Shadow Slave

Chapter 3140 Dangerous Tools

In the heart of the vast encampment, a grand tent stood, surrounded by an open space. Tall mounds of human skulls, which had once belonged to the enemy soldiers, surrounded it like morbid decorations. Inside, the tent was adorned with horns and antlers of terrifying beasts the King of Kings had slain, and a grave silence suffused the air.

Azarax the Mighty, the Plague of Steel, was seated on an imposing throne cut from rough stone. Below him were the commanders of the numerous legions of the Steel Horde — those who still lived, at least. Dozens of Transcendent champions and a scattering of Ascended stood along the walls of the tent, their expressions grim and reserved.

Usually, there would scarcely be any Ascended invited to the war council, but with so many generals having died in the siege or contracted the plague, those who were below them had to assume command over the battered troops.

The positions closest to the King of Kings, where the seven Dread Generals had usually stood, were conspicuously empty.

In fact, this gathering was different from the previous ones, because there was a wide open space between Azarax and his officers, isolating him like a hollow moat.

That space was there because Azarax, too, was infected by the plague.

The merciless conqueror was still fearsome and mighty, his imposing figure instilling terror in the hearts of his subordinates, but he was also diminished. His posture was crooked, his complexion was deathly pale, and there were traces of black blood left in the corners of his mouth, under his fingernails, and below his nostrils.

In fact, blood continued to seep, filling the tent with the smell of iron.

The Plague of Steel, being consumed by the plague of blood... there was something both frightening and ironically poetic about that, making the gathered commanders feel a hint of sacred fear. It was as if the gods themselves were punishing their king. There were whispers across the camp, in fact, saying that the King of Kings had angered one god in particular — War God, the god of life, as well as of victory and conquest.

That was why a seemingly insignificant city had managed to resist Azarax for so long, and that was why the unstoppable conquest of the Steel Horde had come to a crushing halt.

That was why the soldiers of the horde had been punished by a deadly plague, and so many of them had perished in the jaws of war.

Of course, no one dared to say these things loudly, since doing so would get them killed. However, the fact that people dared to whisper was already telling. Before, the soldiers would have never been bold enough to voice their discontent, knowing to keep it to themselves.

But how could they remain silent now?

The Stone Castle still stood, the King of Kings was stricken by the plague, and more and more of them were dying every day. More than that, those most loyal to Azarax — his thralls — were all dead. The Dread Generals were gone, and their legion was gone with them. Other core forces of the Steel Horde had been wiped out or were severely diminished, as well.

Although their numbers had not been great enough to put a dent in the endless ranks of the Steel Horde, the horde itself was changed in their absence. That was because the Dread Warriors and other elite legions that had perished the day the city burned represented the core of the Steel Empire — the lands Azarax inherited from the father he had killed, and which therefore were his first conquest.

Most of the soldiers that remained hailed from the realms he had conquered later. Some realms had been a part of the Steel Empire for a few generations, while some had been swallowed by it only recently. The greatest champions of the fallen kingdoms had been chosen by the King of Kings, defeated by him in personal combat, and became his thralls... they were all dead now.

But not all talented warriors had been enthralled. Some had been judged too weak to receive the recognition of the King of Kings, while some had been born or risen to prominence after the conquest. Some simply did not strike his fancy due to their background or character.

They were the ones who eventually came to lead the lesser legions of the Steel Horde, and they were the ones who stood today in the great tent, having outlived their supposed betters.

Needless to say, their loyalty to Azarax was not as indomitable as that of the thralls and those elites who hailed from the core of the Steel Empire.

For many, it was simply predicated on the fact that his power was insurmountable, and going against him meant death for them, their families, and their people. Many were loyal due to a sense of honor and the weight of given oaths, but their devotion was not absolute.

And just like everything else about the Steel Horde, that devotion had been slowly eroding under the weight of mounting casualties, the plague, and their king's wrathful folly.

"My king..."

One of the generals spoke, his voice low and full of resigned caution.

“The soldiers are tired. The provisions delivered by the minor caravans are not enough to feed everyone... our people are hungry, and hunger has stolen their strength away. Many have perished to the plague, and more still are dying in battle."

He paused for a moment and threw a brief glance at a tall Transcendent man who stood silently among the generals, leaning on a spear. That man was younger than most people in the tent, with a reserved expression and a calm, heavy gaze. He was one of the strongest warriors left in the Steel Horde, as well as a descendant of a royal family from one of the conquered realms.

