The Steam Age: Gears and Bones

Chapter 62

Perfit stood on the city wall of the fortress's main building, looking down at the soldiers lining up for epidemic prevention checks on the parade ground.

This is the sixth day since she took over the fortress and started its renovations.

The parade ground was no longer as crowded and chaotic as when she first arrived. The tents of the wounded soldiers' camp were neatly arranged into three areas according to the severity of their injuries, and each area entrance had a large classification sign and disinfection procedure written in chalk.

The cooks lined up to wash their hands at the washing station. Soap was distributed by shift, one bar per person. When they ran out, they could exchange the old bar for a new one.

The toilet pits are covered with soil daily, and new pits are rotated weekly. The old pits are filled with lime. The stench that once permeated the entire east wing of the fortress has almost completely dissipated.

The soldiers did complain.

The epidemic prevention regulations were so detailed and complicated that they were irritating—double gloves had to be worn at all times, any instruments that had come into contact with the wounded had to be soaked in hydrogen peroxide for a sufficient amount of time before they could be used again, and body temperature checks were conducted twice a day without fail, even if it was just a minor scratch, one had to report to the military doctor.

Some veterans grumbled that these rules were even more difficult to follow than the emperor's military parade; some young soldiers felt that wearing gloves affected the loading speed, so they secretly took them off, only to be caught by the patrolling sergeant and punished by having to clean the toilets for three days.

But despite the complaints, no one dared to actually disobey these regulations.

the reason is simple.

Perfit had Sabel give a sermon to all the garrison on the parade ground in the name of the church.

Shabel stood on the reviewing stand in the playground, opened the Book of Scriptures, and scanned the faces below, red from the cold, with her gray eyes. She calmly read out the description that Perfit had extracted from the analysis of the Emerald Book—that the souls of those infected with the wilt disease would be wrapped, torn apart, and locked in their already dead bodies by layers of filamentous material.

The body decays, but the soul cannot leave; it can only watch helplessly as it turns into a walking corpse within the rotting shell.

That's not death; that's eternal punishment, far more terrifying than death.

Only when a priest performs a deathbed prayer and the body is beheaded before the body completely turns into a zombie can the soul be freed from the cursed body and return to the embrace of the Father.

Otherwise—she closed the book of sacred words, her voice not loud, but every word clearly carried to the very edge of the playground—otherwise even hell would not open its gates to these souls.

No one spoke on the playground.

Shabel stood on the reviewing stand, the cold winter wind blowing from the north, lifting the hem of her judge's robe and making the pages of the Book of Words rustle.

She held the book pages with one hand and clutched the silver holy emblem hanging around her neck with the other.

The emblem gleamed with a cold luster in the dim light of the sky, and the soldiers below could clearly see it.

It was not a wooden or bronze emblem worn by ordinary priests, but a silver emblem that only judges formally ordained by the court were entitled to possess, with runes engraved on it that were older than any other relic that most of them had ever seen.

They knew what this meant.

Standing before them was not a village pastor who merely stood on the pulpit and recited scriptures on Sundays, but a judge who could truly communicate with the whole Father.

Her words were not metaphors, not parables, not exaggerated statements used to frighten new recruits.

She was referring to the trial witnessed by the entire Father.

“Under the ruins of the hospital in St. Petersburg,” Shabel began. Her voice was not loud, but her deep and steady tone made every word sound like a nail driven into a stone slab. “I have seen with my own eyes how painful it is for people infected with the wilt disease, from the onset of the disease to their execution by their comrades.”

I personally offered last prayers to hundreds of Ross soldiers; instead of red blood, black curses flowed from their wounds.

Those things are alive.

They wriggle in the wound, climb up the blood vessels, and burrow into the brain.

The infected person can feel all of this—feel something growing, spreading, and replacing them inside their body.

They wanted to shout, but their throats were blocked by those things.

They wanted to pray, but they couldn't even remember the prayer, because those words had already seeped into their heads.

She paused for a moment, then slowly scanned each face in the audience with her gray eyes.

No one dared to look away, nor did anyone dare to meet her gaze for more than a breath.

"But the most terrifying thing is not these." She turned to the page with the bookmark in the book and pointed to a passage with her finger. "The most terrifying thing is that when their hearts stop beating, their souls do not leave."

Fusarium wilt is not a disease that only affects the body; it is not any wound infection or trench fever you have seen in border battles.

It is a curse that erodes both the body and the soul.

You can see in the military doctor's autopsy room how those black curses turn muscles and blood vessels into a pile of mud, but the truly terrifying things can only be seen by the judges and priests.

I can see it—I can see the souls of those infected, trapped in their corpses after they die, trapped in their torn flesh and broken bones, trapped in a body that no longer belongs to them.

The souls retain all their senses; they can feel their own corpses rotting, smell their own flesh stinking, and even watch helplessly as, after turning into zombies, they use the hands that once held their loved ones to tear apart their former comrades.

They wanted to close their eyes, but they were already dead, and didn't even have the ability to close their eyes.

Someone in the audience gagged.

It wasn't just one person; it was several voices coming simultaneously from different directions, suppressed and urgent, only to be choked back up.

A young soldier standing in the front row covered his mouth with his hand, his fingers trembling, and a few wisps of rapid white mist leaked out between his fingers.

The veteran standing next to him didn't look at him, but repeatedly clenched and unclenched his double-gloved hands, his knuckles turning white from the force.

Sabel did not stop because of the gagging sounds.

Her voice was still not loud, but each word was like a cold finger, peeling away the layer of defense woven from courage and discipline deep within the souls of these soldiers.

That's not fear of death—they can face bullets and bayonets without flinching, and hold their ground in a defensive battle destined to fail without retreating an inch.

As they charged through volleys of gunfire on the front lines of the Ross border, as they leaned against the collapsed breastworks and listened to the increasingly close sound of infected fingernails scraping against the stone walls, what kept them from collapsing was not the hope of survival, but the land behind them and their homeland, the belief that their souls would ascend to heaven after death, and the ultimate promise engraved on the lintels of every village church, passed down from their grandfathers to their ancestors—that the Father would not abandon His believers.

Death is not the end; the soul will pass through the darkness and return to the glory of the Father, reuniting with all departed loved ones.

That was the only reward they received for every mouthful of black bread they swallowed, every drop of blood they shed, and every pain they endured while they were alive.

Now, a judge stands before them, telling them in a calm, almost cruel voice: If you are infected, none of this will remain.

Your mothers, wives, children, all the people you thought you would see again after death—you will never see them again.

This is not a temporary farewell, but a final goodbye.

Your souls will be locked in cages of corpses, and even the gates of hell will not open to you.