chapter 11.1

As dawn slowly swept away the darkness of the night, the sound of wooden wheels echoed from the distance, steadily approaching the massive gates of The Wall. The morning mist, still hanging in the cold air, could not conceal the large convoy that had arrived at the fortress—the last line of defense of Middle Earth.

Five massive wagons, each drawn by exhausted horses, came to a stop just before the gates.

This wasn't the usual delivery.

The wagons didn't just carry prisoners this time. Among them were experienced soldiers bound in heavy chains, several crates filled with gold coins as compensation, two carts loaded with fresh provisions, and one wagon carrying weapons and war supplies.

The Outcast guards, long accustomed to receiving such shipments, quickly reported the arrival to Oldman. From atop The Wall, Oldman observed the convoy with a keen eye, analyzing every detail with unwavering caution. Only after ensuring there was no hidden threat did he raise his hand and issue a firm command.

"Open the gates."

The groan of ancient iron, mixed with the creaking of massive wooden beams, filled the air as the gates slowly parted.

For a moment, silence settled over the area—thick with tension. The Jovalian soldiers escorting the convoy shifted uneasily, their eyes darting warily in all directions. They knew exactly who stood before them—the Outcasts, exiles turned warriors, no longer men of the kingdom, but instead the last line of defense against the horrors of the south.

Among the Jovalian soldiers, some trembled as their eyes landed on the senior Outcasts, who stood stone-faced, armed, and merciless.

They had not forgotten what happened the last time Jovalian soldiers mocked The Wall—the bloodshed that followed when arrogance led to death.

This time, no one dared to make the same mistake.

Oldman stepped forward, calm and composed, his very presence suffocating the already heavy atmosphere. He didn't need to shout or threaten—his presence alone was enough to make the Jovalian soldiers uneasy.

"Welcome to The Wall," he said, his tone neutral, yet carrying an unmistakable weight. "I hear you've brought us gifts."

A young Jovalian officer, clearly new to this duty, hesitated before stepping forward. His hands trembled slightly as he handed Oldman a sealed letter.

Oldman took it without expression, unfolding it slowly as the uneasy silence stretched on.

As he read, the corners of his lips curled into a faint smirk—a rare, almost imperceptible expression, but one filled with meaning.

"We accept your terms," he said finally, his voice as cold as before. "But let me make one thing clear—do not try to deceive us. If you do, The Wall will not be forgiving."

The Jovalian commander simply nodded, offering no resistance, no rebuttal. He understood his role here—they weren't warriors sent to negotiate; they were mere messengers. Defying The Wall meant death—and none of them intended to test that fate.

The exchange proceeded swiftly.

The prisoners were led inside.

The supplies were unloaded with practiced efficiency—the food sent to storage, the gold counted, and the weapons examined for their condition.

As the work continued, Alcard approached Oldman, his gaze flickering toward the letter still in his grasp.

"What did they write?" he asked, his voice even but laced with curiosity.

Alcard already knew this exchange wasn't just about supplies. He had heard whispers from Outcasts stationed at the eastern outpost—news that Oldman had begun refusing prisoners, rejecting Jovalian's attempts to turn The Wall into their dumping ground.

It wasn't just a decision made at the central headquarter—it was a message sent across the entire Wall.

Oldman studied the letter once more before replying, "The two factions in Jovalian have finally agreed to keep The Wall out of their conflict. They understand that making us their enemy would be a fatal mistake. This compensation is their way of ensuring we remain neutral."

Alcard smirked slightly, his tone laced with sarcasm. "At least they're smart enough to realize that. But why send prisoners at all? Aren't they still using us?"

Oldman shrugged, unmoved. "These prisoners are different. They're trained. They can fight. This isn't just exile—they know we need men who can survive here."

In the main courtyard, the new prisoners stood in rigid lines, watched over by armed Outcast veterans. Weapons in hand, their presence left no room for disobedience or escape.

Oldman strode toward them, producing a small vial of dark red liquid—Bloody Potion.

"Drink," he commanded simply.

Some prisoners hesitated, faces tightening with uncertainty and fear. They had heard the stories. They knew what Bloody Potion did—how it warped a man, how it ensured survival at a cost.

But their fear of The Wall outweighed their fear of the potion.

Under the cold stares of the Outcasts, they finally drank.

Within moments, their bodies convulsed, muscles tightening as the potion coursed through their veins. Some gritted their teeth, enduring the burning sensation. Others collapsed to their knees, struggling against the raw power surging through them.

Oldman watched, unmoved.

"From this moment forward, you are part of The Wall. Your lives are no longer your own. If you try to run or betray us—you already know how this ends."

As the process concluded, Oldman turned back toward Alcard, speaking lowly.

"This isn't just about them fearing us. They know that if The Wall falls, Middle Earth will become a slaughterhouse."

Alcard glanced at the now-closed gates, his thoughts lingering.

"How long do you think they'll keep acting rational?"

The Wall had gained much from this arrangement, but tensions remained.

The war beyond the gates was far from over.

And those within the fortress knew—sooner or later, the next decision they made would determine the fate of The Wall itself.

As always, The Wall stood silent—watching, waiting, its future hanging on the edge of an uncertain tomorrow.

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