Chapter 6: The Weight of an Oath

To the east and west of the Crimson Fortress stretched endless ranges of towering mountains, their jagged peaks piercing the heavens like colossal spears. Together, they formed an immense natural barrier, sealing the land between them away from the rest of the continent.

According to legend, those mountains had not been shaped by nature, nor had they risen through the slow passage of time.

They had been raised by the Great Ruler himself.

It was said that, on a black dawn at the edge of the continent, the Great Ruler had stood alone and extended his hand toward the earth.

And the depths had answered.

The ground trembled. The continent shuddered. Ancient stone split apart as something stirred beneath the world's crust. Then, from the bowels of the earth, mountains erupted, rising higher and higher until their peaks disappeared into the heart of the clouds.

By the time the tremors subsided, an immense basin had been carved into the continent, surrounded by walls of stone that seemed to reach the heavens.

And deep within that basin stood the Crimson Fortress.

Its crimson walls rose from the ancient rock like flames frozen in time. Jagged towers pierced the pale sky, while colossal ramparts stretched across the mountainside, their dark-red stone bearing the scars of countless years. The fortress stood at the edge of the continent like an impregnable bastion, silent and unyielding, as though the very concept of defeat had never occurred to it.

Yet, for all its grandeur, there was something deeply unsettling about the place.

Perhaps it was the mountains, said to have been born from forbidden sorcery.

Or perhaps it was what lay beyond the walls.

A massive, middle-aged man stood atop the fortress, clad in black armor. His broad shoulders seemed carved from iron, and the greatsword resting across his back looked less like a weapon than a monument to war. His hair and beard burned a fiery red, contrasting sharply with his pale eyes, whose cold brilliance resembled the blade he carried.

His name was Alexander Marilz.

He stood motionless, gazing toward the distant horizon.

Beyond the fortress stretched an endless expanse of barren crimson earth, a desolate landscape that resembled the exposed flesh of a world flayed alive. Swollen masses of flesh writhed beneath the blood-red soil. Twisted limbs protruded from the ground, reaching toward the sky as though their owners were desperately trying to claw their way out of a living grave.

And beyond them...

A sea of monsters.

Countless abominations stretched from horizon to horizon, forming a tide of nightmares that threatened to swallow everything in its path. Some crawled on malformed limbs, dragging their grotesque bodies across the earth. Others staggered upright, their twisted silhouettes swaying with every step. Still others slithered through the horde like serpents swimming through a living ocean.

In some cases, calling them aquatic creatures would not have been entirely inaccurate.

After all, what else could one call a creature that walked on two legs while dozens of terrified eyes opened and closed across the corpse of a massive, rotting fish? Its bloated body was covered in malformed arms, each one twitching independently as though struggling to escape its owner's flesh.

Whatever it had once been, it had long since lost any right to be called natural.

The corrupted world possessed a terrible talent for creating nightmares. Bloated bodies writhed with grotesque growths. Bones protruded through rotting flesh like jagged spears. Additional limbs sprouted from places where limbs had no business growing, while mouths opened across shoulders, backs, and stomachs, their broken teeth grinding together with insatiable hunger.

They were corruption given form.

Parasites feeding upon the world itself, devouring everything that remained whole.

Even looking at them stirred an instinctive revulsion.

Alexander narrowed his eyes.

"...Disgusting."

His gaze swept across the distant horde, lingering on several particularly monstrous silhouettes.

Fifth-Level monsters had begun appearing, too.

For thousands of years, the Fourth Level had been the accepted limit of what emerged from the Mist Rift. Now, even creatures of the Fifth Level had joined the tide.

Alexander exhaled through his nose.

The current situation was still manageable. Difficult, certainly, but manageable.

However, if Sixth-Level monsters began to emerge...

He stopped that train of thought before it could go any further.

The Sixth Level was known as the Hero Realm.

And the monsters that reached it were called Monster Kings.

Alexander had no desire to discover what an army of those things would look like.

