NOVEL SIMPLE Chapter 17: In the Mist
— Barbarus, Southern Swamp, Morit Village —
— The third year Hades arrived in the south —
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Mortarion stood in the dilapidated old courtyard, supporting the man before him who was about to kneel.
This man was hunched over, old and blind in one eye, with the other filled with tears.
In this eye, Mortarion saw many emotions: fear, unease, gratitude—all mixed together.
The man was on the verge of choking up.
"Do not kneel," Mortarion said softly. "You have been enslaved for too long. This situation should have ended long ago."
He looked at the huddled, trembling people in the courtyard, raising his voice slightly.
Even then, Mortarion's voice was like a whisper in the wind.
"I offer you a new path. Join us! If you lack weapons, we will forge them for you. If you lack armor, we will make it for you. Stand up, everyone! There is no need to fear sorcery any longer! Join us."
The people listened in terror to this stranger.
He was tall and lean, like a reaper swaying in the wind.
His words seemed magical, filled with a stirring power, yet his tone was so gentle, like a mother's lullaby at night.
But the majority of these villagers had been completely crushed by fear.
They had been broken, and their minds could no longer contemplate distant possibilities.
Despite the hope in the stranger's words, the future, change, and escape were concepts they could no longer grasp.
The man leading them—his name was Regan—cautiously looked up at the stranger holding his hand.
Those amber eyes looked back at him, examining a small, ugly man consumed by fear.
"Sir, thank you. We are loyal to you, but the fields here must be replanted," Regan said, his voice trembling.
He cringed as if expecting brutal punishment for refusing.
But nothing happened.
The gentle hands still held him, and the eyes showed no disdain or contempt, just a serious regard.
Then Mortarion released his grip.
"Very well, the choice is made," he nodded, putting his hood back on.
He picked up his scythe, turned, and vanished into the mist.
Mortarion stood in the mist, watching a young man stumble and run through the toxic fog.
The further he got from the village, the more lethal the gas became.
After Mortarion left, the young man exited the village, following the scythe marks Mortarion had deliberately left behind.
"Come on, show me your determination, your resilience," Mortarion thought silently.
There was a slight tremor on the other side of the mist.
Mortarion glanced over and then returned to his initial stance.
‘It's him. It has been a long time since we last met,’ Mortarion thought.
He continued to observe the young man, his thoughts drifting to the past.
Most of the northern strongholds had been captured, except for the area near his adoptive father, Necare. All the other northern overlords had been slain.
The main northern base was busy producing and consolidating territory, and thus, the assault on his adoptive father, Necare, would have to wait a bit longer.
However, the Death Guard's progress far exceeded Mortarion's original expectations.
The key to this rapid progress lay in the south.
Originally, Mortarion had only sent an advance force to the south, instructing them to protect the local populace as best they could and organize armed resistance.
Hades had initially single-handedly held off the southern overlords' attacks, providing the foundation for Typhon and the others to collaborate with other villages.
With Hades' assistance, Typhon and his men also acquired the technology to manufacture cannons, battering rams, and other weapons.
Using long-range heavy firepower, this Death Guard advance force successfully attacked and seized the overlords' territories.
In the Death Guard's campaign, the task of eradicating the southern overlords went exceptionally smoothly, and they didn't even require Mortarion's assistance.
Mortarion had come down this time merely to inspect this southern Death Guard force and see if there was anything he could do.
After hearing Typhon's report, he realized that Typhon was even more capable than he had imagined.
Typhon and the Death Guard had successfully liberated most of the southern region, and only a few strongholds remained.
There was nothing left for Mortarion to do.
Mortarion wouldn't directly demand Typhon relinquish command.
He wasn't a despot like his adoptive father, Necare.
He gave his subordinates enough space to grow and win their own glory.
Besides, he and Typhon were friends.
Thus, Mortarion continued to let Typhon lead the southern campaign while he sought out those small villages, often overlooked due to their location.
Just like at the beginning, Mortarion killed the monsters attacking the villages and then entered these small settlements to persuade the inhabitants.
As he thought about this, Mortarion unconsciously frowned.
Abandoning these peripheral villages to capture or consolidate larger human strongholds was indeed an efficient strategy.
Typhon was smart, but it shouldn't be this way.
Every potential fighter should not be overlooked.
So Mortarion came, roaming from village to village—
——the young man in the mist knelt down, trembling and struggling in the muddy ground, his limbs convulsing, seemingly still trying to crawl forward.
A strong child.
The young man had never looked back, never considered retreat.
Mortarion thought as he quickly strode forward, taking out a woolen mask soaked in herbal liquor.
He approached and carefully lifted the young man from the filthy ground, pressing the woolen mask over his nose and mouth.
He looked at him, gazing at a determined fighter.
"If you don't look back, it will continue to be this painful," Mortarion said softly.
"The path ahead is very painful. Are you strong enough?"
The young man struggled to breathe, anger and frustration overwhelming him, his breaths becoming dangerously rapid—
"Make me strong enough."
After painfully squeezing out these words, the young man finally passed out, fully entrusting himself to Mortarion, who had appeared in his life less than two hours ago.
Mortarion expertly carried the young man back along the path they had come.
There was no need to worry about this young man due to the mask that is filtering out the toxic gas, he would recover quickly.
Sometimes, the resilient people of Barbarus just needed a little clean air.
The thick, layered fog continually tugged at Mortarion's cloak, futilely attempting to hold this reaper in place.
Mortarion ignored the fog and walked on without hesitation.
But as he reached a clearing where the mist thinned, Mortarion stopped, staring ahead—
From the dense mist emerged a figure.
It was his old friend, Hades.
