the white walls that enclosed the regal palace at its heart.

Staring intensely as though he tried to peer past the solid walls, Osias came to answer one of his concerns.

‘It’s in here, definitely.’

Osias was worried at first that because of how far away the outer walls were, he could’ve mistaken where he felt the pull of his Ordeal.

Now, with how close he was to the pristine white walls, he was assured that whoever he needed to kill to leave this place was inside these walls.

However, Osias also realized as he came close to the white stone walls… the overwhelming presence that formed that glimmering golden sword was gone, muted somewhere inside those walls.

‘Is that… monster still inside?’ He wondered.

Before he continued his thoughts, Osias along with the other prisoners arrived at their destination as those in front of him suddenly halted.

‘Didn’t take long.’ He huffed out to himself.

The narrow streets they trudged along opened into a vast courtyard. A towering structure loomed ahead—a fortress-like building.

Massive gates of an ominous metal began to creak open as they were forcibly herded further inside. Osias glanced up at the ominous edifice as it passed over his head, and he could almost feel the dread tightening around the hearts of the other Ordinaries as they joined him.

Inside, the air was thick with dampness and rot. The floor beneath his bare feet was gold and slick with grime. Dimly lit, the small flames flickered along the hardy stone walls of its corridors. The deeper they went, the louder the echoes of their chains rang.

Osias, along with the others, was forced into a massive chamber lined with large filthy cells. Even those who carried the defiled corpses of the soldiers executed in their march through the city entered…

“Va!” A Path Finder yelled, pushing them inside without ceremony.

Cramped and squalid, the floors were caked with dirt and waste. Thin slivers of light broke past into the chamber, but it was still impossibly dim behind the bars of metal.

As they all funneled in, the sounds of groans from the wounded enveloped the cold chamber.

Osias gritted his teeth as he sat motionless, staring at what was left of the soldiers turned prisoners with gloomy resentment.

‘How do I escape? Leave, and kill the bastard that will free me from this damned place.’ He thought with a dark scowl.

This entire Ordeal was turned to a mess from the very moment he awoke. War was the furthest thing he thought his eyes would open to, much less being turned into a prisoner after barely escaping the judgment of the executioner.

Now, imprisoned near the heart of the massive city enclosed with such imposing walls, a vast army, and the presence of something that was akin to a god to someone of his level of strength… Osias was left distraught.

If he thought he was lost before, than he was wrong as he evaluated where he was now.

He didn’t even know what tomorrow would look like.

…The massive gates that led into the chamber that held all the rugged cells closed as hundreds of Ordinaries made this dreary place home.

Those strong enough to talk did, but many were too weak to even stand.

Eyeing the far dark corner, Osias found that those who carried the corpses simply set them down there.

‘Sharing a cell with hundreds, both alive and dead.’ He thought with a deep frown.

Osias didn’t have hope that they’d live. All the Ordinaries here couldn’t hold a candle to how much essence he had, and were not privy to the same Path of Blood he had.

Their wounded bodies would give out as their wounds fester if they didn’t die from bleeding before that.

Their bodies couldn’t last long without as much food as he could.

Their minds would break if they weren’t already.

‘To think we fought a battle before all of this…’ Osais mused.

“Visalros!” A weary voice cut through the large murky cell.

Osias lifted his gaze and traced the voice, finding Ousal.

“Ousal.” He gruffed out quietly, his tone trailing off as he remembered Ousal’s ties with many of his executed followers.

Raising a pair of rusty, but heavy shackles, Ousal sighed somberly before sitting in front of Osias weakly.

‘They weren’t gentle with you either,’ Osias thought to himself, looking all over the mangled body of Ousal.

Osias wore a concerned expression as he gestured toward the terrible wounds that littered Ousal’s torso and legs.

But Ousal simply shook his head slowly, dismissing Osias’s concerns.

Deciding to bring it up, Osias uttered quietly, “Geral, Erdma…” but once again, Ousal only shook his head slowly with a soft and tired face.

Nodding in understanding, they didn’t share any more words. They simply brooded together as they gazed listlessly at their filthy surroundings, appreciating each other's company in this damned cage.

Slowly as time passed, the weak voices of the other captives began to quiet as they also quickly realized that they couldn’t do a thing against those of the Golden Hawk.

They were wounded, exhausted, hungry, and thirsty in the heart of a city of uncountable numbers.

Tomorrow, they’ll like to be put to work as well. Forced to do grueling labor for the enemy until they die. They’ll struggle as hunger gnaws at their minds. They’ll work until their very bones will refuse to lift the flimsy weight of their arms. The fate of them all could be foreseen, it didn’t take a Path Finder to know of it.

…In the next moment, Osias’s gaze lifted and the bloody stumps that were left of his ears perked up as he heard weak shuffles headed toward him in the number.

Heavy steps from the limps and wobbles over the occasional puddle of rancid waste sounded, growing ever closer to where Osias and Ousal sat.

It was the rest of his followers — or at least those who knew of Osias’s presence in battle. Perhaps some have seen his Innate Ability and thought of him as someone special. Perhaps some have seen his strength as he cleaved apart Ordinaries and First Ordeals alike.

‘No… even more, from the other companies.’ Osias realized, doing a quick count.

But regardless of their reasons, they huddled around Osias as he rested against the rear wall. Slowly, more and more joined them as they surrounded Osias in silence, having given up on finding a miraculous chink in the metal bars that trapped them or a key that will free them from this hell.

‘Ah… what can more followers do in this place? ’ Osias thought, shaking his head tiredly.

Was it hope that they felt?

Turning to someone like him when there was no way out?

Osias could say nor do a thing for these Red Feather soldiers, as he too was as weak as them inside such a place.

Looking ahead through tired eyes, Ousal seemed to have noticed the others gathering beside him.

‘A faint smile?’ Osias thought, raising an eyebrow at Ousal.

“Ousal?” He said quietly.

But Ousal put up a weak hand and waved him off before pointing behind his back towards the metal bars to contain all of them.

“Visalros, lladd?”

‘Kill? Kill who?’ Osias wondered.

Weakly swinging and flailing his arms as though he was wielding a great two-handed blade, Ousal gestured once more to Osias.

‘Ah… he’s saying that I’ve killed.’

Then Ousal was likely saying that these other prisoners of war have seen him kill a lot of the Golden Hawk Bannerman.

Was Ousal trying to say that’s why they’ve gathered around him?

Returning another faint smile, Osias nodded.

‘Perhaps… it's time to learn this language wholeheartedly.’

Time was something fickle, especially while he was confined alongside these men. Learning the language was the least he could do in such a place, and he’ll likely come to learn much more than he could have without it.

And just like he did so on his first night in this unfamiliar place… Osias spent the night learning to speak and converse without sleeping.

Whatever he does tomorrow, be it fight, work, starve, or kill… he will continue to learn the language and do everything to get closer to succeeding in this Ordeal.

Even if it will take years.