Chapter 70: #&**?!

Middle Fire Month, 26th Day, 600AGG

The sun peaked past the horizon.

Like every other day, Ernest dragged himself out of bed and stretched towards the ceiling. He released a groan, throwing on his clothes with a yawn before pecking his still drowsy wife on the cheek. "I'll be out then, Clare."

"Mmmrgh…" The farmer playfully ruffled her shoulder-length brown hair, easily dodging a clumsy slap as he headed out the room with a chunk of bread in hand, then out the farmhouse, and towards the storage shed where various tools were kept.

He would've assigned the kids various chores had they been older, but expecting a two and one year old to do chores sounded a little silly. Clare and him had a small fight over allowing her to help; obviously, he wasn't going to let someone a few months pregnant labor around the household more than necessary.

'With the Goddess's angels helping out, maybe we can find an apprenticeship for them instead,' a farmer's life suited him fine, though the same might not hold true for their children. The barony was transitioning to letting angels handle all the menial labor, thus opening up different paths of life to them.

Another part was because Priestess Volkan discovered a Talent related to arcane magic in Liere, the oldest child, during a late birth registration. Even a lowborn peasant like himself understood how big a deal that was, so it would be a shame for her to languish in some rural patch of land.

'Ahhh, they're still young. Plenty of time to think about it.'

Outside, the six Angel Guardians were hard at work preparing the fields for another planting season. Two were resting while feeding the chickens—apparently angels needed to take breaks every now and then—and three others were plowing the earth; the last just now returning with two large buckets of water drawn from the brook. After some tweaking, Ernest figured this rotation worked the best for the amount of land his family cultivated.

"See if I can get this all polished up before noon," the farmer lugged a variety of implements in front of a stump that served as a makeshift seat. "A harrow, a couple of sickles, some spades, pitchforks…"

Because the angels had stamina surpassing even veteran soldiers, they could endure significantly more toil than an ordinary human like himself. Naturally, this meant that their tools would also wear out at a faster rate, so it was important for him to keep a close eye on the state of their equipment. A few neighboring homesteads also left some of their own equipment for him to touch up, so this task doubled as a source of side-income.

Maintenance was much cheaper than repairing broken items or buying replacements, after all. It would be nice if the angels could also perform upkeep, but they seemed completely incapable for some reason.

'Bit greedy to hope the angels could do everything,' Ernest offered a silent apology to the Goddess. Through Her Majesty, she had already given the kingdom the aid of her angels—like the ones he was currently managing. 'And that's on top of getting rid of the damn fleabags too.'

"Done," he set the harrow aside with a grunt. Compared to dad, he was no expert; although, dad wasn't kicking anymore… or mom… or—

'C'mon now,' Ernest mixed together a bucket of water and vinegar. 'Leave the past in the past. Don't got the time to cry about crap you can't change. Disrespectful to the Goddess too.'

Without asking for any payment, she had dispensed resurrection after resurrection. Hell, Ernest was friendly with a couple of the blacksmiths in Oltenesta who were recipients of her grace.

He didn't know much about magic, but reviving people from a few body parts—heck, sometimes from thin air—had to be pretty incredible. Priestess Volkan wouldn't have been so shocked otherwise. Most people absolutely wouldn't have given a boon that valuable free of charge; the temples tagged hefty prices onto lesser miracles, so he could only imagine the cost they would attach to raising the dead.

Unfortunately, even the Goddess had her limits. Without the required lifeforce, no spell had the power to return a person to life. He himself would be deader than a doornail had Her Majesty and the angels liberated Caldevera any later.

And Clare…

'Stop thinking about useless things,' Ernest scowled as he submerged the metal parts of the rustier items into the bucket. On one hand, he was glad that the beastmen had left this particular farmstead alone; however, it meant there was plenty of unused and unkept hardware in need of thorough care.

Progress was going smoothly though considering they'd only lived on the land for a few weeks; without the angels Baron Oltenesta requested from Oriculo, he was certain life wouldn't be so simple. In no conceivable world could he plant, cultivate, and harvest the fields by himself—nor did they have the money to hire enough folks to help. Oh, Ernest was certain that the neighbors would've assisted without a fuss were it not for the fact that everybody was in the same situation as him.

