New Order

Karloff curled up in a corner of the prisoner camp, vigorously scrubbing his chipped machete with a rag. Rust and long-dried, blackened bloodstains had mixed together, making them difficult to clean away. They were like his mood at that moment—murky, tangled, impossible to sort out.

He was an ordinary infantryman under Bishop Vladimir, with no real faith to speak of. He had joined the army for food, nothing more. When the bishop declared Earthly Heaven heretics and false believers who had to be exterminated, Karloff had followed the army into battle. Then he had seen with his own eyes how that white-robed "Son of God" crushed the bishop's last hope as easily as an insect. He had seen the rotting monsters crawl from the shadows, creatures horrifying enough to cause nightmares after a single glance, and the golden flames in the Son of God's hands that purified everything.

When he was captured, he had assumed he was as good as dead. What good ending could heretics possibly offer prisoners, especially men like them who had resisted to the very end? Beheading? Burial alive? Or worse—being used as sacrifices to that false Son of God?

Yet the slaughter he had expected never came. They were disarmed and driven into this hastily marked-off camp, guarded by Earthly Heaven soldiers in strange uniforms with white armbands. The soldiers watched them warily, but did not casually beat or curse them. They merely ordered the prisoners not to make noise or wander about.

Then one strange thing after another began to happen.

On the first day, just as Karloff was starving badly enough to think he might have to chew dirt, several large barrels were pushed over. They contained steaming, thick wheat porridge. There was little oil or fat in it, but it filled the stomach. They were actually feeding prisoners? Karloff and the other captives froze, scarcely daring to believe it. Someone cautiously stepped forward to receive a bowl. The guarding soldier merely gestured expressionlessly for the next person. There was no skimming, no humiliation—just the simple distribution of food.

On the second day, several people dressed more neatly, like clerks, arrived carrying thick notebooks bound with the legendary Colchis paper. They began registering everyone one by one: their names, hometowns, military units, and any special skills. When Karloff's turn came, he stammered out his name.

"What did you do before this?" the clerk asked without looking up.

"Farm... farm work."

"Can you lay bricks? Or do carpentry?"

"No, I can't..."

"Mm. Next."

The registration lasted all day. Karloff watched in secret and discovered that those with trades—such as blacksmithing, tanning hides, or even just basket weaving—were taken aside separately and seemed to receive different treatment.

On the third day, something even more shocking happened. A squad of Faithguard Army soldiers escorted several dozen men to the front of the prisoner camp. They were bound tightly, bruised and battered. Karloff recognized them as officers and military police from his own army, men who had always been the most arrogant and most fond of bullying ordinary soldiers and civilians!

A man who appeared to be an Earthly Heaven leader stepped forward and loudly announced the charges against them before all the prisoners—embezzling military pay, abusing soldiers, forcibly taking civilian women, and even secretly conducting Chaos worship rituals. Karloff did not know what Chaos worship was, but it sounded evil. Then, before every prisoner's eyes, those men who had once lorded over everyone were swiftly executed.

There was no trial, no lengthy procedure. Only the most direct reckoning.

For a moment, the prisoner camp fell deathly silent. Then long-suppressed, complicated emotions erupted. There was satisfaction, fear, and bewilderment. Karloff's own feelings were equally mixed. An officer had once whipped him for no reason at all, and seeing that man brought to justice gave him a small measure of satisfaction. But more than that, he felt an inexplicable chill—these Earthly Heaven people were too efficient, and too ruthless.

Immediately afterward, that leader announced that all ordinary soldiers who sincerely submitted and accepted the doctrines of the New Covenant and Earthly Heaven's work-point system would not be held accountable for the past. They could immediately receive an initial allotment of work points, which could be exchanged for food, clean drinking water, and even... used to redeem themselves and gain limited freedom!

Work points? What were those? Karloff, like most of the prisoners, was utterly confused.

Soon, lecturers came among them to explain. They spoke of Lorgar, the Son of God of the New Covenant; of equal exchange; of labor creating value; of Earthly Heaven being a place meant to build a life without oppression, where hard work could bring a good life. They said that prisoners like them could also earn work points through labor—repairing roads damaged by the war, helping build new settlements, or reclaiming wasteland. Work points could improve their lives, and after accumulating enough, they could even apply to become official residents of Earthly Heaven, receiving land or opportunities to learn new skills!

Karloff listened as though he were hearing heavenly scripture. It was unlike any principle he had known all his life. The Covenant Church had taught him to endure suffering and pray for the next life. Bishop Vladimir had told them to be loyal to the church and exterminate heretics. No one had ever told him that he could use his own hands to work for a future he could see and touch.

He was only half convinced.

But reality gave him no choice but to believe. Those skilled prisoners who had been taken away earlier had already begun working under supervision. They had indeed received work-point vouchers, slips of paper printed with intricate patterns and numbers. With them, they could exchange for extra dried meat, a small cup of homemade liquor, or a bar of soap said to ward off insects.

Those without skills, men like Karloff, were also organized to clear rubbish around the camp and level the ground. The work was not difficult, and after finishing, every one of them was actually given a small work-point voucher marked with a "1"! Though it could only be exchanged for a little extra salt or a needle, it meant... they were truly working for themselves? Rather than for some bishop or noble lord?

Another matter moved Karloff even more. There were several badly wounded prisoners in the camp who had originally been left to wait for death.

Who would care about a prisoner's life?

But Earthly Heaven sent medical officers. Using herbs the prisoners had never seen before, they actually dragged several men who had been on the brink of death back from the gates of hell. Treatment cost work points, but those who truly had none could sign contracts and repay the debt through future labor.

"See that?" an older soldier beside Karloff, also from Vladimir's army but seemingly more worldly, whispered. "These people... they're different. They seem to... genuinely want to make this place better."

Karloff looked at the rough but sturdy one-point voucher in his hand, then at his companions receiving treatment, life returning to their faces. He remembered the tyrannical officers who had been executed and the simple but life-sustaining food they received every day...

The vague ideas in his mind about "heretics" and "false believers" began to waver.

He heard that the world outside had already changed. Bishop Vladimir was dead, and Earthly Heaven's flags had been raised over all the major towns he had controlled. It was said that as long as the civilians there accepted the new rules, their lives had not grown worse. Without bishops and noble lords exploiting them layer upon layer, life had actually improved somewhat. Lavoisier, the old priest famed for his integrity even within the Covenant Church, was establishing new administrative offices everywhere and implementing the work-point system.

One evening, the prisoner camp held a grievance meeting. Attendance was not mandatory, but those who went could earn an extra half point. On an inexplicable impulse, Karloff went. He heard formerly quiet companions stammer through tales of tax collectors forcing them to sell their sons and daughters, of most of the grain they had painstakingly grown being taken by the church, of officers abusing them however they pleased...

Those long-suppressed sufferings surged through the night like floodwaters after a dam burst. Listening, Karloff seemed to see his own barren fields, his parents' faces when they starved to death, and the despair in his wife's eyes when he had been forced to enlist... His nose stung, and he nearly wept.

All at once, he understood a little of what the lecturer had said—Earthly Heaven was not trying to destroy anyone. It was trying to smash the old cage that had kept them from living like human beings.

A few days later, a notice was posted in the prisoner camp recruiting workers to repair the road leading to an abandoned mine in the north. The project would last one month, with food and lodging provided and work points settled daily.

Karloff signed up first, with almost no hesitation.

When he carried the brand-new shovel issued to him, walked out through the prisoner camp gates, and stepped onto that potholed road awaiting repair, pale morning light fell across his face. He took a deep breath of air carrying the scent of earth and morning dew, and felt the stone that had weighed on his chest for so long loosen a little.

He did not know what Earthly Heaven would ultimately become, or whether Lorgar and Zhou Beichen truly were saviors. But he knew that if he stayed here, worked, and earned work points, he could at least live to see tomorrow's sun. Perhaps... he could even save enough points to bring his wife from their distant hometown.

He swung his shovel and drove it hard into a stubborn stone.

Sparks flew.

He was only repairing a road for those meager work points.

But vaguely, he felt that he was also helping build something... far greater, something he could not fully understand.