Behind him, hurried footsteps echoed across the stone ramparts.

A young officer approached at a brisk pace. His polished boots struck the ground in measured steps before he stopped several paces behind Alexander and snapped into a military salute.

"Officer Ethan Marilz, First Division Commander, reporting for duty, sir!"

Alexander didn't turn.

"Put your hand down, Ethan."

The young man hesitated before lowering his arm.

"Yes, sir."

"There's no one here to impress."

Alexander continued watching the distant horde.

"Now, what is it?"

Ethan straightened his back. Although Alexander was technically an elder of his clan, the young commander knew better than to mistake their familial relationship for permission to disregard military discipline. In public, Alexander valued order above almost everything else.

But the old man had been staring at the same battlefield for far too long.

And today, at least, he seemed willing to dispense with the formalities.

Ethan took a breath.

"Commander, the soldiers are reaching their limits."

That finally earned him a faint reaction.

Alexander tilted his head.

"Are we running out of supplies?"

"No, sir. Food, equipment, and medical supplies are sufficient. We can sustain the garrison for some time yet."

"Then what are we running out of?"

Ethan's jaw tightened.

"Patience."

For a moment, neither man spoke.

The wind swept across the ramparts, carrying the distant, indistinct cries of the monsters below.

Ethan continued.

"Our deployment officially ended two years ago. The Vikmond Clan was supposed to take over the guardianship of the fortress, but the transfer has been delayed repeatedly. The soldiers have been away from their families for years, and every day they remain here is another day they might not live to see home again."

He clenched his fists.

"They're tired, Commander. And they're beginning to wonder whether anyone intends to relieve them at all."

Alexander remained silent.

Ethan glanced toward the fortress below, where exhausted soldiers moved along the battlements. Some checked their weapons. Others sat against the stone walls, trying to steal a few moments of rest before the next alarm sounded.

"They're doing their duty," Ethan said quietly. "But it's becoming harder for them to believe the people responsible for this mess are doing theirs."

Alexander finally turned his head.

"Go on."

"The Vikmonds are still locked in a political struggle with the Salvador Clan. Their dispute began escalating just as the time came to transfer responsibility for guarding the Crimson Fortress."

Ethan's expression darkened.

"They're violating Article 234 of the Continental Alliance Treaty. The treaty sponsored by the White Dragon and ratified by the Great Ruler himself."

Alexander raised an eyebrow.

"The article requiring the three clans to rotate the guardianship of the fortress protecting the Mist Rift every five years?"

"Yes, sir."

"And they're still refusing to cooperate?"

"They keep finding reasons to delay."

Alexander turned back toward the horizon.

"Ethan."

"Sir?"

"When the outcome is inevitable, there's little point in wasting your strength arguing over how it will happen."

The young officer blinked.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

A faint, muffled laugh escaped Alexander.

"The next guardians are supposed to be the Vikmonds, followed by the Salvadors. Instead, both clans are busy playing political games while the Mist Rift continues to expand and monsters keep pouring through."

He gestured toward the crimson wasteland.

"Every day, the situation grows worse. Every day, the danger increases. And every day, those two clans find another reason to wait."

His voice remained calm, but there was a hard edge beneath it.

"They want to see just how terrible things will become before deciding whether the catastrophe is worth their attention."

Ethan frowned.

"But surely they understand what that means."

"Of course they do."

"Then why aren't they afraid we'll abandon the fortress?"

For the first time, Alexander laughed outright.

It was a low, humorless sound.

"Abandon it?"

He shook his head.

"Tell me, Ethan. What is the punishment for abandoning one's post during wartime?"

"Death, sir."

"Correct."

Alexander folded his arms.

"In the wars of old, deserters were executed before their comrades. It was a simple lesson. One man died so that a hundred others might think twice before following his example."

He paused.

"But the guardians of this fortress are not ordinary soldiers."

Ethan frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"This fortress wasn't built for a single clan."

Alexander gestured toward the towering walls around them.

