Chương 86: The Long March

Fifty legionaries moved as one, a clockwork machine of steel and leather marching in formation as their boots struck the packed earth in a percussive drumbeat. The cadence was an imposition of order upon the wild chaos of the Virethane. Cal kept his place in the third rank, his body locked into the march without conscious thought. Through the gap between Berrick's broad shoulders and Ria's lean frame, Cal tracked the trail ahead. They'd left any evidence of civilization far behind.

The path had become a worn scar through the undergrowth, marked by countless Legion boots over the years. Gnarled tangles of roots crossed the trail, and to either side lay rotting logs, their bark sloughing away to reveal the fibrous wood beneath. How long have we been walking? He could have approximated it with his Impartments but instead searched through the canopy gaps to check Aurum's position.

The golden sun hung low in the sky, its light slanting through the trees but offering little warmth against the biting nip of winter. Cinder was just beginning to poke above the treeline. At least three hours since they'd left Deadfall, maybe four. Normally he'd expect a dull ache to be building in his thighs and calves, but his Peak F-tier Endurance and Strength left him feeling fresh. He glanced down the column. No one was lagging.

Most were similarly high in his tier, while only the Lieutenant and he were at the first threshold. The chill morning's monotony was suddenly shattered by Vane shouting.

"Left, right, left, right, another dreary day!" Cal jerked slightly at the abrupt sound, his head whipping toward the man marching ahead of Berrick. The legionary's voice was a booming tenor that carried across the entire formation. After a beat of stunned silence the column responded, myriad voices joining in rough unison.

"Left, right, left, right, another dreary day!"

"Left, right, another source of pay!"

"Left, right, another source of pay!" The helmets in front of him began to bob in time with the tempo. Berrick's sides shook with what might have been a suppressed laugh. Vane's irrepressible grin was audible in his next line.

"The rotters stink, their bones all crack!"

"But every stone we'll bring on back!" The chant was juvenile, almost childish in its simplicity, yet the shared activity created a bond. Cal found himself drawn in and joined the chorus.

"Sharpen up that silver tip!"

"Don't you let the bastard slip!" The column's voices grew stronger and more confident, the words rebounding from the silent trees. Cal saw a flash of movement to his left and caught Ria shaking her head, her lips quirking in a reluctant smile beneath her open visor.

"Sever the neck or crack the head!"

"Make damn sure they stay down dead!" The chant continued, verses repeating as the column marched deeper into the forest. Cal let the words wash over him while his body advanced in sync with the expedition, the peaceful woods replaced by their defiant declaration.

"If you miss and hit the limb!"

"Your chances are lookin' mighty grim!"

"Shields up high and spears bring 'em low!"

"That's just how the Legions go!" The final shout echoed through the canopy, startling a murder of crows from their roosts. As the ambiance settled back into the percussive thud of boots on mud, a soft chime rang in Cal's ears. [New Skill Gained: Singing (F) - Novice] Cal stared at the translucent blue box hovering over Berrick's shoulder. A dry snort escaped him. Fantastic. If the spear breaks, I can apparently hum the undead into submission. He dismissed the notification with a thought.

At least [Savant of the Body] ensured he hadn't been off-key. Looking around, he noticed the mood had shifted. Quiet camaraderie filled the ranks, drawn out by Vane and his boundless energy. Cal heard a few low chuckles and saw a pair of legionaries ahead bump fists. Sometime around mid-day the trail turned sharply southward, and they marched on for another few hours, Cal learning more chants along the way. As evening approached Cal felt a subtle change in the forest that registered through his heightened senses.

The green on the moss lightened until it looked almost grey, and the undergrowth thinned, the ferns and shrubs wilting as though starved of sunlight despite the regular sky overhead. An oppressive silence began to encroach. Throughout the march, Cal had grown used to the Virethane's constant background hum, from the calls of forest birds and rustle of small animals, to the distant cries of larger beasts. Here, that natural chorus was gone.

The only sounds were their own: the thumping of boots and the soft clink and creak of metal and leather. A profound wrongness settled over him, an instinctive warning that this place had been twisted into something unnatural. Cal activated [Mana Sense]. He felt it then, a thin current of energy flowing from the south with the sluggish inevitability of a glacier. It was nauseating. It tasted of rot and stagnation, of spoiled meat left in the sun and the damp earth of a shallow grave.

Goosebumps rose on his arms as the sensation crawled over his skin beneath the armor. He let the Skill fade, cutting off the flow before the nausea could build further. Forcing his breathing to steady he adjusted his grip on the shaft of his spear. That's what we're walking into.

"Halt!" Lieutenant Berg grated out, stopping the column as one. Cal felt the sudden stillness in his core, the abrupt transition from movement to rest jarring after hours of continuous motion, his body feeling like it was continuing forward even though he'd stopped. He looked down the line, peering through the gap in the ranks ahead where the trail had widened into a natural clearing, a roughly circular space perhaps fifty yards across.

The ground was trampled flat, the earth beaten hard and scarred by old fire pits where blackened stones marked the locations of previous campsites. Even shallow trenches had been dug at irregular intervals around the perimeter. In the western sky Aurum hung low, filtering pale shafts of golden light through the canopy. The approach of second dusk promised Cinder's crimson glow and the first true shadows of evening.

Berg moved through the ranks with his characteristic shuffle, his weathered face set in its permanent scowl.

"Set camp. Standard perimeter. Yuh got thirty minutes before chow." The column dissolved as legionaries broke ranks, moving swiftly as they fell into old routines. Packs were dropped in designated spots, tent stakes were pulled from storage pouches, and silver-tipped spears were stacked in neat pyramids at regular intervals around the clearing's edge. Vane led the way toward a spot near the southern edge of the camp, and Cal followed with Ria and Berrick, the four claiming a patch of relatively flat ground.

Berrick grunted, already pulling his kit free.

"Tent first. Don't want Berg on yer ass." Cal nodded, dropping his pack and pulling out the compact bundle that contained his share of their two-person shelter. The dark grey canvas had been treated with some alchemical compound that made it water-resistant and fire-retardant. Though he'd seen the setup demonstrated once during his training, this was his first time doing it himself. He smoothed the treated canvas against the firm ground and uncoiled the bundle of hemp guylines.

The corner grommet required a secure anchor, but his attempt to fasten the rope to the iron stake was clumsy at best. He looped the cord around the metal shaft and pulled, creating a messy tangle that slipped the moment he released the tension. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. He undid the mess and tried a double overhand knot. It held the stake but offered no way to adjust the slack.

"Crumb." Berrick's wheezing drawl cut through his frustration from directly behind.

"That'll hold 'til the first breeze hits, Sov." Cal looked up to find the veteran kneeling beside him, his face set in a glower that didn't quite reach his eyes. Berrick reached out and took the rope.

"You need a hitch that slides an' bites. Watch." The man's fingers blurred with speed born of a thousand nights roughing it outside. He passed the tail end around the standing line, wrapped it twice inside the loop to create friction, then finished with a locking hitch on the outside. He slid the entire knot up the line. The canvas pulled taut, vibrating like a drum skin under the sudden tension.

[Perfect Memory] carved the image in his head, while [Savant of the Mind] broke the elaborate twists into a schematic diagram of leverage and loops. The visual data flooded his nervous system, and [Savant of the Body] translated the motions into immediate muscle commands. He grabbed the next line, his hands operating without conscious thought. Wrap, coil, lock, slide. The knot cinched down beneath his fingers with surprising ease; success on the first try.

[New Skill Gained: Knot Tying (F) - Novice] Mentally waving it away, Cal moved to the final corner of the tent. Berrick grunted in surprise.

"Huh." The veteran stood, brushing dirt from his knees.

"Not bad, Sov." Ria whistled softly from her own tent nearby.

"Look at that. Sov's actually useful."

"Told you he'd figure it out," Vane called from his sprawled position beside his completed shelter, his back against his pack and his legs stretched out.

"Kid's got talent." Cal ignored the banter, focusing instead on the activity unfolding around him. The clearing had transformed in the span of minutes. Thirty tents now stood in neat rows, their dark canvas walls creating orderly corridors between the campfires. A handful of civilian porters, older men and women who'd followed the column at the rear, were unloading supplies from pack mules near the clearing's center.

A field kitchen had materialized near the largest fire pit, where a grizzled cook with burn scars covering both forearms barked orders at his assistants while stirring a huge iron pot. The savory aroma of stew began to sift through the dead air of the corrupted woods, and Cal's stomach clenched with sudden hunger. Berrick gestured toward the field kitchen.

