In the Southern Border of the Odri Empire, snowflakes had blanketed the trade routes. A caravan consisting of over a dozen wagons trudged slowly through the deepening white.
A man nad Barnaby, riding at the head of the procession, yanked his wool collar tighter against the biting chill. He was the leader of this venture, a veteran rchant who had spent twenty years navigating the treacherous markets of the South.
A young guard, huffing white mist into his cupped hands, trotted up beside him. "Boss, how much further until we hit that legendary 'Ghost Road'?"
Barnaby glanced at the leaden sky, then squinted toward the horizon. "Soon. The bards say that once we clear those hills ahead, we'll be in the Eastern Border."
Another guard chid in, his voice muffled by a scarf. "Boss, is this lead actually solid? An 'Undead Empire' that does business with the living?" He let out a sharp sneeze before continuing. "The more I think about it, the more I feel like we're the ones being 'delivered' for sale."
Barnaby didn't answer. His mind was occupied by the songs the minstrels had been singing in every tavern from the Capital to the coast.
The Evernight Empire.
A nation built by the dead. Clean, efficient, and obsessed with order. Most importantly, the Odri Empire had formally recognized its legitimacy. This ant the bards weren't just spinning tall tales to earn a free drink; there was truth to the madness.
Barnaby was a rchant, and a rchant followed the scent of profit. Where the risk was greatest, the margins were widest. He had gambled half his life's savings and recruited his most trusted associates to form this caravan. He intended to be the first to cut a piece of this new cake.
The procession crested the final ridge of the hills. Every man stopped dead in his tracks.
The road ahead was gone.
A sprawling marshland, emitting a pungent, alien odor, stretched across their path. A sickly green mist swirled over the mire, and bleached white bones poked out from the black, bubbling sludge.
"Hell," a guard whispered. "It looks exactly like the rumors."
"We should detour, Boss," the Guard Captain said, moving to Barnaby's side. "This place reeks of a curse."
Barnaby remained motionless. He recalled a specific verse from the bards' songs: 'When you gaze upon the marsh of despair, do not retreat; for it is but the threshold of hope.'
He turned to the Captain. "Send one man. Have him walk a few paces in."
The Captain looked hesitant, but he tapped a guard known for his recklessness. The man drew his sword and crept toward the edge of the swamp, step by cautious step. He poked the "mud" with the tip of his blade.
Clack.
It was hard. He lifted his foot and stepped onto the surface. Beneath his boot, it felt as solid as a paved street.
"Cap!" the guard shouted, his voice cracking with shock. "The ground is hard! It's rock solid!"
A ripple of commotion went through the caravan. Barnaby's heart began to hamr against his ribs.
"All units, advance! Maintain formation!"
He spurred his horse, the first to step onto the eerie terrain. Wagons and guards followed in a line. The mont the heel of the last man crossed the threshold into the marshland, the world shifted.
The unsettling swamp vanished. In its place was a magnificent stone highway, wide enough for ten carriages to drive abreast. The surface was perfectly level, stretching straight toward the horizon.
Gasps of disbelief erupted from the rchants. They looked back, but behind them, the landscape remained a rotting swamp.
"A miracle... it's a literal miracle," soone stamred.
Barnaby didn't let the spectacle cloud his judgnt. He had spotted a structure by the roadside: a small wooden outpost. Standing beside it was a knight clad in full-plate armor, mounted upon a skeletal warhorse. Beneath the visor of its dark helm, two points of crimson Soul Fire burned with a steady, haunting intensity.
The knight moved. It urged its mount forward, blocking the caravan's path. A crushing aura of authority radiated from the undead warrior.
The Guard Captain gripped his sword hilt, his hand trembling. He was a Tier 2 Warrior, and he could feel the sheer, unmoving power of the creature before him—it was unlike any foe he had ever faced.
"Toll."
A flat, emotionless voice vibrated from beneath the knight's helm.
Barnaby snapped out of his trance. He looked at the knight, then at the endless highway ahead. He understood. This was a "Private Road."
"The price?" Barnaby asked.
"One silver coin. Per person."
A collective intake of breath echoed from the n behind Barnaby. There were over fifty of them. That was fifty silver coins—enough for an ordinary man to live like a king in a Capital tavern for months.
rchant instinct flared. Barnaby tried to haggle. "Lord Knight, that... that seems a bit steep, doesn't it?"
