Chapter 7: Rescuing the Natives and Getting Worshipped as a God?

"Whatever. I can’t use it right now, but I’ll keep it. Maybe I’ll get the rest of what I need later."

A system notification sounded in John’s ears.

[Looting complete.]

[Obtained: Food ×560]

With that taken care of, John finally turned toward the rows of rusted iron cages at the far end of the camp.

The dozens of human natives crammed inside were already terrified out of their minds.

The moment they saw John approaching, they trembled and tried to shrink farther back.

John waved a hand.

Clang!

Two Undead Spearmen stepped forward.

With a hard twist of their bone spears, they pried the rusted locks apart.

The iron doors were yanked open.

Panic immediately spread through the cages.

As the Spearmen approached, the prisoners instinctively recoiled. A few even shut their eyes in despair, as if expecting to be slaughtered next.

John stopped in front of them and calmly looked over the gaunt, starving villagers.

"Get up."

"All of you."

"You’re coming with me."

...

Fifty-eight ragged humans supported one another as they walked between two columns of Undead Spearmen.

Pale skeletons marched on either side of them in perfect formation.

No one dared resist.

And that was exactly why John didn’t bother restraining them.

He walked at the front of the group and casually opened the floating interface before him.

Then he entered World Chat.

The messages in the upper-right corner were scrolling even faster than before.

Apparently, the ninety-percent elimination rate had finally driven everyone insane.

"Guys, I cracked the system! If only the top ten percent make it, what if I disband all my units right now and go feed myself to those 3-Star Thunder Direwolves next door? Does exploiting the system with my own body count as a bug?"

"Bro, are you actually braindead? If you die in there, your real body dies too!"

"Buying rice at a premium! Rich kid stuck in a VIP suite at New Avalon Central Medical Center here. Bring me a ten-pound bag and, once this trial’s over, I’ll get your whole family into the Upper City. Guaranteed."

"Pleeease, is there any nice guy out there who can drop his coords? ?? I’m a dance major at New Avalon University. Just let me shelter in your territory and I’ll do literally anything. I can do the splits, too..."

"Girl, post a pic first. For all we know, you’re some sweaty forty-year-old dude catfishing everyone."

John stared at the messages and twitched the corner of his mouth.

With a flick of his finger, he filtered the nonsense out and turned his attention to the Marketplace tab on the right.

The entire interface was gray.

The listings were completely empty.

Not even a single unit of Food had been put up for sale.

"Makes sense, I guess."

John muttered.

It hadn’t even been two full hours since the Trial began.

Most novice Lords hadn’t even finished clearing the monsters within ten kilometers of their own territories.

Who would have spare resources to sell?

And even if someone did have extras, they would probably keep them for themselves.

John glanced at his resource bar.

[Gold: 1,685]

[Food: 560]

[Wood: 0]

[Stone: 0]

[Iron Ore: 0]

His ten advance scouting squads had continued marking and mining gold veins throughout the twenty-kilometer radius.

While John had been fighting the Boarfolk, his Gold had climbed by quite a bit.

"No rush."

"We’ll build up one step at a time."

As he spoke, the dense Blackiron Forest ahead gradually thinned out.

Through the mist, the faint white glow of his territory’s protective barrier came into view atop the hill.

"We’re here."

John stopped and turned around.

All one thousand Undead Spearmen halted at once.

Their bone spears struck the ground in unison.

THUD!

The fifty-eight natives flinched as one.

Dozens of uneasy eyes moved back and forth between the pale skeletal soldiers and John.

They had seen everything clearly during the journey back.

This undead army—

wreathed in death energy and radiating murderous pressure—

obeyed the young, black-haired human before them without question.

John didn’t even need to speak.

A simple movement of his hand was enough for the skeletal guards beside him to immediately adjust formation.

On Godfall Continent, the native peoples associated undead with three things.

Chaos.

Filth.

Bloodlust.

Yet this young man possessed a human body and somehow commanded hundreds—no, thousands—of undead warriors.

There was only one explanation they could think of.

The ancient gods from myth.

The beings who held dominion over life and death itself.

That was why none of them had dared resist.

At the front of the group stood an old man wrapped in a filthy, tattered sheepskin coat.

His beard was wild and unkempt.

He hesitantly stepped forward.

His lips were cracked from dehydration, and his deeply wrinkled face was filled with reverence.

The old man approached John, bent low, and asked in a dry, hoarse whisper,

"Great Divine One... are you a messenger sent down from the heavens?"

John looked at him calmly.

He had no interest in correcting the misunderstanding.

In Godfall Battlefield, some vague aura of divinity was far less reliable than a clear contract for survival.

"I am no god."

John’s expression remained indifferent.

"My name is John."

"And I am the ruler of this land."

He raised two fingers and swept his gaze across the ragged villagers.

"I saved your lives."

"So now, you have two choices."

"First."

"Swear allegiance to me and join my territory."

"I’ll make sure you never go hungry, and this army will protect you for as long as you remain loyal."

"Second."

"Walk back into the wasteland right now and fend for yourselves."

The moment he finished—

Thud!

The old man in the sheepskin coat dropped to both knees without the slightest hesitation.

He bowed until his forehead touched the ground.

"I, Gru, swear allegiance to you, my Lord!"

"My people and I will serve you for the rest of our lives!"

The other fifty-seven men, women, and children immediately fell to their knees as well.

"Please take us in, my Lord!"

"We’ll do anything you ask!"

John looked down at the old man kneeling at his feet.

His expression didn’t change.

Their response was exactly what he’d expected.

The human natives of Godfall Continent occupied one of the lowest positions in the wasteland’s food chain.

They had no sharp claws or fangs.

They possessed no exceptional affinity for magic.

They couldn’t even reproduce as quickly as the greenskin goblins.

Gru’s people had originally been a small nomadic tribe.

They had driven several hundred wasteland rock goats along the edge of the plains, moving from one grazing ground to another.

Then they ran into the Boarfolk tribe.

Their entire herd was taken.

The herders who fought back were beaten to death and thrown onto the fires to roast.

Everyone else was locked inside iron cages.

If John hadn’t arrived...

their futures would have held only two possibilities.

Either they would become Boarfolk food within a few days—

or they would be bundled together as low-grade slaves and sold to one of the nearby Beastkin tribes.

Neither fate ended well.

But now?

They had been offered a place under a Lord who commanded a thousand undead warriors.

To them, it was nothing short of a second chance at life.

And there was another reason they had submitted so readily.

For generations, the humans of the wasteland had passed down an ancient prophecy.

One day—

the gods of humanity would descend from beyond the heavens.

They would tear open the sky and walk upon the earth.

With iron and blood, they would purge the hostile races from the land...

and lead humanity back to the summit of the continent.

So in the eyes of Gru and the other villagers, the young human standing before them—

a man who could summon an army of a thousand with a gesture and slaughter the brutal Boarfolk with ease—

even if he wasn’t truly a god...

he had to be one of the divine beings foretold in the prophecy.