Chapter 201: The Three Scouts and the Report

Down in the shadows of the western shipyards, the three scouts slipped over the outer stone wall completely undetected. They moved with terrifying grace. Utilizing their wire-spools, they zipped between the dense watchtowers and swung directly into the sprawling warehouse district near the docks.

The eastern sector was suspiciously quiet, offering a perfect, unguarded blind spot for infiltration.

The lead scout signaled his two subordinates. They grappled silently into the wooden rafters of a massive boat-shed, positioning themselves high above the stone floor to observe the docked fleet.

“Your technique is flawless,” a calm voice echoed through the dark shed. “But your logic is entirely predictable.”

The three scouts froze instantly. They drew their serrated daggers and peered down into the gloom.

Ghizlan sat casually on a stacked crate of ballista bolts directly below them. He wasn’t wearing heavy armor, just a simple dark tunic that offered maximum mobility. He looked up into the rafters, his eyes tracking their exact positions perfectly despite the absolute darkness.

“Assassins always seek the path of least resistance,” Ghizlan stated, slowly standing up. “You look for the shadows, the quiet corners, and the unguarded walls. So, I simply evacuated this warehouse and left the eastern wall bare. You walked exactly where I wanted you to.”

The lead scout didn’t hesitate. He dropped from the rafters like a stone, driving both daggers down toward Ghizlan’s neck for a rapid execution.

Ghizlan didn’t even draw a weapon. He sidestepped the lethal drop with terrifying speed, letting the scout crash onto the stone floor. Before the assassin could recover his footing, Ghizlan drove his boot down, crushing the scout’s spine with a sickening crack.

The sheer density of his internal mana flared for a fraction of a second, heavy enough to warp the air around his leg.

The second scout fired his pneumatic spool to retreat, aiming the grapple hook toward an open window.

Ghizlan reached out and caught the high-tension wire barehanded mid-flight. The razor-sharp steel sliced into his palm, but his reinforced mana instantly hardened his skin to block the damage.

He yanked the wire downward with monstrous strength, violently ripping the scout out of the air. As the assassin tumbled toward the floor, Ghizlan stepped forward and casually snapped his neck with a swift strike to the throat.

Two elite veterans lay dead in less than five seconds.

The final scout remained clinging to the rafters, completely paralyzed by the suffocating aura bleeding off the Conqueror. It felt exactly like standing in the presence of a god.

Ghizlan looked up at the terrified survivor and offered a cold, polite smile.

“Come down,” Ghizlan ordered softly. “Or I will bring the ceiling down on top of you.”

The scout unhooked his gear and dropped to the floor, his hands trembling violently as he kept his daggers raised. Ghizlan stepped into his guard effortlessly. He grabbed the scout’s wrist and twisted sharply, shattering the bone and forcing the assassin to drop his weapon with a muffled scream.

Ghizlan then reached around and crushed the pneumatic spool attached to the scout’s waist, rendering the gear useless.

“I need you alive to deliver a message,” Ghizlan whispered, releasing the broken arm and stepping back. “If your aim is to gain control over these shipyards, tell your commander that the fleet is anchored to the ocean floor. The only way you get those ships is by walking through the main gates and taking the keys from my corpse. Run.”

The injured scout scrambled out of the warehouse, clutching his shattered arm as he fled into the night.

Ghizlan calmly wiped a drop of blood from his hand and turned back toward the harbor. The invasion had finally arrived, and he was eager to welcome them.

Without the spools, the injured scout had to climb the mountain with a broken hand, or take a long walk up the hill. Both required too much time and effort.

A few hours passed, and soon the sun was to rise.

Iron-Scale stood near the cliff edge, tracing possible infiltration routes on a spread parchment map while Aaron pointed out the historical weak points of the harbor walls.

A sudden clatter of loose gravel interrupted their planning.

The surviving scout stumbled out of the darkness and collapsed onto the dirt just a few feet from the command tent. He was gasping for air, clutching a violently twisted arm against his chest. His specialized wire-gear hung from his waist in crushed, useless pieces of metal.

Elder Syra materialized from the shadows instantly. She knelt beside her subordinate, her expression completely unreadable as she inspected his shattered wrist and the deep bruising around his neck.

“Report,” Syra commanded softly. She didn’t offer any medical aid yet, prioritizing the intelligence over the injury.

“An ambush,” the scout wheezed, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the grass. “He left the eastern warehouse sector entirely empty to bait us in. He killed the others in seconds without even drawing a weapon.”

Aaron frowned and stepped closer to the wounded assassin. “Who did? A local commander?”

“A monster,” the scout corrected, looking up with wide, terrified eyes. “His internal mana felt heavy enough to crush the breath right out of my lungs. It was exactly like standing near a god. He told me to deliver a message.”

Iron-Scale crossed his arms over his chest plate. “Speak.”

“He chained the entire transport fleet to the ocean floor,” the scout explained, his voice shaking as the adrenaline began to fade. “He said the only way we get those ships is by walking straight through the main gates and taking the master keys from his corpse.”

A suffocating silence fell over the command tent.

Aaron drew a sharp breath, the color draining slightly from his face. He looked out over the cliff toward the distant, torch-lit docks.

“Ghizlan,” Aaron whispered, the name carrying decades of inherited dread. “It has to be him. They call him the Conqueror. He personally led the planetary purges when the Fourth Continent first invaded us. His raw power rivals the human Heralds.”

Gulag stepped into the firelight. She hoisted her heavy mace over her shoulder and let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated in the chests of everyone nearby.

“So he wants a direct fight,” Gulag noted, flashing a grin. “He locked the boats down so we can’t sneak around. He is begging us to walk right into his meat grinder.”

“It is a chokepoint strategy,” Iron-Scale agreed calmly. He looked back down at the map, analyzing the main gates leading into the shipyard. “He knows we cannot risk using heavy artillery because we need the vessels intact. He intends to funnel our entire army into a narrow kill-zone where his personal strength can dictate the battle.”

“We cannot just charge a Herald-level threat head-on,” Aaron argued, gripping his sword hilt. “If Ghizlan is guarding those gates, he will slaughter the frontline infantry by the thousands before we even scratch the walls.”

“Then we don’t send the infantry first,” Syra stated. She stood up and signaled for a nearby cleric to finally tend to her scout’s broken arm. “If he wants a war of raw strength at the front door, we give it to him.”

Iron-Scale met Gulag’s eager gaze and nodded slowly. They needed a battering ram capable of surviving a Herald, and the Vanguard had exactly the right tools for the job.

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