"Hum dee bum dum~" The farmer hummed a tune that annoyed his wife to no end, his whetstone screeching down the curve of a sickle to accompany the tune. "One down, three to go~"

It'd be nice if the Goddess had a temple that could accept offerings. He honestly felt that it was the least House Oltenia should do for the plentiful aid rendered. The soldier-turned-evangelist criticized the noble house and called them ungrateful blasphemers, but Ernest thought Lord Oltenia was probably just busy with everything going on. Now that he was thinking about it, a temple was hardly a necessity at the moment, especially considering how the local lord still had to distribute food to keep them from starving until the next harvest.

"Wonder if the angels can salt some pork—hm?" Ernest laid his tools on the lone table in the shed and greeted the silent Archangel Flame waiting outside. If it was an angel ranked higher than Angel Guardians, then the message was bound to be serious. 'This isn't Lord Oltenia's handwriting though. Maybe his wife or kid?'

"Thank you," he lowered his head to the Goddess's emissary and watched it fly away before reading the notice. " 'All angels will be recalled to Oltenesta on the fifth of Middle Earth for collation.' Huh, guess I better scratch a reminder somewhere…"

He'd have to tell Clare as well. Since it was a bad time for her to be straining herself, he hired one of his neighbor's wives to lend a hand throughout the day. If the angels were going to be absent, then Gerold would likely need said kid to stay home to make up for lost man, er, angel-power.

"Speaking of which, she should be here by now," Ernest scratched his scalp and returned to the house. Maintenance could be done whenever, anyhow. 'Oh. Guess the Principalities are busy today too.'

In the distance, a pair of many-armed angels carried the corpse of a large snake-like being towards the lord's residence. Unlike adventurers, the angels weren't greedy mercenaries who valued bags of gold over the lives of their countrymen. 'Serves the Guild right. Hope Her Majesty shows them their place someday.'

It seemed that bitterness would remain with him for the rest of his life.

The lively sound of good-natured shouting and laughing grew louder the closer he approached. Just months ago, such an idyllic scene could only exist as a delusional fantasy under the brutality of the beastmen.

"—want me to set this on boil, Missus Sayar?"

"Yes, thank you," his wife smiled, hands busy skinning a potato. "While you're at it, could you grab some eggs—hey, you're back pretty early."

Cornflower blue eyes met his. It wasn't healthy for a heart to skip and jump so often, was it?

"And who are you staring at?"

"You," Ernest bluntly replied. Clare's cheeks flushed with heat until he opened his yap again. "Have something on your mouth."

"Geez, can't believe I didn't notice—"

"I was kidding," he narrowly avoided the firewood thrown at him, picking it up and tossing it back with the rest before patting his wife's head. "Better luck next time~"

"Asshole…"

"Stupid."

"I'm not the one who tripped into a ditch~"

"You were the one who shoved me, sweetie~"

"Because you said—" The blush on Clare's face deepened as her eyes flicked to Nina. "N-Nevermind!"

"Want me to say it again?" He wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her closer.

"Um, Mister Sayar?" Nina interrupted their moment. Probably for the best. "Is something going on? Since you came back earlier?"

"Right," he released Clare and turned his attention to the thirteen year old girl. "Nina, you heard the news?"

"Abooout…?"

"Lord Oltenia needs the angels for something on…" Ernest checked the notice. "The fifth of Middle Earth. I'm guessing Gerold's only hearing about it now too."

Looking at Nina, it was hard to believe the young girl was already married. The thought of it made his skin crawl a bit in discomfort; although, it's not like there were many other reasonable options. Uprooting oneself to pursue a trade in some city where everybody was a stranger would understandably be a frightening prospect for a child.

Priestess Volkan didn't say much about people getting married and having children before the age of majority—or out of wedlock too—but her disapproval had been clear to see the few times he and Clare took the children to the local temple for health checkups. He supposed that was another reason why they began to attend the evangelist's sessions instead.

Both he and his wife were seventeen and sixteen respectively, a good deal younger than the twenty mandated by the faith of the Six. Also, it wasn't like Clare had a choice when it came to having her kids.

Then again, maybe the Priestess was just upset that Hoca was marrying people in the name of the Goddess instead of the Six.

"Mm, well, don't seem like it's for another month or so…"

"That's fine," he nodded. "Just wanted to make sure you knew."