"Since its founding, the three clans have taken turns guarding it. Each serves its term, then passes the banner to the next. Generation after generation, the arrangement has remained unchanged."

His pale eyes settled on Ethan.

"Do you know what that means?"

Ethan considered the question.

"It means each clan is obligated to fulfill its term."

"That is the military answer."

Alexander shook his head.

"Think beyond the battlefield."

Ethan fell silent.

Alexander waited a moment before speaking again.

"After thousands of years, guarding this fortress has become more than a military duty. It has become a tradition, a responsibility passed down from one generation to the next."

He looked toward the crimson earth beyond the walls.

"More importantly, it has become an oath."

Something in his voice made Ethan straighten.

"And one who betrays an oath is not treated as a deserter."

Alexander turned toward him, a cold smile appearing on his face.

"They are treated as a traitor."

Ethan hesitated.

"What's the difference?"

"A deserter dies."

Alexander stepped closer.

"But a traitor..."

He let the silence linger for a moment.

"...takes his entire clan down with him."

Ethan's eyes widened.

"His entire clan?"

"The clan name is stripped away. Its privileges are revoked. Its properties and resources are confiscated, and those responsible lose their standing. Even their descendants may be stripped of the rights their ancestors spent generations earning."

Alexander's expression remained impassive.

"And that is only the beginning."

He looked toward the distant Rift, where the pale mist continued to spread across the horizon.

"Their name will be recorded for all eternity as the name of the clan that abandoned the Crimson Fortress while monsters poured into the world."

The wind howled across the battlements.

Alexander raised three fingers.

"Vikmond."

He raised a second.

"Salvador."

Then the third.

"And Marilz."

He lowered his hand.

"For thousands of years, these three clans have taken turns guarding this fortress. Each knows that its turn will come. Each knows what is expected of it."

His gaze hardened.

"And each knows the price of failing."

Ethan frowned.

"But the Vikmonds and the Salvadors claim that their dispute could escalate into war. They say sending their forces here would leave their own borders exposed."

"Exactly."

Alexander's smile returned, though there was no humor in it.

"That's why they keep delaying."

He leaned against the battlements.

"Each clan claims that moving its forces first would give the other an opportunity to strike. So neither wants to be the first to act."

Ethan slowly began to understand.

"They're afraid of leaving themselves vulnerable."

"Yes."

"But if they both refuse to send their forces, the fortress will eventually fall."

"Yes."

"And if the fortress falls..."

"Then everyone will have a problem."

Alexander said it so casually that Ethan stared at him.

"Commander, how can you say that so calmly?"

"Would you prefer I scream?"

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Alexander chuckled.

"Listen carefully, boy. They don't want to be the first clan to step forward, but neither wants to be the first to bear responsibility for what happens next."

He gestured toward the distant horde.

"Each is waiting for the other to act. Meanwhile, the catastrophe grows, and the longer they wait, the more expensive the solution becomes."

His smile faded.

"Eventually, the situation will become hopeless. Then, when the fortress is on the verge of falling, they'll finally announce that they're prepared to send their forces."

Ethan stared at him.

"They'll say they never abandoned the fortress."

"Precisely."

Alexander gave a small nod.

"They'll claim they were merely waiting for the danger to become real."

He glanced at the sea of monsters.

"As if those things are going to stop and wait for the political games to end."

Ethan's face paled slightly.

"And if neither clan sends reinforcements?"

Alexander's expression grew serious.

"Then we'll have a much bigger problem."

"What problem could be bigger than losing the fortress?"

"The three clans."

Ethan blinked.

Alexander turned fully toward him.

"If the fortress falls during the Vikmonds' term, the Vikmonds will be blamed. If it falls during the Salvadors' term, the Salvadors will bear the responsibility."

He paused.

"And if it falls while we're still here, we'll be the ones condemned."

Ethan's expression tightened.

"But our term has already ended."

"Do you think that will matter to the people looking for someone to blame?"

Alexander shook his head.

