Book 3: Chapter 46: Necessity

Book 3: Chapter 46: Necessity

Roman’s face twisted in disgust as the stink of the unwashed mass of prisoners wafted into his nose. He asked, “Can we not wash them, at least?”

“We could hose ‘em down,” offered the warden. The fat man had somehow gained weight since the last time Roman had seen him, which only added to the air of disgust that pervaded the lowest reaches of the palace dungeon. “But they’d just get dirty again. Ain’t much reason for them to care about hygiene, as such. Most don’t think they’re ever gettin’ outta here.”

“They’re not,” snickered Fiona.

“Right you are, High Magister,” the fat man said. “But if they don’t have no hope, then they don’t care about nothin’. Not much we can do about that, neither.”

“Start cutting things off,” Roman suggested. “If they refuse to adhere to basic standards of hygiene, then they don’t need toes. Or fingers. Or any number of other appendages.”

“Yes, your majesty. We’ll get right on that after today’s session,” the warden agreed.

Roman didn’t respond. He’d found that keeping his communications with his underlings to a bare minimum served to motivate them. It was something he’d learned at his father’s knee. The man had never been effusive with praise – or any feedback at all, really – so Roman had spent much of his early years striving for his approval. It was only after decades that he’d come to realize that it never would have come, regardless of what he accomplished.

Still, the lessons stuck.

And what was Roman, if not the father of Easton? So, he channeled his own past, though with the roles reversed, and his people had responded appropriately. Most tripped over themselves in an attempt to garner even the slightest praise.

But the other side of that was that he met failure with unmitigated ire. Some of the people who’d managed to disappoint him were in this very dungeon.

All of that flitted through Roman’s mind as he traversed the disgusting space. Cages lined the walls, most of which held naked and dirty people. None were in good shape, but that was by design. Even if he preferred not to be exposed their stench, Roman didn’t care about their actual physical condition. Instead, he only took their levels into context.

Eventually, they reached the open space where the sacrifice would be performed. In the beginning, it hadn’t been anything more than a bit of bare floor. Yet, the warden – in an effort to please Roman – had gone to great lengths to dress it up. Standing torches had been arranged in a wide circle, and ten men and women had been shackled to a series of stone altars.

Each of the sacrifices had been scoured clean, their hair shorn down to the scalp, and given pristine white robes to wear. More importantly, they’d all reached the level limit of thirty-five. Reaching any higher would require actual danger that the dungeon could not provide.

But that was expected. Even though Roman would have preferred to push them to even higher levels, the cost of doing so would have been extravagant. Roman regarded it as a blessing that the system, in all its wisdom and glory, had cut them off at level thirty-five.

In a speech he’d already given countless times, Roman stepped up and said, “You have all been chosen. Your sacrifice will go toward strengthening the city. In that way, you can pay for your previous failures.”

One of the women looked up. Her eyes were deeply sunken into their sockets, and her skin was waxy, giving her a cadaverous appearance. Then, she spat, “Fuck you.”

Suddenly, the air came alive with ethera, though it never coalesced into a spell. The warden, who had the Jailer class, clamped down on her. So long as the prisoners were within his dungeon, they were largely impotent – at least in terms of using spells and abilities.

“Her first,” Roman said, stepping forward and drawing his sword, False Dragon Fang. It shimmered in the torchlight. He brought it back, then let it fall upon her neck. It sliced through flesh and bone with frightening ease, and the woman’s head fell free. It bounced slightly, then rolled for a brief moment before coming to a stop.

Roman stepped up to the next, though this man accepted his fate without complaint. The next one after that growled more profanities, and the next didn’t move. Each one died the same as the last, and Roman continued on until twenty sacrifices had been made.

The influx of experience only barely progressed him, but that was normal. It was not a sprint. Instead, it was intended to be a marathon. Hundreds had already been sacrificed, and thousands more would follow that same path – all for the greater good. Because as Roman grew stronger, so did Easton.

But he could admit that he wanted more.

He needed more power, and not just inside of his city. However, with unquestionable willpower, he shoved those selfish desires aside. He could go out and hunt monsters. He could have joined his people as they worked to conquer towers and close rifts. Yet, he knew that Easton was better served with him remaining within the city. He was the one person holding everything together.

Not only that, but he was a symbol. He was an example, an ideal for which his people could strive. So, he pushed his self-interest aside and focused on what was truly important.

“When will the next sacrifices be prepared?” he asked.

“And they keep rising? Without killing one another?”

“They do.”

The entire plan hinged on the Necromancer, a former gravedigger who’d somehow gotten the most disgusting class imaginable. Yet, as grotesque as it was, it was also uniquely suited for their purposes. Because the Necromancer was not only capable of raising the dead into minions, but each one of those creatures progressed in levels based on the power of the Necromancer. And he, in turn, gained energy from simply maintaining and commanding his horde.

The only limitation – as far as Roman could tell – were the number of available corpses. From the guides Roman had seen, Necromancy was entirely forbidden, and the reason for that hardline stance was obvious. Yet, that didn’t mean Roman was willing to put aside such a potential advantage.

He also had no intention of letting the Necromancer have his way. Not unfettered, at least.

“How goes the culling?”

The commander said, “We slaughter them once a week. Our men usually gain at least one level each time.”

“Fantastic,” Roman said.

Roman was never going to let the Necromancer and his horde of ambulatory corpses loose. That could go wrong too quickly. However, he had no issues with using the undead monsters to level his men in relative safety.

The only issue was that the zombies didn’t count as sapient entities, meaning that Roman couldn’t take advantage of the program himself. Still, he didn’t begrudge his loyal men such a powerful opportunity. Their progression reflected his own glory, after all.

So long as they didn’t rise too high.

But that was what the dungeons were for.

After his inspection, Roman listened to another report, but his attention quickly began to slip. So, he once again checked the progress of the quest given to him by the system:

Congratulations! You have met the requirements to embark on a quest to become an official ruler under the system. Complete the following quests to solidify your rule:

1. Conquer an enemy and hear their oath of fealty. (COMPLETE)

2. Become an Arbiter of Justice.

3. Expand your territory until you rule over 1,000,000 people.

4. Reach the top ten on the Planetary Power Rankings (Earth)

He’d completed the first part after conquering Arbor. Once he’d defeated Morgan so soundly, the man’s second had been forced to surrender the city and swear fealty. Since then, he’d been a model citizen of Roman’s growing empire. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the people in that city, a full tenth of which had ended up in Easton’s dungeons. The rest had fallen into line.

By all rights, Roman should have been happy with his progress. Upon conquering Arbor, the population of his territory had grown by nearly a hundred thousand. In addition, he’d made progress in his quest to climb the Planetary Power Rankings. Soon, he would enter the top one-hundred, he was certain.

However, as much progress as he’d made, it seemed insufficient.

Because the specter of some nameless threat loomed in the future. Roman had no idea why he was so certain disaster was coming, but he was sure, all the same. And he needed to be stronger if he was going to save everyone.

“Keep it up, commander. You are building the hope of humanity,” Roman said to the man in charge of the undead meat grinder.

Then, he turned and headed back to the surface where he would continue to guide Easton toward supremacy. Because if he didn’t, Earth would surely fall.