Chapter 158: The Prophet’s Troubles

The sprawling black glass greenhouses buzzed with agricultural drones and laborers.

He located her near the edge of the mutated super-grain fields. She was recording harvest yields on a slate. Elian stopped moving. He stood behind a heavy stack of alchemical fertilizer crates, watching her from a distance.

His hyper-dense muscles felt entirely useless. He gripped the Star-Iron holy symbol attached to his belt.

“Sovereign,” Elian muttered under his breath. “Grant me the courage of the Vanguard. Let her see my worth. Let her finally accept my harvest.”

Far above the physical realm, Red leaned against his obsidian throne. He watched the live feed on his secondary monitor.

The audio picked up Elian’s whispered prayer perfectly.

Red stared at the Prophet hiding behind the fertilizer crates. He let out a quiet scoff.

“I was far more pathetic than you,” Red muttered to the empty sanctuary.

He looked away from the monitor and stared into the dark expanse of the Void. Memories of his old life surfaced. He thought about Elena. He had loved her since high school. He had gone to the reunion to catch a glimpse of her, and followed her into this world right up until she sacrificed him to the Radiant Monarch.

“If only I hadn’t gone to the school reunion…” Red muttered. “Well, it’s all in the past now. I am at a better place than before.”

Looking back at it now, Red struggled to understand what made her so special. The devotion he had carried for years felt distant and absurd. He had built an empire of monsters and executed global threats, yet he had spent his entire previous life acting like a frightened laborer over a girl who saw him as completely disposable.

Red shook his head and refocused his attention on the monitor.

Down in the agricultural district, Elian released his grip on the holy symbol. He let out a long, heavy breath.

The King of humankind rolled his broad shoulders, stepped out from behind the crates, and began walking directly toward her. The laborers nearby respectfully cleared the aisle for the King of humankind.

He stopped exactly three paces away from the woman.

Her name was Mara.

She held a slate, recording the growth rates of the mutated super-grains. She had dirt on her cheek and wore standard agricultural overalls.

Mara looked up. A faint flush immediately appeared on her neck. She quickly brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looked at Elian’s broad shoulders. She looked at the heavy Star-Iron holy symbol gripped tightly in his massive hand. She looked at his rigid, military posture.

She let out a soft breath. “Prophet Elian. You are wearing your combat armor to the greenhouses again.”

Elian stood completely stiff. He remembered Gorak’s advice about projecting security and logistics. “The perimeter requires constant vigilance. I am here to secure the sector. I also came to request your presence at the central dining hall tonight. I have authorized a surplus ration of high-tier alchemical meat for our table.”

Mara stared at him. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She crossed her arms over the slate. “A surplus ration. You are formally requisitioning a meal for us.”

“Yes,” Elian confirmed eagerly. “I have also drafted a schedule. We can discuss the agricultural quotas for thirty minutes. Following the meal, I will provide a tactical escort along the eastern wall to ensure you feel secure in this district.”

Mara rubbed her forehead. The smile faded into a look of sheer exasperation. She liked the massive, awkward man. She hated his absolute inability to act like a normal human.

“Elian,” Mara said, her tone softening. “I spend ten hours a day managing quotas. I do not want to discuss logistics over dinner. I do not want a tactical escort.”

Elian frowned. His hyper-dense muscles tensed. Gorak was wrong. She was rejecting his logistical planning again.

“I can offer a different patrol route,” Elian suggested quickly. “We can walk the inner perimeter. I can show you the new artillery emplacements.”

“Leave the armor behind,” Mara pleaded gently. “Throw away the itinerary. Just be Elian. We can take a walk and talk about something other than the Vanguard.”

Elian processed the words. He found the concept completely alien. His entire life and identity revolved around the Vanguard. The idea of walking the city without a formal objective triggered his anxiety.

“I will revise my strategy,” Elian stated formally. He gave her a rigid bow. “I will return when I have a more suitable operational plan for our conversation.”

He turned around and marched rapidly out of the greenhouse.

Mara stood perfectly still in the aisle. She let out a heavy groan and lightly banged her forehead against a nearby glass pillar.

“Oh, Spiral. Please give him some brains.”

Meanwhile, Gorak walked through the heavy industrial sectors of the City of Spiral. The massive Obsidian-Claw Troglodyte slowed his usual marching pace to accommodate the small figure waddling beside him.

His two-year-old son possessed a miniature bone-plated exoskeleton and thick grey skin.

The toddler lacked the cognitive development to comprehend the scale of the Vanguard’s war machine. He simply stared up in wide-eyed fascination at the surrounding infrastructure. He watched the massive smoke stacks of the Ash-Forge Crucible vent clouds of white steam into the sky.

He pointed at the fifty-foot obsidian statue of the Sovereign in the city center. He clapped his small, clawed hands every time a heavy Star-Iron drop-hammer slammed against an anvil in the distance.

Gorak kept a protective hand hovering near the child. The city streets bustled with mutated Kobolds, Shell-Kin, and human laborers hauling crates of alchemical munitions. The crowds respectfully cleared a wide path for the Vanguard warlord and his heir.

The toddler tugged on the heavy leather strap hanging from Gorak’s waist, and looked up at his father.

“Mother?” the child grunted in the rough, guttural dialect of their species.

Gorak paused near a massive cooling vat and looked down at his son.

“Your mother will arrive in two weeks,” Gorak explained. “I am required here for the global war council. Someone must remain at Onyx Hall to oversee the deep-core mining sectors and maintain discipline among the lower ranks. Gulag holds the authority to manage the subterranean fortress in my absence.”

The two-year-old processed the information slowly. He nodded, accepting the logistical reality of his parents’ military obligations. Then, he turned his attention back to the bustling street.

A moment later, the child pointed a tiny claw toward the western gates of the city.

“Uncle Iron?” the toddler asked.

Gorak let out a long, rumbling sigh. The heavy Star-Iron gauntlet on his right arm clanked against his bone armor. Dealing with the hyper-lethal, recently divorced Kobold supreme commander required a specific type of patience.

Iron-Scale had been devastated after getting divorced by his wife just after being married for six months. And to get over the emotions, he began his journey across the continent to recruit talented fighters.

“He will arrive soon,” Gorak stated.

“Will he bring treats?” he asked excitedly.

“Let’s hope so.”

He placed a massive hand on his son’s shoulder and guided him further down the street to inspect the new artillery emplacements.

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