NOVPUBThe leader's hands trembled, and his grip on Jeb faltered.
The daemon collapsed to the ground, crawling weakly before the man suddenly cried out, "Your Majesty! Please save us all!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!" the others echoed in panic in a chorus of desperation.
Claude, who had already read the detailed reports of corruption within the slave workforce, merely shrugged.
He knew the truth. While some among these daemons were innocent, most were guilty. They had been the ones who denied fellow slaves their food rations, selling them in the market at rock-bottom prices.
That reckless greed destabilized the entire economy, forcing Claude to monopolize key supplies like wheat, distributing them only through government-run depots or official stores.
And it wasn't just food. Even the minimal budgets meant for maintaining their shelters had been siphoned off for profit.
Claude had originally intended to punish them through official channels—but now that they were at death's door, perhaps letting them die at the hands of humans was a far more poetic end. A harsher blow. A fitting punishment.
Though, of course, he knew Ezra wouldn't stand for that.
"Your Majesty, I beg you!" Ezra pleaded, stepping forward. "I know they're corrupt, but let the law handle them fairly!"
He wasn't wrong. Publicly allowing daemons to die at the hands of humans would bring harsh criticism—not just from the Honorable Houses, but from the common folk too.
Claude sighed but said nothing. He simply waited for the leader to trip over his own words.
The slave leader grabbed Jeb by the collar and forced him to kneel again, snarling, "Hah! You won't even protect your own people!"
Claude remained silent.
Ezra tensed. The slaves looked increasingly restless. Their leader, flustered by the lack of reaction, raised his voice again.
But Claude didn't move. He didn't flinch. And to Llyold, that stillness was perfect—an intentional display of psychological warfare.
The head of the Xalvach family watched the slaves carefully. Their hands trembled.
Their eyes darted back and forth, nervously scanning one another. Beads of sweat formed on their brows.
They were breaking. They weren't as unified as they had claimed.
They were afraid—of Claude, and of what he might do if the daemons were harmed.
And Claude knew it.
"What are you waiting for?" he said coldly.
"Do it, then. Kill them. Let's see how far you get before I make an example of every last one of you."
The slaves froze. Their hands tightened around their sickles, but their arms didn't move.
Then a voice cried out from the rear, raw and desperate, "What's the point of living if we stay slaves? What's the point of living if we can't be free?!"
"FREEDOM OR DEATH!"
Claude's eyes narrowed. 'Shit.'
The moment the words were shouted, the momentum shifted. Confidence surged through the crowd like wildfire.
Sickles were raised higher, trembling but determined. The blades pressed closer to the daemons' necks.
Claude recognized this moment for what it was—dangerous. A single provocateur was all it took to twist a desperate crowd into a reckless mob.
He had done it in Cortinvar. Once the mob mentality took over, rationality vanished. All that remained was blind emotion—and violence.
"Right!" the slave leader screamed, voice thick with fervor. "We can't stay silent any longer! Let the blood spill!"
"YEEAAHHHH!!!"
A chorus of cries erupted as the sickles swung forward—
"Web of Restraint," Claude chanted.
A massive magic circle flared to life beneath the slaves' feet. From the ground, thick, sticky webs burst upward like living ropes, latching onto their limbs and torsos.
The slaves in front screamed as they were bound in place, immobilized mid-strike. The sickles clattered from their hands or halted inches from their targets.
The uprising was caught—trapped before it ever had the chance to draw blood.
However, the provocateur wasn't caught in the web. Having remained at the back, he managed to slip through the chaos. With a crazed gleam in his eyes, he screamed:
"THIS ISN'T OVER YET! RAISE YOUR HOES AND WEAPONS! IF WE STAND TOGETHER, WE CAN DEFEAT THEM!"
From behind the barrier, nearly two hundred slaves surged forward. It was as if they had been granted a twisted superpower—one born of blind bravery and utter stupidity.
Fueled by fury and delusions of victory, they charged ahead, believing they could overcome the Lord of Calamity.
Their eyes were wild with rage and hollow confidence. Rational thought had long since abandoned them, swallowed whole by the madness of the mob.
They no longer moved as individuals but as one frenzied, self-destructive beast.
But their charge came to a jarring halt—like lightning crashing from a cloudless sky.
The head of the vanguard collapsed, his skull severed cleanly from his body. Blood sprayed through the air, painting the earth red.
A stunned silence fell, followed by screams of horror as the slaves realized just how utterly doomed they were.
