Chapter 357: Barracks and Housing

After spending time inspecting the farmlands, Darion and the surviving warrior returned toward Vrethka’s walls.

The horses made the journey easier, their steady gait carrying them across the fields and back toward the gate.

Darion had now seen much of what kept the settlement alive: wealth, livestock, weapons, food, and farmland.

But he realized he had mostly been looking at resources. Gold and silver. Cattle and sheep. Swords and shields. Grain and preserved meat. Fields and irrigation channels. All of it was important, but none of it told him how the people themselves lived. He wanted to see that now.

He asked the warrior where the regular soldiers and civilians stayed. Femorn nodded and led him back through the settlement.

They first visited the military quarter. The barracks were noticeably different from the civilian areas.

The buildings were sturdy and heavily reinforced, their walls thick, their foundations deep. Thick wooden doors stood at every entrance, their surfaces scarred from years of use.

Stone foundations supported the structures, providing stability and protection. Guard posts were positioned at regular intervals, their platforms raised above the ground. Weapon racks lined the walls, their contents organized and ready. Narrow entrances were designed to be defended easily, forcing attackers into bottlenecks where they could be picked off one by one.

Everything was arranged for discipline and military efficiency rather than comfort. Darion noticed that there wasn’t much unnecessary decoration. No tapestries hung on the walls. No paintings adorned the rooms. No personal touches softened the austere atmosphere.

Beds were arranged closely together, their frames simple and functional. Personal belongings were limited, a few clothes, a weapon, perhaps a small keepsake. Soldiers were clearly expected to sleep, eat, train, and return to duty. It felt less like a home and more like a place designed to produce soldiers.

However, the barracks weren’t filled with active soldiers right now. Many of the surviving warriors were wounded from the battle.

Some sat against walls with bandages wrapped around their arms or heads, their faces pale, their eyes distant. Others lay on beds, unable to move properly, their bodies broken by the undead assault.

A few warriors were missing fingers or had serious injuries that might never fully heal. Their hands were wrapped in cloth, their stumps covered, their faces set in grim acceptance.

Darion recognized several of them. These were men who fought his undead army. He remembered their faces from the battle, the way they had charged, the way they had fallen, the way they had screamed.

Now they were sitting quietly under the rule of the man who defeated them. Some immediately became tense when Darion entered, their bodies stiffening, their eyes widening. Others lowered their heads, unable to meet his gaze. Nobody attempted anything. They knew better.

Darion noticed the strange silence that followed him through the barracks. The wounded warriors didn’t speak. They didn’t move. They just watched him, their eyes tracking his every step, their faces unreadable.

The head warrior took Darion toward the medical section. Because so many warriors were injured, additional medical tents had been established around the barracks. The tents were large, their canvas walls pale against the grey stone of the buildings.

Darion saw healers moving between patients, their hands stained with blood and herbs. Water was being carried in buckets, the liquid sloshing with every step. Bandages were being changed, the old ones stained and soiled. Injured warriors were being checked, their wounds examined, their prognoses delivered in quiet voices.

Some wounded men were clearly in considerable pain. They groaned, their faces twisted with agony. Others lay still, their eyes closed, their breathing shallow. A few were unconscious, their bodies unresponsive. The healers worked quickly, their movements practiced and efficient, but there was only so much they could do.

The warrior explained that Vrethka had always maintained medical workers because wars were common in the region. But their resources were limited. Many injuries that could potentially be treated better simply had to heal naturally. There were no magical healers here, no potions that could mend broken bones or regrow lost limbs. Just bandages, herbs, and time.

Seeing the wounded made Darion remember the battle. He remembered how quickly his undead tore through Vrethka’s forces. At the time, he was focused on surviving and stopping the threat to Percvale.

Now he could see the consequences more clearly. Every wounded warrior represented someone who was part of Vrethka’s military machine. Some might recover. Some might never fight again. Some could have families waiting for them.

Darion didn’t feel guilty for defeating them. They had been preparing to attack Percvale, to kill his people, to destroy everything he had built. He had done what was necessary to protect his territory. But he understood that warfare didn’t end when the fighting stopped. The damage continued afterward. The wounded, the crippled, the grieving, they were the ones who carried the cost of victory and defeat.

Darion eventually left the military quarter. The warrior led him toward the poorer civilian neighborhoods. The difference was immediate.

The streets became narrower, the paths muddy and uneven. Wooden buildings stood close together, their walls thin, their roofs patched. Some houses looked like they had been repaired multiple times, the repairs visible in the mismatched wood and the uneven surfaces.

Small alleyways twisted between the buildings, their entrances dark and narrow. Children moved through the narrow spaces, their laughter echoing off the walls. Adults carried buckets, food, tools, and other necessities, their faces tired and focused.

There wasn’t much room between homes. Darion had to slow down as people moved around him, their bodies pressing close, their voices low. The air was thick with the smell of cooking, mud, animals, and waste. It was a stark contrast to the clean, organized spaces of the military quarter.

Darion began noticing just how cramped the neighborhood was. Families appeared to share very small homes. Several people might live in a single hut, their bodies pressed together, their belongings stacked in corners.