Bound To The Dead: The Deceptive Class-E Farmer

The royal court of the Rookheim Dominion was unusually quiet.

The grand hall was filled with nobles and ministers, all standing stiff under the heavy silence. A large, carved throne sat at the far end of the chamber. On it sat King Lucas, tall and proud, his crown glinting in the pale light.

He was in his fifties, but his body still held the strength of a man hardened by years of battle. His silver eyes, cold and clear. Silver hair, neatly swept back, glinted faintly beneath his crown. A short beard framed his jaw, trimmed and sharp, like the man himself.

Everyone waited for news from the battlefield.

Still, nothing had come. No letters. No messengers. No survivors.

Suddenly...

BANG!

The double doors slammed open.

A loud gasp filled the room.

A soldier staggered inside. His armor was cracked. His hair was soaked in sweat and dried blood. His arms were gone. Completely gone. His body leaned to the side, barely holding itself up.

A court official whispered, "General... Lander?"

The man’s face was pale, nearly gray. His breathing was ragged. Yet something was wrong, his eyes... they didn’t look alive.

Guards rushed forward.

But the king raised his hand.

"Let him speak," he ordered.

The room fell still again.

Lander took a step forward. Then another. Each step was a twitch, a relic of the man he’d been.

He looked up at the king with eyes that no longer held light.

When he spoke, his voice didn’t sound like his own.

It was cold. Hollow. Echoing slightly.

"A farmer... sends a message."

A farmer? The word hung in the air. Confusion spread.

No one moved. No one spoke.

"If you ever touch Spawnhold again... or even Bulcan..."

He stepped forward.

Rotten tissue clung to the open wound.

"This..."

He looked to himself, his body barely standing.

"....is what will become of you."

Everyone stared, frozen.

Then...

A soft buzzing sound filled the air.

It grew louder.

Louder.

Suddenly, a black locust crawled out of Lander’s mouth.

It flew upward.

The court followed it with their eyes as it circled the air...

...then it landed.

Right on top of the king’s crown.

The king did not move.

For a moment, the locust simply sat there. Its tiny legs gripped the edge of the crown like it belonged there.

Then, just as suddenly, it flew away.

Lander’s body trembled... then collapsed to the floor.

He didn’t move again.

Dead.

His lifeless body lay in the middle of the hall.

The buzzing faded.

No one spoke.

A noble in the front row turned and vomited onto the floor.

Then a sickening noise broke the stillness, a nobleman retched, collapsing to his knees beside a marble column. Others stepped back in alarm, faces pale, hands trembling.

The king slowly stood up and walked down from his throne. He stared at the corpse.

Duke Mael took a step forward, his voice low and grave.

"There were thirty thousand," he said. "He was the only one to return."

General Gardo stepped beside him, expression unreadable.

"No messengers. No reports. Not even scouts," he stated. "Our forces vanished without a trace. The site of battle was... entirely erased."

Lady Veyra, her face drawn, turned sharply toward him.

"What do you mean... erased?"

Gardo’s jaw tightened.

"There were no bodies," he replied.

"Only scattered shirts and broken weapons around the field."

The hall was consumed by a heavy silence.

Councilor Elden, voice shaking slightly, dared to speak.

"How do we know they didn’t retreat? Or desert the field?"

Duke Mael glanced at the corpse once more. His voice, though soft, carried finality.

"The chain of command ended with Lander," he said.

"If he returned like this... it can only mean one thing."

He straightened.

"They were devoured."

Councilor Elden recoiled.

"By what?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

Gardo raised his head.

"By whom," he corrected.

Duke Mael stepped forward, his clenched fist trembling with restrained emotion.

"Do you remember when we received word about how the throne was taken from King Geoffrey?"

Lady Veyra’s brows furrowed. "Because of the mysterious man who aided her... the one said to command an army of locusts? Like the insects we saw earlier?"

Duke Mael nodded. "They called him the Farmer, the one who killed King Geoffrey and wiped out his experimental monsters."

The king whispered, "What kind of human is this...?".

—-----

Three days have passed, the bells of Carreon did not toll that day, but inside the palace, something had shifted.

Word had arrived.

In the king’s council chamber, the air was tense. Advisors spoke in low voices, their eyes flicking toward the man seated on the high-backed throne. King Belmont sat in silence, staring at the parchment in his hand.

A single line.

A battlefield erased. Thirty thousand dead. One survivor returned, then died.

Rookheim had lost.

The room stirred uneasily.

"Impossible," one official muttered. "Not a single survivor? That can’t be right."

"A bluff," another said. "A trick to inflate Bulcan’s reputation."

The messenger stepped forward. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed unease.

"No, Your Majesty. And one more thing, Spawnhold is no longer neutral. After King Rody’s death... it now belongs to Bulcan. That part has been confirmed."

Even Mikaela, standing beside her father, couldn’t hide the disbelief in her eyes.

"The man who slaughtered Rookheim’s finest alone," the messenger paused, swallowed hard, then said, "they say... he’s a farmer."

King Belmont’s fingers tapped slowly on the armrest. The quiet thuds echoed in the chamber. Then his voice broke the tension.

"This Farmer... he was the one who helped Queen Aiah reclaim the Bulcan throne, wasn’t he? The same one they now call the Ghost General?"

The messenger bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty. We sent spies after her coronation. All they could learn... was that her protector is known only as ’the Farmer.’ No name. No origin."

Belmont narrowed his eyes.

"Until now, I’ve been wondering... how does a nameless farmer kill King Geoffrey? And now this?"

The messenger spoke up, hesitant.

"They say... he has his own army."

A pause followed. Everyone leaned in slightly.

"...An army of locusts."

The room fell silent.

A few of the officials exchanged glances.

Then, quietly, someone let out a short laugh.

Another chuckled under his breath.

Soon, a few more followed, trying to suppress their amusement.

"A farmer... using locusts?" one muttered with a smirk. "What’s next? A shepherd commanding wolves?"

"It’s ridiculous," another said. "Locusts are a farmer’s worst nightmare. They ruin crops. No sane man would want them, let alone use them."

One General shook his head, scoffing.

"It was just another bluff, a tactic to put Bulcan back on the map and make other kingdoms hesitate before moving against them."

But King Belmont’s expression didn’t change.

His eyes remained fixed ahead, deep in thought.

"...Then why," he said softly, "did thirty thousand men vanish without a trace?"

No one answered.

—------

Later that afternoon, far from the council chamber, Mikaela stood alone at her window, staring at the horizon.

That name again.

Farmer.

It had echoed through the palace all morning, spoken in fear, awe, and disbelief.

But to her... it was never just a title.

To her, it had always been one person.

"...Isaac."

His name slipped from her lips before she realized it.

Her chest tightened. Even now, after a year, after trying to forget, every time she heard that word, it was his face that appeared in her mind.

The boy from the village.

The one who smiled at her without judgment.

The one who loved her without hesitation.

The one they said died.

And yet...

She placed a hand over her chest.

"...It couldn’t be. Right?"