The smoke from the smited chieftain was still rising when Red tried to capitalize on the moment.

He focused his attention on Moss-Eye, the Kobold scout standing amidst the kneeling Lizardmen.

MOSS-EYE, Red projected, pushing his will through the obsidian slab. TAKE THEM. MOVE NORTH. JOIN KRUG.

[ COST: 10 DP ]

Moss-Eye blinked. He rubbed his ears, looking around confused. He didn’t move. He didn’t acknowledge the order.

Red frowned. MOSS-EYE. MOVE.

[ COST: 10 DP ]

Moss-Eye winced, clutching his head. “The air… it buzzes,” the scout muttered to Swift-Tail. “My head hurts.”

Red pulled back, frustrated.

[ SYSTEM ERROR: CONNECTION FAILED ] [ ANALYSIS: TARGET FAITH INSUFFICIENT FOR TELEPATHY ] [ REQUIRED: DEVOTED / FANATIC ] [ CURRENT STATUS: FOLLOWER ]

“Great,” Red muttered, canceling the transmission. “I can only talk to the zealots.”

Krug heard him because Krug worshipped him with every fiber of his being. Moss-Eye believed, but he wasn’t connected yet. He was just an employee, not a disciple.

Red watched the screen, fighting the urge to spam commands until one broke through. He took a breath.

“I’m treating this like a strategy game,” Red realized, watching Swift-Tail gesture to the Lizardmen. “But they aren’t units. They have brains. Small, lizard brains, but brains nonetheless.”

He leaned back. “Fine. Surprise me.”

Swift-Tail and Moss-Eye didn’t need a voice in their head to know what to do. They were scouts. Their job was to find assets and bring them home.

Swift-Tail stood on the altar stone. “The Tyrant is dead!” he addressed the trembling Grey-Fins. “But hunger remains. The swamp here is empty. Come with us. Our Chief has iron. Our God has meat.”

The Grey-Fins looked at each other. They looked at the crater and then nodded.

But before they left, one of the elder Lizardmen approached Swift-Tail.

“We were told to sacrifice,” the elder rasped. “The Mud-Skippers told us. They said blood brings fish.”

“Mud-Skippers?” Swift-Tail asked.

“Neighbors,” the elder pointed deeper into the cypress roots. “They starve too. They have many spears. If we leave, we should tell them. Or they will hunt us.”

Swift-Tail looked at Moss-Eye. They exchanged a look. Two scouts against a tribe? Suicide.

But they were high on adrenaline and divine victory.

“Lead us,” Swift-Tail said. “We will save them too.”

Red watched as the procession moved deeper into the swamp. He expected violence. He checked his DP, ready to intervene.

But when they reached the Mud-Skipper village—a collection of hollowed-out logs inhabited by lanky, frog-like humanoids—there was no battle.

The Mud-Skippers were in worse shape than the Lizardmen. Their skin was dry, cracking from lack of moisture in the heatwave. When they saw the Grey-Fins—healthy, armed, and led by confident Kobolds—they didn’t attack. They listened.

Swift-Tail didn’t threaten them. He didn’t preach fire and brimstone. He simply pointed to the Grey-Fins.

“They followed the old ways,” Swift-Tail lied smoothly, pointing to the survivors. “And they almost died. We follow Ka-lam-tee. We eat.”

He threw a piece of dried rations—the last of his supply—to the Mud-Skipper Chief.

The Chief ate it in one bite.

“Where?” the Chief croaked.

“North,” Swift-Tail said.

It was diplomacy born of desperation. No treaties were signed. No hostages were taken. Just a mass migration of starving things following the promise of a full belly.

One day later.

The sun was setting over the Iron Mine. Krug stood atop the barricades, his iron-tipped spear gleaming.

From the tree line, a horde emerged.

First came the two scouts. Then the 86 Grey-Fin Lizardmen. Then, trailing behind them, 110 Mud-Skippers.