"Chow line's open. Best get movin' before the good bits are gone." Cal joined the queue forming beside the cook's station. The line moved quickly, each legionary receiving a wooden bowl filled with thick stew and a hunk of dark bread. When Cal's turn came, the cook ladled a generous portion into his bowl without comment.

He returned to the spot where his squad had claimed territory and the four of them settled into a loose circle around a small fire Vane had started, their backs against packs and legs stretched toward the warmth. The stew was surprisingly good, with chunks of salted pork floating in a thick gravy alongside root vegetables and something like barley. Cal ate quickly, savoring the steam that rose from the bowl to warm his face.

Around them, the camp had settled into a comfortable routine, soldiers huddling as close to the fire pits as they dared. Conversations drifted between sites, voices kept low and relaxed. Somewhere to the north, a legionary laughed at a joke Cal couldn't hear, while another pair played a dice game, the small ivory cubes clattering on a wooden plate. Cal swallowed his last bite of bread and looked up at Berrick.

"You've been on this run before," Cal said conversationally.

"What are we walking into?" The veteran took a big bite of stew, chewing thoughtfully before answering, his eyes reflecting the firelight as he stared into the flames.

"What are we walkin' into? A whole lotta muck and misery, Sov. The rotters are just stumblin' corpses. Come in all shapes 'n sizes, 'n are dumb as a sack of hammers." He looked up at Cal.

"B'ware the chant, though. You can run 'em through the gut and they won't even blink." He tapped the silvered tip of his spear, which rested beside him within easy reach.

"This shiny bit? It's like poison to whatever foulness keeps 'em moving. Don't waste yer time with the limbs. You pop 'em in the skull or you cut the cord at the neck. That's it." Berrick's scarred face turned back to the fire.

"We're gist takin' out the trash. But be sure ya take it out before it grabs ya." Vane leaned forward, his eyes bright with interest.

"So we just walk in and start stabbing? Sounds simple enough."

"Simple don't mean easy," Berrick corrected, gesturing with his thumb toward his pack.

"You get sloppy, you get bit. That Rotbane we carry ain't just fer the spear tips. It's a nasty cure for a nasty wound. A rotter's bite puts their filth in yer blood, and that black gunk is the only thing that'll burn it out. You get bit, yuh drink it fast and pray it works b'fore the rot takes hold." He set his empty bowl down.

"But yeah. The basic rotters? They're the easy part." The veteran's posture changed. A somber hush overtook his weary slump, and the sudden shift made Cal's instincts prickle. As Berrick looked deeper into the fire, the flickering light carved hard lines across his features. His voice lowered.

"There's ones you gotta watch fer... ones that still have a touch o' who they were. Ones that think." Silence fell over their small circle. Even Vane's constant motion stilled, his bouncing-knee ceasing as he fixated on the veteran. Berrick continued, "Was on patrol out this way, maybe three years back. Fog so thick you couldn't see yer own feet. Our scout'd been tracking some beastie or another through the woods and was rangin' ahead while we waited." He rapped his knuckles sharply against his greave." Tap. Tap.

Tap. Legion scout signal.

'Path's all clear.' Standard procedure." Berrick's jaw tightened.

"We had this new kid, Mohit, green as spring grass. Puffs out his chest, all proud.

'I got point,' he says. Steps off into the fog." Berrick took a deep breath, sighing before he continued.

"Ground that looked like simple mud just swallowed 'im whole. Quickmuck. We hear him screamin', thrashin', but we can't reach him. Fog's too thick, ground's too dangerous. By the time we get a rope over, he's gone." Cal felt his own heart seize, the image vivid in his mind: the panicked screams, the desperate struggle, and the inexorable pull of the earth as it consumed a living man. Berrick lifted his eyes from the fire, staring right at Cal.

"Then the fog shifted an' we saw it, standin' twenty feet away on solid ground. A rotter in the scraps of an old scout's uniform, holding the severed head of our own ranger, hand still rappin' on a tree. Tap. Tap. Tap." His knuckles struck his greave again, the motion creating that same hollow beat.