Panic erupted. They turned and tried to flee, but chaos tripped over itself. Many were trampled in the frenzy, crushed beneath the heels of those desperate to escape. The ground was slick with blood and confusion.
Claude, unmoved, raised a hand and formed a barrier. It sealed the perimeter, preventing any from escaping too far. His eyes scanned the crowd, but the provocateur was nowhere to be seen.
"Tch," Claude clicked his tongue. "Keira. Sun. Track him down."
From behind Claude's shadow, Sun emerged—taking the form of a menacing Chaos Hound.
Keira followed in the shape of a sleek black cat, her eyes glowing faintly as she prepared to serve as the navigator.
"He was never just a slave," Claude muttered. "Someone sent him."
"Yes," Llyold agreed, his tone grim. "I sensed mana from him. He wasn't an ordinary human, Your Majesty. Shall I dispatch my knights to search for him?"
"No need," Claude replied curtly. "Keira and Sun are enough."
He turned back to the aftermath, his gaze sweeping over the blood-soaked ground where at least fifty corpses lay strewn.
Behind the barrier, the remaining rebels screamed and pounded against the invisible wall, fists and feet flailing in vain.
"I still have unfinished business with these slaves," he smirked.
"For the rest of you," Claude's voice echoed across the area, magically amplified to cut through the chaos, "if you desire freedom—I will grant it."
The slaves froze. All movement ceased as they turned toward the king, who stood like a god among insects, his gaze cold and dispassionate. To him, they were nothing more than parasites.
Fear rippled through the crowd, but alongside it came a glimmer of something dangerous: hope.
"Is it true?" a woman suddenly cried out. "Can you bring back my child too?"
Her voice trembled with desperation. Many of the children had been separated from their families for "strategic purposes"—turned into assets rather than sons and daughters.
Claude didn't flinch. "No. That is beyond me. Your children will become foot soldiers of this kingdom. That is their fate."
The woman's shoulders sagged, lips quivering as tears welled in her eyes.
Murmurs spread. The slaves looked at one another uncertainly. Claude appeared calm—almost casual. The flicker of hope hadn't yet been extinguished.
But then he raised his hand.
"Those who shall serve me in death—rise."
A suffocating wave of dark mana surged from Claude's palm. The corpses on the ground shuddered as if yanked by invisible strings.
Black mist enveloped them, and one by one, bones creaked and cracked as skeletons rose from the carnage.
Heads rolled to the side, only to be grasped and reattached by brittle hands.
They stood—stiff, broken, lifeless puppets.
"This," Claude said, his voice calm and absolute, "is the freedom I offer you."
The spectacle shattered whatever courage remained. The slaves shrieked in horror, many stumbling back in terror, others dropping to their knees, weeping, pleading.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty! Please spare us!" a few cried, tears streaming down their ashen faces.
The rest didn't even speak. Their bodies shook, their lips sealed tight by dread. They all knew what it meant to be undead. It wasn't peace. It wasn't rest.
It was a curse—eternal enslavement.
They would see, hear, and feel everything, yet never again move of their own will. Their souls would remain tethered to their master until his final breath.
It was hell on earth.
"Very good," Claude said coldly. "Now you understand."
"Your lives will belong to Elysium forever. You will remain slaves until the day you die—and even then, your children will inherit your chains."
His words shattered their spirit like glass. Hope turned to dust, leaving behind nothing but despair. Compared to the undead, they still had time—time to breathe, time to feel. But no freedom. No future.
At least, Claude thought, they were fortunate enough to die eventually.
***
With the uprising finally quelled—if not cleanly, then at least to Claude's satisfaction—they rode back toward the palace.
By then, Sun and Keira had successfully located the instigator. The man was already en route to the underground cells, bound and silenced.
As Claude descended into the dim, cold depths of the dungeon, Llyold walked ahead, torchlight flickering against the stone walls. The air smelled of damp earth and old blood.
It was then that Ezra, walking just behind Claude, broke the silence.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice low but firm. "Allow me to take charge of the corruption and slave affairs this time. Not through my subordinates—I will handle it myself."
Claude came to a halt, he didn't turn around. But everyone who sees him knows he was pissed.
"You understand," Claude said coldly, "that your subordinates' failures are a reflection of your own, don't you?"
His words echoed off the stone walls, sharp and deliberate.
"The fact that so many fell into corruption under your watch… and that you were too blind—or too late—to notice… And now you want me to hand that authority over to you again?"
