Chapter 46: The Red Land

The sky bled red.

Not in metaphor—actual blood hung in the air like mist, staining the clouds. Ash rained down in fine, choking layers, turning skin gray and boots slick. Trees had long since been reduced to skeletal stalks, and the rivers ran thick with runoff from old battlefields, too dark to be water anymore.

The land itself groaned beneath them, and in front of them was a decrepit town.

Bodies littered the outskirts—some fresh, others left to rot where they fell. Crows circled in lazy spirals overhead, unbothered by the living. Burned-out homes leaned on crumbling frames, and the dirt streets were stained with more than just mud.

Children no older than five clung to shadows, too tired to cry.

The group walked in silence, their presence drawing cautious eyes from windows and doorways. A few townsfolk emerged—gaunt, silent, and armed with little more than broken sticks or jagged knives.

At the center of town stood a cracked fountain, long since dried. Leaning against it was a woman.

She was wiry and sharp-edged, all tension and watchfulness. Her hair was dark and braided on one side, falling in uneven lengths over the other. A jagged scar curled along her upper arm, visible through the tear in her sleeve. She wore leather armor that had seen better days, patched with scraps of chainmail and cloth.

What caught Jalen's eye wasn't her beauty—it was the way she stood. Like someone who didn't flinch anymore. Someone who'd already faced death, spat in its eye, and kept walking.

Their gazes met for a split second. She didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just tilted her head slightly, like sizing him up.

Lucio leaned in. "She's trouble."

"That's what makes her interesting," Jalen murmured back.

"Not that kind of interesting."

"I didn't say it was."

She turned away, disappearing behind a shuttered door without another word.

A man staggered toward them next—mid-forties, maybe, with a limp and a grimy bandage wrapped around his neck. "You strangers?"

"Depends who's asking," Kullen said flatly.

"The ones who dropped a god. Been hearing about you."

Lucio glanced around at the wreckage. "Can't imagine news travels fast here."

"It doesn't. But fear does."

Behind the man, two others approached—one young, barely twenty and clearly injured, the other older, with only one eye and a permanent snarl.

They were locals. Survivors. And they all wanted something.

"We're not here to save this town," Jalen said before any requests could come. "We're passing through."

The young one—Devek—spoke up anyway. "Then take us with you."

The one-eyed veteran, Corin, shook his head. "Or at least give us a fight worth dying for."

Jalen looked at them. At all of them.

"You know, we are going to fight Kieros? And I won't lie, it'll probably be the bloodiest battle we've ever been in. I can barely save myself, let alone those three. Are you sure this is what you want?"

The two looked at each other and turned to Jalen, nodding silently.

He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no either.

Behind the cracked fountain, a sudden rumble stirred the ground. A section of dirt collapsed inward, revealing a buried corpse, still armored, clutching a rusted sword in its skeletal grip. No one spoke. The land, it seemed, had its own voice. A protest. Or a warning.

Behind him, the wind carried the distant thud of drums. War drums. Heavy. Slow.

They left the town before sunrise.

What started as a party of four now had over a dozen trailing behind. Survivors. Stragglers. Children who'd stopped speaking, men too wounded to fight, women with knives hidden in the folds of their cloaks.

They didn't speak much. They just followed.

Some walked a few paces behind, while others kept their distance like shadows. They didn't ask for permission to come—they just saw Jalen and moved.

And that was the problem.

Every time Jalen looked back, he saw their eyes. Watching. Waiting. Not with fear, but with belief.

And it made him sick.

Nathan matched his stride. "You okay?"

"No."

"They're just grateful."

"They're wrong," Jalen muttered, barely above a whisper. "They think I'm something I'm not."

"You pulled them out of a hellhole," Lucio said from behind. "You are something."

"I'm not a savior."

Kullen didn't argue. He simply said, "They don't want a savior. They want someone who doesn't look afraid."

"And that's worse," Jalen snapped. "Because I am afraid. I'm just good at hiding it."

The group pressed on, passing ruined watchtowers and shattered statues once meant to glorify war. Each structure had long since collapsed under the weight of time and blood.

**A woman broke from the crowd behind them—middle-aged, tear-streaked. She grabbed Jalen's coat. "Please," she whispered, clutching a necklace with a broken glyph engraved on it. "Just say something. Anything. So I know we're not alone."

Jalen froze. His mouth opened… then shut. He gently removed her hand.

"Please go away," he said, voice empty. "There's nothing for you here."**

The survivors whispered behind them, some praying, others clutching talismans and scraps of old cloth bearing Jalen's name.

"Do they think I'm a god because I killed one?" he said aloud.

Lucio shrugged. "Most people only understand miracles when someone bleeds for them."

Jalen scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. "I bled. And I'm still bleeding."

From the shadows of a half-collapsed barn nearby, someone followed.

Vexa.

She kept her distance, her body low and light like a wolf tracking its prey. No weapons in hand—yet—but she watched them with eyes that were sharp, focused, and hard to read.

Just before they crossed a bridge of broken stones, she appeared ahead of them briefly. Pointed to a corpse nailed to a tree. Its mouth had been carved open in a permanent scream.

"That one thought Kieros could be reasoned with," she said flatly.

Then she disappeared again, just as quickly.

Jalen noticed her twice. So did Lucio. Neither said a word.

She wasn't a threat.

Not yet.

But she wasn't a bystander either.

Ahead, the road forked near a broken siege engine, its wheels buried in ash. Kullen paused, squinting at the trail.

"We're getting close to the forward line."

"How close?" Nathan asked.

Kullen ran his fingers through the dirt. "Close enough."

That's when they heard it.

The steady thud-thud-thud of boots in formation. Metal scraping metal. A slow rhythm—measured, disciplined, not chaotic like raiders or desperate mobs.

It was a march.

The war drums resumed—louder now. Not separate from the soldiers' steps, but in sync. The sound of the boots and the drums merged into a perfect rhythm.

Lucio's brow furrowed. "This ain't just an army…"

Nathan tilted his head. "What is it then?"

Lucio's voice dropped to a mutter. "It's a performance."

Lucio grabbed his rifle, checking the chamber.

Nathan rolled his neck. "I'll prep the field."

Kullen nodded. "I'll handle barriers for the survivors. Jalen—"

"I know." His jaw clenched. "Just keep them behind me."

Dust kicked up along the far ridge, and through it, shapes began to emerge.

Dozens at first. Then hundreds.

Soldiers.

Not sloppily armored conscripts—Kieros's soldiers. War-painted, faceless, and clad in blackened iron. Their armor looked branded, like it had been burned into their bodies. Some carried spears. Others maces. One walked, dragging a spiked ball attached to a chain, its weight leaving deep gouges in the ground.

At their head was a towering figure with antlers fused into his helmet and a flail slung over his shoulder. His voice boomed even before he stepped into full view:

"You are trespassing on sacred ground."

Lucio rolled his eyes. "They always say that."

The man continued. "Lay down your weapons. The God of Conquest will show mercy."

Jalen stepped forward. Slowly.

He cracked his neck. The survivors behind him tensed. Some hid behind wagons. Others knelt.

"No."

The soldier tilted his head. "Then your blood will feed the earth."

Jalen's hand lit with a faint golden light. "Get in line."

The soldier raised his flail.

The soldiers surged forward.