"It remembered our signal. Used our own damn rules to hunt us." The fire continued to burn down as the squad sat into silence. Ria watched the embers crumble, her usual smirk completely absent. Vane's frame was locked up, every muscle wound taut as a drawn bowstring. It weaponized their trust. A Trojan Horse. It was an unsettling thought. The undead hadn't simply mimicked a human action through blind repetition.

It had understood the signal's meaning, recognized its effect on living soldiers, and deliberately exploited that knowledge to create a trap.

"That thing had intelligence," Cal said quietly.

"I was under the impression rotters were mindless." Berrick nodded slowly, his dark eyes reflecting the dying embers.

"We call 'em Elites. They ain't like most of the common shamblers." He gestured with a scarred hand toward the darkness beyond the firelight.

"Usually happens when the death gets a'hold of higher-tier corpses. The body is too strong to just rot away, and the mind..." He tapped his own temple.

"The mind leaves pieces." The veteran leaned forward, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp.

"They're dead as stone, Sov. But they keep a shadow of what they were. The Skills, the instincts... the training. It's like a reflex that won't quit."

"If they retain Skills, do they also retain weaknesses?" Cal questioned.

"If the original fighter had a blind spot in their guard, or a creature vulnerability to fire... does the Elite share that flaw? Or does the death Mana override it?" Berrick's brows rose slightly as his eyes widened. The veteran leaned back, his posture relaxing a fraction as he considered the question.

"Huh. Never thought about it that way. Most folks are too busy pissin' 'emselves to ask smart questions." He nodded slowly, appraising Cal with new interest.

"Don't rightly know, Sov. But you might be onto somethin'." The man grinned darkly.

"If it remembers how to hunt, maybe it remembers how to die too." Ria made a soft sound of approval, her smirk returning.

"We'll make sure they remember." Vane surged to his feet, springing up and pacing a tight circle with his hands balled into fists. A barking laugh tore from his throat exuberantly.

"See? That's what I'm talking about! These rotters sound simple enough, but that thing thought! That's a fight with some spice to it!" He threw a shadowboxing jab at the empty air, and his fist snapped out with real force. The firelight glinted off his perfect white teeth, emphasizing his wide grin.

"Easy, Vane," Ria called with an edge that stopped Vane mid-motion. The tall legionary froze, his fist still extended.

"Show some respect." Vane blinked, the energy draining from his posture. He glanced at Berrick, then back to Ria, his expression shifting to something resembling contrition. He gave an abrupt nod, lowering his fist.

"Right. Respect for the dead." His voice was quieter now. Then his irrepressible nature reasserted itself, and the grin returned, smaller but no less genuine.

"But it'd be a hell of a fight." Ria rolled her eyes, giving up on the impossible task of keeping Vane properly somber, her voice returning to its usual dry wit.

"Just try not to get swallowed by the ground, Vane." She nudged Cal with her elbow.

"If you do, we'll have Sov here dig you out." Vane laughed.

"Deal. But only if you promise to make it dramatic. I want the bards singing about it." The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the squad finished their meals. Ria recounted a story about Berrick drunkenly challenging an E-tier adventurer to an arm-wrestling match and leaving with a healing bill, while Vane described his plan to open a tavern when he finally retired, complete with a fighting pit in the basement. Berrick listened with his usual scowl, occasionally grunting corrections to their embellishments.

Cal let his body relax against his pack as the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the food combined to produce a pleasant drowsiness. Around them, the camp settled into its evening routine as legionaries from other fires began heading to their tents one by one, their voices fading as they disappeared into the canvas shelters. The dozen campfires scattered across the clearing died down to glowing embers, their warm light making the camp a tiny island of civilization carved into an impenetrable black void.

He stared into that darkness, his mind turning over Berrick's story. Somewhere out there in that silent, corrupted forest, things that had once been dead walked the earth. Most were mindless husks, animated corpses with no memory of who they'd been. But some retained fragments of their former selves, enough to hunt and trap and kill with terrible intelligence. The firelight reflected from the silvered tips of the stacked spears at the clearing's edge, their metal gleaming like stars.

The camp was quiet now, save for the soft murmur of those on watch duty and the gentle crackle of smoldering wood. Cal headed to his tent, letting exhaustion pull him toward sleep. Tomorrow, they would enter the Helemyr Scar.