"Thank you, Mister," the bawling of a child pierced the air. "Oooh, I should go check on them!"

"Appreciated," Ernest wished Liere and Barrin got along more often, though sometimes it felt awkward to step in since they were Clare's and not his. He loved them all the same, but there was this sense of it 'not being his place' despite his wife's encouragement.

Something to talk about later tonight, he thought while he hugged her from behind. The swell of Clare's stomach was growing to become quite noticeable.

"What's wrong this time?" She tried to act annoyed, failing as concern leaked into her voice. "Acting clingy isn't going to get you off the hook!"

"So you hate it?" Ernest rested his chin atop her shoulder.

"There, there," his eye twitched at Clare's condescending tone. "You don't have to hide how attracted you are."

"Bleh…" He lazily kneaded one side of her face. "… I'll be going back outside in a bit."

"And?"

"You won't miss me?" Ernest pouted. This sort of behavior would be embarrassing in front of anyone who wasn't Clare—ah, he forgot that Nina was there a few minutes ago.

"Sure I'll," Clare's face scrunched in a grimace. "Ugh… why—fuuu—why now?"

"Sweetie, you good?" Ernest fretted over his nauseated wife. "Do you want me to grab anything?"

"Just… the bucket…" She gagged. "Hurry…"

He grabbed the metal container sitting by the wall and held it under Clare's head. The brunette gripped its sides and spewed the contents of her stomach.

"Can't believe I'm doing this for some girl I've known for one month…" An undertone of legitimate distress colored his playful lament. "I'm definitely not drunk enough."

"Acting awfully cheeky for someone who's only known me for a month," Ernest chuckled at Clare's retort. If she was feeling well enough to fire back, then things were fine. "Oi, stop—blerrrgh."

"Sorry, sorry~" He sing-songed an apology as he gently rubbed her back. Despite marrying only a few days after meeting—couples were given priority for land distribution—Ernest felt that they shared an unbreakable bond forged on the foundation of shared hardships. Her troubles were incomparably worse than his, but that topic was something Clare remained tight-lipped on. Couldn't blame her. "Seriously though, do you need anything?"

"Some water," his wife croaked and half-heartedly glared at him with half-lidded blue eyes. "Stop it."

"You're too cute," Ernest faked a yelp of pain upon being weakly pinched. "I'll get that water… jerk…"

"Dummy," Clare kissed him on the cheek.

"Ew ew ew, I have barf on my face—"

"You ass!" He hurried off before she could really send him to a world of pain. That said, it was these small moments Ernest treasured. With the beastmen around, staying upbeat was rough when you and everybody else knew their fate was to become breeding stock or demihuman chow.

Playful teasing like this was unimaginable in the dismal human-ranch Caldevera had been not so long ago.

Ernest resolved to get something nice for the beautiful brunette the next time he traveled to Oltenesta. Clare did her best to hide it, but the trauma of the past weighed heavily upon her. In fact, it was surprising that any of them were still functional human beings.

"Here," he handed his wife a cup filled from the water drum. "Tell me if there's anything else I can do to help."

On the off-chance that something happened, he would have to rely on the Angel Guardians to take Clare to the temple. The thought of her needing to be flown made him restless until he remembered what Hoca said during one of their sermons.

'She will command her angels concerning the faithful, and under their watchful gaze, not a hair on your head will be harmed.'

Clare swished a sip of water around her mouth and spat it into the bucket. "I'll be fine. You're busy, right? Don't let me hold you up."

"Okay…" Ernest stopped, one foot out the door. "Get Nina to give me a shout if—"

She tiptoed and quieted him with a soft kiss, pulling back with a smirk as she observed his dumbstruck appearance. "I'm going to be alright. You be careful yourself, mister."

The farmer slowly bobbed his head, cheeks hurting with how hard he was trying to not idiotically smile. "Y-Yeah."

"I thought you were busy?" Ernest jerked, startled out of his budding fantasies. "Pft, cute."

"See you soon!" He hurried outside with a small skip in his steps. Today was a good day. The weather was nice, no beastmen in sight, Clare was real adorable, and—

"Hm?" Ernest raised one hand to shade his eyes. A flight of… angels he didn't recognize streaked overhead, heading eastwards to fulfill whatever imperative the Goddess or Her Majesty had given them.