The Skeleton Knight said nothing. It simply, slowly, leveled its heavy lance at Barnaby's chest.
Cold sweat instantly soaked Barnaby's back. "We'll pay! We're paying right now!"
He didn't hesitate a second longer, ordering his n to pool their coin. A heavy leather bag was placed into the knight's gauntleted hand. The knight accepted the paynt and produced a stack of bone plates from its storage space, tossing them to Barnaby.
"Drip blood. One for each soul."
Barnaby and his n complied imdiately, pricking their fingers and letting the drops sink into the bone. The plates absorbed the Od-signature, emitting a faint, transient glow.
"Proceed."
The Skeleton Knight retracted its lance, wheeled its horse around, and returned to its outpost. It was as if the encounter had never happened. Barnaby clutched the bone plate, feeling as though he had just walked through a dream.
I was a bit too greedy, he thought. Thank the Spirits they didn't take my head as change.
The caravan resud its pace. The wagon wheels rolled over the stone road with a smooth, rapid velocity they had never achieved on human roads. They encountered no further obstacles. Within half a day, the silhouette of a magnificent city rose from the horizon.
Iron Fortress.
The caravan ground to a halt at the city gates. Two Skeleton Berserkers stood as sentries.
"Entry fee: ten coppers per person."
"Identity proof: Drip blood, record signature."
"Valid for one week. Failure to renew or loss of ID will result in classification as an 'Intruder Unit' and summary expulsion."
Barnaby felt no annoyance at the strict regulations. If anything, the cold wind felt less biting. In his world, more rules ant more safety and more order.
He paid the fees and processed the IDs. The caravan rolled slowly into the city.
And then, they were frozen by the sight.
The streets were wide, paved with uniform stone slabs so clean they reflected the drifting clouds in the sky. The houses on either side had been ticulously repaired, every window matching the next in perfect symtry. The entire city was grand, spotless, and solemn.
There were pedestrians.
Squads of Skeleton Soldiers marched in synchronization, patrolling the thoroughfares. Ghouls with grey skin and bared fangs were wielding shovels and brooms, efficiently sweeping the morning snow into the sewer grates.
And there were humans.
Humans in thick cotton coats walked the streets freely. There was no fear on their faces. A human child ran past a Ghoul, laughing; the monster actually stepped aside to make way for the boy. An elderly human man was seen shouting a lecture at a group of skeletons and children who were having a snowball fight.
Barnaby's worldview was being dismantled brick by brick. This wasn't a "City of the Dead." This was a functioning tropolis governed by an incredible, alien sense of order.
A subordinate ran up to him, his voice shaking with excitent. "Cap... the spices we brought... they're already gone."
Barnaby looked back. Their wagons were already surrounded by a swarm of people. These were the human residents who had migrated from Jade Territory. They were buzzing with excitent at the arrival of a caravan; having saved quite a bit of coin recently, they were aggressively buying up everything the wagons held.
Spices, cloth, salt, ale... things common in the outside world had beco precious commodities here.
Barnaby's breathing grew shallow. He saw it. He could see the mountains of gold coins waiting for him.
By the end of the first day, Barnaby's entire inventory was sold out. He had earned more profit in a single afternoon than he usually did in a year. But he didn't leave. He ordered his n to guard the empty wagons while he wandered the city alone.
He saw the southern Agricultural Zone, where skeletons under human guidance were erecting massive greenhouses over the fields. He saw the western Industrial Zone, where the roar of foundries produced endless crates of weapons and armor. He saw the notice boards in the Central Plaza, where the laws of the Evernight Empire were posted—simple, direct, and transparent. He even saw the gargantuan complex of the Evernight Academy, larger than the Royal Library in the Capital.
The more Barnaby saw, the faster his heart beat. Finally, he reached the southern Comrcial District. Every shop here bore a specific logo: a sunflower.
The shops here sold primarily food and fruit. And to his shock, the prices were the sa as they would be in the height of sumr!
As he stood there, more caravans—guided by the songs of the bards—were already beginning to roll down the Great Road toward Iron Fortress. They would experience the sa shock as Barnaby.
And they would see the sa golden future.
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