Loren had not been handcuffed or shackled. He had not even been cursed at. He simply walked into the black city among the ruins of Xico, "escorted" by a squad of underworld knights.
Nothing here had changed since a few days ago. Once inside, he could see undead laboring everywhere.
All manner of undead, fully armed undead.
Like diligent worker ants, they went about their individual tasks. They exchanged no words, yet the touch of their undead minds let them work together as smoothly as interlocking gears. It was a beautiful sight, as effortless as flowing water. This windowless, enclosed city was their anthill, undisturbed by the outside world.
However, it had been a long time since any living being other than vampires had visited this city, let alone someone as unusual as Loren.
As he walked forward, he could feel the undead watching him from the darkness. Though they had lost the ability to bare their teeth, hatred and anger were apparently emotions that needed no expression or gesture to be conveyed. Especially when Loren stepped onto the black stairway leading to his audience with Count Xicomel, the entire bustling city seemed to come to a halt.
Then countless icy gazes converged on the dwarf marshal. Loren had no doubt that with just one order or gesture, the undead would swarm him and tear him to pieces.
Every scrap of his flesh and every bone would become a delicious feast of vengeance for them.
But it did not happen.
That brutal order was never given.
Of course, this was not because the undead of Xico had learned compassion or had suddenly acquired gentlemanly grace after death. Their hateful stares only meant that the punishment awaiting Marshal Loren would be more solemn than a chaotic lynching.
It would be a