My Life as A Death Guard

— Barbarus —

Herila was an ordinary Barbarusian woman.

Her early life was a reflection of millions of ordinary Barbarusian girls.

Herila was born in an unnamed village near the domain of Necare. From the moment she could remember, her world was composed of the dim yellow poison gas and endless fear.

She would wait innocently in a room made of yellow earth blocks, eagerly awaiting her parents’ return.

Her mother would come back, touch her cheek with cracked hands, smile at her, and then turn to make porridge and prepare meals.

As Herila grew older, she would lead her sister, trudging through the muddy paths of the village, standing at the entrance and gazing into the distance, waiting for their parents to return from farming.

In the distance were mountains shrouded in poisonous gas, their peaks obscured in misty shadows.

Her parents had said that the true masters of the planet lived there.

Back then, Herila was too young to understand how the Overlords could resist the deadly poison gas.

When she was old enough to hold a hoe, her parents took her to farm their land. She wielded the hoe, breaking the bitter clods of earth one by one.

Her sister would stand at the village entrance, still watching her and her parents, waiting for their return.

The village alarm bell would ring as night fell.

Herila, both frightened and excited, would run back home with her parents.

Her life passed in daily farming, her breath slowly being consumed by the poison gas each minute, each second.

She had once daringly and curiously walked to the edge of the fields, where the thickening poison gas formed a tangible wall, imprisoning the people within.

Herila raised a hand, cautiously touching the seemingly alive poison gas with her fingertips.

It lightly corroded her fingers.

Herila gasped, quickly retracting her hand to find pale corrosion marks on her fingers.

Herila did not understand.

Was there truly life on those high mountain peaks, where the poison gas was tens of thousands of times more dense and lethal than here?

However, she found out that very night.

When the gray night fell and the yellow air slowly climbed the city walls—

The slavers’ puppets tore through the seemingly impregnable walls of Herila’s eyes like paper.

Those creatures, which defied the laws of physics, those monsters brought to life by sorcery, just stood at the door, their stitched eyes staring fixedly at her and her family.

The puppet, about two and a half meters tall, seemed to be randomly stitched together from corpse pieces.

Thick black thread was crudely exposed, with knots sinking into the skin.

Pus-yellow liquid oozed from the flesh, climbing the threads and forming yellow scabs in the air.

It blocked the door with its bloated body, its murky eyes staring maliciously at Herila.

Her parents were on the verge of fainting from fear, but they still clung tightly to Herila and her sister, trembling all over.

But it was useless.

Like a chick being plucked from a warm and fragile nest, she was picked up, evaluated, and then put down—

She was too thin and did not meet the Overlord’s standards for strong experimental material.

Her parents and sister were picked up in turn. Her father was put down, and her sister was put down as well.

Her mother was taken away.

Her mother looked at Herila with despair and breakdown, completely shattered, her weary eyes now brimming with tears.

She looked at them, seemingly hoping they would continue to live well, yet also hoping they would save her.

But Herila, her father, and her sister were already paralyzed with fear.

There was no hope.

Under the threat of death, her mother began to struggle violently in the puppet’s grip. She flailed her limbs wildly, hitting the giant hand holding her in vain.

As if seeing something amusing, the puppet’s grotesque face twisted into a strange, cruel smile.

Its other mucus-stained hand reached out easily and casually, twisting off her limbs one by one.

Blood, flesh, red blood, and white bone spurs protruded. The red dots fell in the black dimness, graying instantly under the caress of the fog.

Her mother screamed.

And twitched.

Herila fainted.

When she woke up, there were only three people left in their home.

Life had to go on.

After that, Herila took her farming tools every morning, followed her father to the fields, and ran home at dusk with the sound of the bell.

The village walls she once thought would protect them were useless. The village was as dangerous as the wild, but she still ran back with the others when the bell rang.

She was used to it.

She would return home, touch her sister’s face with her cracked hands, smile at her, and then cook porridge.

Her mother had not taught her how to cook, and her father was just a silent, blurry figure in her life.

The first time she cooked porridge, it boiled over and scalded her hand.

It didn’t matter.

She would die.

She would die like her mother.

It’s okay, everyone is like this.

Really, it’s okay.

When the evening screams echoed again, Herila tightly hugged her sister, curling up in the cabinet at home.

Her father had gone mad when the screams started.

Perhaps recalling the tragic scene before their mother died, their father broke down.

This twenty-something man with graying hair frantically opened the door and ran out.

He wanted to escape, but it was a death sentence.

Herila wanted to save her father, but she couldn’t.

Only death awaited.