While not known for his martial feats, the man was steady and astute, famous among the lesser legions for having the lowest number of casualties among his soldiers. He spoke rarely, but his words were always measured. Therefore, they carried weight. The general sighed and added, turning his gaze back to the bent figure of Azarax.

"This cannot continue, my king. It must not. We must return home and replenish our forces. Most of all, we must find a cure for the plague... the siege cannot continue until we do."

Azarax, who was leaning on the handrest of his throne, threw a dark gaze at him and remained silent for a while. The force of his oppressive presence grew even more unbearable, making the Transcendent generals pale and those who were Ascended struggle to breathe.

Eventually, Azarax spoke in a low, chilling tone:

“Since when do I rule cowards?"

The general pursed his lips, hiding all traces of dismay from his eyes.

Azarax shifted slightly, forcing a sore that had scabbed over to tear and spill blood. His already grim expression turned a shade darker, making the generals shiver.

"Since when do my officers think that they can give me commands?"

He leaned forward a little, looking at the general who had spoken with dark intensity.

“Are you trying to challenge my authority, worm?"

The general flinched and shook his head.

"No! No, my king. It was not a command... it was council."

Azarax grinned and then grimaced, spitting a mouthful of blood. His voice sounded hoarse and menacing when he spoke:

"Council? I see... so you feel qualified to give me council now. I assume others share this coward's opinion?"

The generals glanced at each other, trying to hide their tension. In truth, they did — almost all of them were reluctant to continue the siege. Some were frightened by the plague, some were incensed after seeing their soldiers dying in senseless assaults. Some wanted to return home, where growing unrest threatened their families, status, and lands.

Some merely saw no reason to continue fighting, since the city had already been burned, and there was little left to plunder there even if they won. With only the castle still standing, most of them were not going to see a reward after taking it.

So, they all wanted the same thing. They wanted to convince Azarax to abandon the siege... it was just that none of them dared to speak. The one who had was already a brave enough fool, since their king was not known for patience. He was not known for being merciful to those who defied him, either, so the courageous messenger risked being killed on the spot.

Azarax let out a chuckle.

"Listen to me, wretches. I am Azarax the Mighty, the Plague of Steel, the King of Kings! I have never been defeated, and I have never failed to take what is rightfully mine, either. This city won't be any different. The siege will continue. The blood will continue to flow."

A frightening smile split his dark, pale face apart.

“It will continue to flow until the Stone Castle is taken apart stone by stone, all the people sheltered behind its walls are burned alive, and the Mason King dies by my hand! I will sever his head, fashion it into a cup, and use it to drink wine at the countless feasts to come. Then, people will laugh and say — look! This was a fool who had dared to defy Azarax, the King."

He took a laborious breath.

“This is my will! You... all of you... are nothing but tools I use to carry it out. So think long and think hard about what you say next. What use do I have for tools that fail to serve their purpose?"

An uneasy silence settled among the generals as they glanced at him.

In front of them, the mighty figure of Azarax was just as menacing as ever... but also changed. He sat crookedly on his stone throne, leaning on the handrest. Although his eyes burned with frightening intensity, his face was pale and gaunt. Black blood trickled from his mouth, dampening his beard, and there was a feverish, sickly glint to his skin.

His breathing was ragged.

So many people had died from the plague... but Azarax didn't. He wasn't going to, either. Mere mortals might be devoured by the ghastly disease, but his mighty body would eventually devour it instead. Days would pass, or maybe weeks, and he would return to his former glory. Many of them would be dead by then, or perhaps all of them.

But the King of Kings would persist. He would be alive when their grandchildren grew frail from old age, and when time turned their bones to dust, as well. That was the nature of a demigod — and not just any demigod, at that. Because Azarax was a Supreme who had defeated and slain countless others like him.

How could a creature like that understand them?

How could they persuade him to understand?

Shivering, full of dismay and resentment, the generals glanced at each other.

What could they say? What arguments could they conjure up? What words could they use to make their terrifying king listen?

Eventually, the gazes of many settled on the quiet Saint who stood among them, leaning on a spear. He was known for being insightful, calm under pressure, and using his words wisely, after all. So, they hoped that he would show them the way.

And he did.

The quiet general studied Azarax with a concerned, heavy gaze for a while, as if weighing something in his mind. Then, he seemed to come to a decision and stepped forward. He didn't use words, however.

He used his spear instead.