"No. Once the fortress falls, no one will care about the details. They'll care about who failed, who hesitated, and who can be held responsible."

He looked toward the horizon again.

"Before long, we won't have three clans taking turns guarding the fortress."

His voice grew colder.

"We'll have three clans searching for someone to blame."

He let those words settle before finishing.

"And by the time they realize what they've done, the monsters may already be at their doorsteps."

Ethan fell silent.

For a while, the only sounds between them were the wind and the distant, ceaseless cries of the horde.

Finally, Ethan spoke.

"Then what are we supposed to do, Commander?"

Alexander glanced at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Shouldn't we refuse to die for their mistakes? Our term is over. We've fulfilled our obligation, and the next clans are refusing to honor theirs."

Ethan hesitated, then continued.

"If they won't come, why should we stay?"

Alexander regarded him for several seconds.

Then he sighed.

"Tell me, Ethan. Wouldn't it be better to die with honor than to abandon our responsibilities?"

The young officer looked troubled.

"But if we stay, we may die because of someone else's cowardice. And if we leave, we may be punished for it anyway."

He clenched his jaw.

"Where's the justice in that?"

Alexander didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he bent down and picked up a small stone from the top of the battlement. He rolled it between his fingers, examining its rough surface as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Ethan, imagine this stone falls from the wall."

He raised his eyes.

"Perhaps a man deliberately knocks it over. Perhaps the wind catches it at the wrong moment and sends it tumbling down."

He opened his fingers.

The stone fell over the edge and disappeared into the depths below.

"In either case, the result is the same."

Alexander brushed his hands together.

"The stone falls."

He looked at Ethan.

"But do you punish the wind as you would the man who deliberately pushed it?"

Ethan hesitated.

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because the wind didn't intend to make it fall."

"Exactly."

Alexander nodded.

"The outcome is the same, but the responsibility is not."

He leaned back against the battlements.

"That is the difference many people fail to understand. They look at what happened and assume that the result alone tells them who deserves to be punished."

His pale eyes narrowed.

"But a man is not judged solely by the outcome of his actions. He is judged by what he knew, what he intended, and what he chose to do when he still had the power to choose."

Ethan listened silently.

"Our situation is no different," Alexander continued. "If a clan deliberately abandons its duty, knowing full well that doing so will condemn thousands to death, then it deserves to be punished."

He glanced toward the fortress below.

"But if a clan is forced into an impossible situation, if it acts with the intention of protecting its people and has no reasonable way to fulfill its obligation, then the circumstances must be considered."

He paused.

"Punishment depends on intent, Ethan. And intent cannot be judged without understanding the choices available to the person being judged."

Ethan lowered his gaze.

"Then the Vikmonds and Salvadors might still be able to escape the worst of the consequences?"

"Depending on what they do next."

Alexander's expression darkened.

"They may yet find a way to lessen their punishment. They may even negotiate an acceptable price for their failure."

He looked toward the distant Rift.

"But if they continue to hide behind excuses while knowing exactly what is at stake, their situation will become much harder to defend."

Ethan followed his gaze.

The sea of monsters continued to press toward the fortress, an endless tide of flesh and bone that threatened to drown civilization beneath its weight.

For the first time, the young officer seemed to truly understand the scale of the disaster looming before them.

And the weight of that realization settled heavily upon his shoulders.

"...Then..."

He swallowed.

"It's over for us."

Alexander studied him for a moment.

Then, to Ethan's surprise, the old commander smiled.

There was no fear in that smile. No bitterness, either. Only the quiet acceptance of a man who had spent so many years facing death that he had long since stopped expecting the world to be fair.

"This is life, my boy."

He turned toward the battlefield.

"Sometimes, you have a choice."

His hand settled upon the hilt of the massive sword resting across his back.

"Sometimes, you don't."

The wind tugged at his red hair, and the crimson wasteland stretched endlessly beneath the pale sky.

Alexander drew a slow breath.

"If fate has decided that today will be our last day..."

His fingers tightened around the hilt.

"...then we will die with honor."