Wait, that was wrong. He had seen them once. Demigods who made the Principalities appear frail and feeble in comparison.

After the liberation of Caldevera, it was the four-winged, lion-helmed angels whose eyes burned with righteous wrath that had suppressed the beastmen oppressors and led them to safety as a shepherd would their flock.

'O Goddess,' Ernest brought his hands together for a quick prayer, heart surging with a fervent emotion. 'May your will be done, and may all the enemies of the kingdom be trampled underfoot.'


"So a piece of their fur, claw, just any body part that doesn't get replaced when healed?" The diviner made a gesture of approval. "Alright. Thanks for telling me. Haven't met too many notable beastmen, but I'll try."

"Her Majesty wants this done quickly," Freire winced at the diviner's magically distorted voice. "Although I'm aware you have your own duties to attend to, I hope you can remember that."

"Of course," the cloaked man or woman, he couldn't tell, spun on their heels and left without another word. "Can't blame them, honestly…"

The Draconic Kingdom's army had been processing and repatriating their brethren living in the Beastman Country for the better part of the day after all. Some soldiers were occupied with other tasks, but the majority of them busied themselves with that.

In a single day, he was reminded of why the demihumans were humanity's mortal enemies. Sure, there existed beastmen and others of their kind who he got along with well enough…

"What was that about, Sir?" Melac curiously glanced at the diviner's retreating back.

"Something about keeping track of strong beastmen… might be why Her Majesty had more angels sent," Freire shrugged. "It's just a guess, so don't quote me on that."

" 'Bout to whip the damn furries into shape," the ex-bandit maliciously laughed. "Show 'em who's boss."

"Don't mess around with them," he warned Melac. "Their warriors can still snap you in half with their bare hands."

"Meh," Goddess, why couldn't he be assigned to a group of veterans instead? Working with someone who took the beastmen raids as an opportunity to harass their fellow citizens was unpleasant. "Gotta say though, I've heard things, but I didn't figure the beastmen would be this bad."

'Must be referring to the 'livestock,' ' an image so twisted that even an ex-bandit would be deeply disturbed; however, this was simply the expected outcome. The beastmen saw the humans as livestock and treated them thusly. "You'll be seeing a lot more. Now get!"

"Yessir," Melac lazily snapped a salute and returned to the crowd where soldiers were running a rough census on the humanoids who chose to be sent to the Draconic Kingdom. There existed some who decided to remain in the Beastman Country; perhaps they found a fulfilling life in this forsaken land, somehow.

"Time for me to work too…" Locating notable beastmen meant having to talk to beastmen. Most of the Draconic Kingdom's veterans wouldn't remember the faces and names of enemies that killed them in frenzied combat—if they could even tell apart the demihumans that is.

A Tiger Zoastia and Armat were easy to differentiate, but two Armats of similar build looked identical to the untrained human observer.

"Excuse me, do you know any—"

"Tch!" The Bear Orthrous growled in disdain, ignoring his question as they stomped away.

"This isn't going to be easy, huh…"

Contrary to his expectations, he did run into a few beastmen willing to assist him, although many of the demihumans mentioned happened to be elsewhere. "Rogrek should be somewhere though."

Yes, Freire remembered the grouchy tigerman Rokana had chased after yesterday. For them to be a notable fighter wasn't too shocking considering the aura they emanated. Something like… a warrior's intuition.

The term brought a self-deprecating smile to his lips. What nonsense, really. Such a thing belonged to a tavern bard's song, not real life.

He thought that, but real life had been getting rather ridiculous lately.

"Hey! Have you seen a 'Rogrek Kroh'or?' "

"Eh, him?" The lionman he called out to frowned. "He was here for the undead cleanup so…" They pointed at a building in the opposite direction Freire was going. "Their living quarters were set up there. No promises though."

"Thanks," the beastman's tail swished back and forth. Did something good happen to them? The notion made him mildly annoyed. "Stay safe."

" 'Stay safe,' what?"

Freire disregarded their confusion and turned around to find his quarry. His words might be construed as a threat, but he'd leave them to agonize over it.

"Excuse me," he addressed the group of demihumans lounging in the sizable foyer. Not a single one acknowledged his presence, intently keeping their gazes away from him.