The population of Red’s civilization had just jumped from 24 to over 200.

Krug didn’t open the gates immediately. He looked at the mass of hungry mouths. He looked at his own food stores—barely enough for his Kobolds for a week.

“Open!” Swift-Tail shouted. “They are followers!”

Krug grunted, signaling the gates to open. The refugees poured into the clearing, collapsing on the dry earth. They looked at the iron tools, the stone walls, and the fire pit. They looked at the Kobolds with envy and fear.

They were waiting.

“Meat?” The Mud-Skipper Chief asked, stepping forward. “You said meat.”

Krug looked at the empty drying racks. He looked at the sky.

Red hovered over the scene. This was the bottleneck. If he didn’t feed them now, they would riot. If they rioted, Krug would kill them.

‘KRUG,’ Red’s voice thundered in the Chieftain’s mind. ‘PREPARE THE OFFERING.’

Krug moved instantly. “Bring the tribute!”

The Grey-Fins dragged forward a massive river catfish they had caught on the march. The Mud-Skippers, not wanting to be outdone, presented a wild boar carcass they had scavenged.

They placed the dead animals on the central altar.

Red inspected the targets.

[ TARGET: RIVER CATFISH (DEAD) ] [ TARGET: SWAMP BOAR (DEAD) ] [ SPELL: REPLICATE MATTER ] Restriction: Cannot target living tissue. Single Target Lock.

Red checked his [ CAUSALITY CHARGE ]. It was at 700%.

“I need to convince them,” Red whispered. “I need to drown them in protein.”

“System. Target the Fish. Output: 100x.”

[ COST: 5,000 DP ] [ CHARGE REMAINING: 600% ]

Red snapped his fingers.

On the altar, the fish shuddered. The air displaced with a loud THUMP.

One fish became two. Two became ten. The pile exploded outward. It wasn’t a neat stack; it was a fountain of dead fish raining down on the altar, sliding off the sides, burying the feet of the Lizardmen.

The crowd gasped, stepping back.

Red didn’t stop.

“Target the Boar. Output: 100x.”

[ COST: 5,000 DP ] [ CHARGE REMAINING: 500% ]

The boar carcass convulsed and multiplied. Hams, ribs, trotters—a landslide of pork crashed into the pile of fish. The altar disappeared beneath a mound of raw food that was larger than the Mud-Skipper chief’s hut.

Silence reigned in the clearing.

Then, Krug raised his cleaver. “EAT!”

The order broke the spell. The 200 refugees surged forward. There was no fighting this time—there was too much food to fight over. They gorged themselves.

Red watched the screen. The notifications began to scroll, faster than he had ever seen.

[ FAITH GAINED: +1 ] [ FAITH GAINED: +5 ] [ FAITH GAINED: +10 ]

It wasn’t just a feast. It was the confirmation. These creatures had been starving in the mud for years, praying to silent idols. Today, the idol answered.

Red looked at his accumulated Faith. He had the backlog from the last seven days of the Kobolds praying, plus this massive influx from the new converts.

[ TOTAL UNCLAIMED FAITH: 62,400 ]

“Convert,” Red ordered.

He hit the button.

[ CONVERSION INITIATED ] [ BASE RATE: 100 FAITH = 1 DP ] [ RED’S RATE: 1 FAITH = 1 DP ]

The numbers spun.

[ TOTAL DP GAINED: 62,400 ] [ CURRENT DP: 174,900 ]

Red exhaled. He wasn’t rich compared to a Rank 9 God, but for a swamp ghost, he was doing okay.

He looked at the charge counter. [ 500% ].

“I have the army,” Red said, looking at the feasting reptilian horde. “I have the resources. And I have five shots of 100x charge.”

He looked toward the moon rising in the digital sky. It was waxing. Almost full.

“Two nights until the Hydra,” Red whispered. “Let’s see if we can kill a Guardian.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep