In the Mists

Barbarus, Southern Swamps, Morit Village.

The third year of Hades arriving in the south.

Mortarion stood within the dilapidated old courtyard, supporting with his hand the man before him who was about to kneel.

The man was hunchbacked, old, and blind, one of his eyes a misty white while the other brimmed with tears.

Mortarion saw much within that eye: fear, unease, and gratitude all tangled together—the man was practically choking up.

"Do not kneel."

Mortarion said softly.

"You have been enslaved for far too long, and this situation should have ended long ago."

He looked toward the hunched, trembling people in the courtyard, raising his voice slightly.

Even so, Mortarion's voice was like a wisp of wind.

"I am showing you a new path."

"Join us! If you have no weapons, then we shall forge them for you; if you have no armor, then we shall craft it for you. Stand up, everyone!"

"There is no need to fear witchcraft anymore!"

"Join us."

The people listened in terror to everything about this stranger, so tall, tall and lean, like Death swaying in the wind.

His words seemed filled with magic, every sentence carrying an uplifting power, yet his tone was so gentle, like a lullaby a mother once hummed in the night.

However—most of the humans here had been completely overwhelmed by fear; they were crushed, they had submitted, utterly incapable of pondering more distant matters.

Even though the stranger's words were filled with hope, these people no longer possessed any memory of a distant future, of change, or of departure.

The leading man—whose name was Regen—carefully looked up at the stranger supporting his hand.

Those amber eyes gazed back at him earnestly, looking upon someone ugly, minuscule, and wholly consumed by fear.

"My lord, thank you. We are so loyal to you. But, but the fields here must be replanted."

He shrank back, shoulders hunched, as if a cruel punishment would follow mere refusal.

Yet nothing happened; nothing at all occurred.

That hand still gently supported him, and those eyes held no contempt or disgust. Mortarion only looked at him earnestly, and then at the villagers behind Regen.

Then he released his hand.

"Very well, the choice has been made."

He nodded and pulled his hood back down.

Then he picked up his scythe, turned, and left, vanishing into the mist.

Mortarion stood within the fog, watching that young man stumble and run through the poisonous mists.

The further one got from the village, the more lethal the gas became.

After he left, the young man departed the village, pursuing the scythe tracks Mortarion had deliberately left behind.

Come, let me see your resolve, your tenacity.

Mortarion remained silent.

The other side of the mist stirred slightly; Mortarion turned his head for a fleeting glance before resuming his original posture.

It was him, indeed it had been a very long time since they last met.

Mortarion observed the young man while his thoughts sank into the past.

Now most of the northern strongholds had been taken, with all the northern lords slain save for the region near his foster father Nac'Lare.

The primary northern stronghold was stepping up production and consolidating territory, while the offensive against his foster father Nac'Lare needed to wait a little longer.

Yet the progress of the Death Guard was currently far ahead of Mortarion's original expectations.

And the key to that rapid progress lay in the south.

Originally, Mortarion had merely dispatched vanguard forces, instructing them to protect the local people as much as possible and organize armed resistance.

Yet first Hades single-handedly held off the raids of the southern lords, providing a foundation for Typhon and the others to cooperate with other villages.

Later, with the help of Hades, Typhon and his forces acquired the manufacturing techniques for artillery, battering rams, and other weapons.

Reliant on the assistance of long-range heavy firepower, this Death Guard vanguard also successfully launched proactive assaults and seized the territories of the lords.

In the battles of the Death Guard, the task of wiping out the lords in the south went exceptionally smoothly; they did not even require Mortarion's assistance.

Mortarion's visit this time was merely to inspect this Death Guard force in the south and see if there was anything he could do.

Yet after listening to Typhon's report, he realized that Typhon was even more competent than he had imagined, leading the Death Guard to successfully liberate most of the southern region.

And now, only the last two or three strongholds remained.

That left nothing for Mortarion to do.

Mortarion would not directly demand that Typhon surrender leadership. He was not a tyrant like his foster father; he gave his subordinates enough space to grow on their own and win their own glory.

Furthermore, he and Typhon were friends.

Consequently, Mortarion left Typhon to continue leading the south, while he himself went in search of the small villages that had been deliberately neglected due to their terrain.

Just as it had been in the beginning, Mortarion slew the monsters attacking the villages and then entered these small settlements to lobby the people.

Thinking of this, Mortarion unconsciously frowned.

Abandoning these marginal small villages to attack or integrate the large human strongholds.

That was indeed an efficient strategy, and Typhon was clever.

Yet it was wrong.

Every single fighter capable of resistance should not be ignored.

That was why Mortarion had come; he wandered through the various small hamlets—

—the youth in the mist had fallen to his knees, struggling and trembling in the mud, limbs convulsing as if still attempting to crawl forward.

A tenacious child.

The young man had never looked back once.

He never thought of retreating.

Thinking this, Mortarion strode forward rapidly while pulling out a woolen mask soaked in herbal wine.

He walked over, carefully lifting the young man from the filthy earth while pressing the woolen mask over the youth's nose and mouth, gazing down at him—gazing at a resilient fighter.

"If you do not look back, you will continue to suffer like this in the future."

Mortarion said softly,

"It is agonizing. Are you strong enough?"

The young man struggled and gasped, anger and frustration squeezing him. His breathing began to grow rapid, reaching a dangerous degree—

"Make me strong enough."

Having squeezed out those words with difficulty, the young man finally lost consciousness, entirely surrendering himself to Mortarion. Naturally, he trusted this stranger who had appeared in his life less than two hours ago.

Familiarly, Mortarion picked up the youth and retraced his steps along the path he had come.

There was no need to worry about the young man; equipped with a gas-filtering mask, this Barbaran would soon be fine.

Sometimes, all the resilient people of Barbarus needed was a little clean air.

Layer upon layer of heavy white fog constantly tugged at the hem of Mortarion's robes, as if futilely attempting to keep the reaper in place.

Treating the mists as nothing, Mortarion's pace never faltered.

Yet when he reached a hollow where the fog was gradually dissipating, Mortarion halted, staring into that expanse—

From the dense fog in the distance, a figure emerged.

It was his old friend, Hades.