CHAPTER 819: METTING WITH THE REBELS (II)

It didn’t take long for Grand Marshal Anglius to reach the mysterious figure standing in the heart of the blizzard. The man before him looked no older than twenty, but his eyes told a different story. They carried a sharpness and depth that Anglius had only seen in war-hardened veterans—men who had survived countless battles, endured unspeakable hardship, and seen the worst that life had to offer. It was not the gaze of a child. It was the gaze of someone who had walked through hell and returned with the resolve of steel.

The young man didn’t speak. He simply turned and began walking across the frozen plains, each step purposeful, calm. Anglius didn’t bother to ask questions. The Grand Marshal adjusted his massive form to match the man’s pace and followed. They continued like that for hours, the silence between them broken only by the crunch of snow underfoot and the distant howl of the wind.

As he saw time run by, Anglius found himself relaxing. His forces had likely already returned to the Asaris Continent, far from danger. There was only his own life at stake now, and he was confident in his ability to survive whatever awaited him.

After half a day of travel, a mountain emerged from the white haze of the blizzard. The young man stopped at its base, bit into his hand, and smeared his blood across the rocky surface. A pulse of energy rippled through the mountain, activating a hidden formation. A glowing gate appeared where solid stone had once stood.

The young man glanced back at Anglius and gestured for him to follow before walking through the portal.

Without hesitation or fear, Anglius stepped through.

The moment he entered, he felt the gate seal behind him. His senses immediately went on high alert. He could feel the presence of countless lifeforms up ahead—but none of them were powerful warriors. The energy signatures were weak, fragile, as though belonging to civilians.

He didn’t have to walk far before the underground chamber came into view. Thousands of people were living within it—men, women, and children. As soon as they saw the armored giant enter their haven, panic swept through them. Mothers clutched their children tightly, hiding behind corners and crates, their eyes wide with fear.

A complicated light passed through Anglius’s eyes.

He had come to this world as a conqueror. He believed in the purpose of the Xaos Kingdom and had long accepted the cost of war—subjugation, resistance, and sometimes, annihilation. He had agreed with Overlord’s plan to use the people of Exilon as resources. He had even rationalized it as necessary. But things always became more complicated when you put faces to those who would suffer from your decisions.

Still, he said nothing and continued to follow the young man, walking through tunnel after tunnel beneath the surface. What began as a single hidden mountain soon revealed itself as a vast subterranean city—an intricate labyrinth of tunnels stretching across the Mist Continent. It housed not thousands, but tens of millions. The level of engineering, magic, and coordination required to build and maintain such a place was staggering.

The deeper they went, the more Anglius realized something else: this was not a scattered group of desperate rebels. Along the way, they passed thousands of warriors—disciplined, silent, and deadly. Each one radiated resolve and lethal intent. These were not bandits or stragglers. They were trained soldiers, and they would not hesitate to die for their cause.

Finally, after nearly six more hours of walking, they reached a large building constructed in the center of the underground city. It wasn’t ornate or grand, but it was clearly important. The young man stopped and turned to Anglius, his eyes sharp. He gestured for the marshal to wait outside, then entered the building alone.

Anglius stood patiently. He had seen enough to know that the rebellion was nothing like what the Zanis family believed. These people were not merely surviving—they were planning, watching, preparing. They had infiltrated enemy strongholds, tricked their enemies into thinking they were fractured and powerless. And whoever had orchestrated all of this had to be a mind of formidable intellect and patience.

When the young man returned, he silently signaled Anglius to enter.

The Grand Marshal took a deep breath and stepped inside.

But instead of being greeted by a towering warlord or a wise old general, what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

It was a child.

No older than ten, the boy sat calmly in a simple chair. But half of his body was covered in terrible burns, scars that looked years old. Anglius stared, confused, until the child raised his eyes and spoke with eerie composure.

"Welcome, conqueror from beyond the stars."

The boy’s voice was calm, yet it carried a depth that unsettled Anglius. It wasn’t just mature—it was ancient.

Anglius shook his head and focused, collecting himself. His eyes sharpened as he clasped his armored hand to his chest and gave a formal bow.

"I am Grand Marshal Anglius of the Xaos Kingdom. I carry with me the authority of the Xaos King himself."

He let the weight of that statement settle before continuing.

"Are you the leader of the Rebellion?"

The child smiled faintly. He had seen the skepticism in Anglius’s voice.

"Do not let my appearance deceive you, Grand Marshal," he said. "I am old. Very old. My name is Cezar, and I founded the Rebellion more than five hundred years ago. I’ve nurtured it in secret, rising from a small group of runaways to what you see now."

Anglius raised an eyebrow, glancing again at the ruined body of the boy—this immortal strategist who had escaped notice for centuries. Before he could reply, Cezar turned to the young man who had led Anglius through the tunnels.

"You may leave, Astarus."

The young man bowed deeply, not saying a single word to Anglius, and departed without looking back.

Anglius watched silently as Astarus exited the room, his footsteps light, his back straight despite the weight of the moment. Then, Cezar’s voice echoed once more.

"Please, do not take his silence as an offense. A Zanis commander cut out his tongue when he was still a child—for the unfortunate crime of having a voice too soft for a soldier."

The Grand Marshal’s eyes widened slightly as he heard the fate of that young man. Then he exhaled, a deep sigh filled with the quiet weight of memory.

During his time as a soldier—before the rise of Terra, before he ever carried the banner of the Xaos Kingdom—he had traveled to many war-torn countries. He had seen the grim realities of nations that turned children into weapons, where boys barely old enough to hold a rifle were thrown into front lines. He remembered the blank stares of child soldiers, the lifeless discipline, the hollow obedience. The cruelty of such systems had never truly left him.

And yet, even as the practices of the Zanis family repulsed him, Anglius knew he couldn’t allow emotion to cloud his purpose. He was a general first. A weapon of the Kingdom. He had a mission to fulfill.

"I came here in the name of the Xaos Kingdom," he said slowly, choosing every word with great care. "Our goal is to forge an alliance between our forces—unified in our aim to dismantle the Zanis family’s control over Exilon."

Grand Marshal Anglius delivered the statement with practiced discipline, a tone of diplomacy honed through countless negotiations and high-level war councils. His presence was commanding, his words deliberate.

But Cezar only offered a faint, almost pitying smile. He shook his head slowly, eyes ancient with understanding.

"Please, Grand Marshal," he said, "let’s not pretend we’re going to be allies."

Anglius blinked, taken aback not by the words themselves, but by how calmly and confidently they were spoken.

"I can see it in your heart," Cezar continued. "You are, perhaps, a good man. I’ve met few who carry the burdens of leadership with such dignity. But you and your people are still invaders. You may not wear the Zanis colors, but you march with the same arrogance—seeking control over what is not yours."

The child’s voice, though gentle, carried the gravity of centuries.

"I loathe the Zanis family," he went on. "I hate what they’ve done to this world—to my people. They’ve turned children into killers, broken minds, shattered families. They’ve forged a society where obedience is survival, and individuality is a crime. They’ve taken innocence and molded it into murder."

His small, burned hand clenched lightly on the edge of the chair.

"But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to trade one set of chains for another. I won’t gamble the future of this world just to exchange one tyrant for a foreign conqueror. You may see yourselves as liberators—but history is written by the victors, and I have no interest in letting my people become a footnote in your empire’s rise."

Silence hung in the room for a long moment.