Suited him just fine.

"I'm looking for Rogrek," he also lacked the Will to play friendly anyway.

"Down the hall and to the left."

They didn't clarify which hall in particular of course.

'Goddess give me patience.'


"Rogrek."

His hands were trembling.

"Rogrek."

"Brother," he looked away from the ninety-ninth piece of what used to be Falgun. 'A substitute for my people,' the human lord had said in her message. The proud and dead Rajan relegated to a mere, spiteful joke. "What is it?"

"Ka'yilt and some Archive arcanists were asking about you," he didn't want to see anybody. "Our clan requires an interim Rajan."

Rogrek's head snapped up. "How could you—?"

"Get yourself together," Rograk batted him across the snout. "Falgun is dead. We are not, but that could change very quickly. Queen Oriculus… she said she was sending more angels, yes?"

"Changes nothing," that person certainly had no plans to let the Republic off easy. "They won't intervene unless it's to reinforce the humans."

"Can't say for sure yet."

"They don't trust us, and we don't trust them," their troubles were a mere field exercise to the humans. Killing their lords, a triviality. "I won't be surprised if they find some new way to weaken us within the next few weeks."

"… Are you planning to mope forever?"

"Rather than me, isn't it you who's acting strange?" Rogrek snarled at his nonplussed brother. "Falgun was our clan lord. Our friend."

"We don't have time for this," Rograk huffed, giving one last meaningful look as they prepared to depart. "I'll tell Rajan Nadhkrt that you're indisposed. In the meantime, get yourself together."

The door to their temporary living space clicked shut behind the tigerman.

"Pushing this responsibility to me… who knew you were this unconscionable?" Despite his biting words, Rogrek was aware his brother did so because they genuinely believed him to be a more suitable candidate for lordship than themselves. 'Faa'zh, Lasaath, Falgun, and now me. Four in the span of less than three months.'

The position almost seemed cursed, he morosely chuffed. Not that he had a choice anymore; if he was the most promising candidate, then dodging his duties simply out of self-preservation couldn't be forgiven.

'It could always be worse,' the eight closest clans to Kruurat had been annihilated, and another left with but one Kshatra—Rajan by virtue of nobody else to contest their claim—and a pride of literal children.

'She doesn't see us as people,' Rogrek raised the Purging Censer above the hidebound chunk of flesh. 'The Republic is a resource to be used for the well-being of her citizens—of which we're not included.'

And their six-winged champion was the inexorable implement of their will. Perhaps the Republic's defeat had always been inevitable, a matter of 'when' and not 'if.'

Poor consolation indeed! If the censer wasn't magical, it would've crumpled in his grip. If he was stronger, would circumstances be different?

No, because the present was a reflection of their future. To be tread under the heels of those they once sought to conquer: their children, and their children, and whoever came afterwards—forever. In his brethren there existed no strength great enough to throw off the yoke that became heavier by the day.

Their home was no longer 'theirs.'

Some might say it was a merciful fate compared to what they visited upon the humans. To those he would ask what difference was there between being livestock and disposable implements.

"I really should get a move on it," he mumbled to an empty room. Much preparation still remained before they could begin to relieve the eastern front; in the meanwhile, hapless civilians and Kshatras alike were dying in droves.

Was he the abnormal one for being wary of the future? Everybody else seemed content to pretend that the situation was temporary, that their home wasn't being flooded with the killers of a cruel god or an army of humans that would sooner see them skinned and dead than saved.

'They all have their own ways of coping,' the tigerman scornfully thought. 'The spiders are the least of our troubles.'

Even weakened and disorganized, the Republic was not so pathetic as to succumb to some insects. He was certain the human lord knew this.

What use was awareness but to grant misery? Was knowledge worth anything without the means to act upon it?

"There they are," Rogrek glanced out the window through the side of his eye. A cadre of greater angels gracefully landed in the streets, signaling the escalation of a goal determined the moment the first Kshatra set foot in the Draconic Kingdom.

They were his guards. His watchers.

His executioners the second he stepped out of line.

"Hello?" The muffled voice leaked through the cracks. "Heard there was a Rogrek Kroh'or here?"

Gods damn it.

"O Dyurga… go a bit easier on us, would you?"