Meanwhile, in the Northern Frontier unbeknownst to anyone, even Red.

High in the granite peaks of Sector 6, far above the humidity of the swamp, lay the Onyx Hall.

It was a marvel of primitive engineering. Massive pillars of hewn black stone held up a ceiling hidden in soot and shadow. The air smelled of roasted meat, coal dust, and heated steel.

In the center of the hall, a Council of Elders sat around a massive circular table made of a single slice of petrified wood.

These were the Obsidian-Claw Troglodytes. They were not scavengers. They were industrialists.

“Coal yield from Vein 4 is down,” Elder Korg grunted, shifting his heavy fur cloak. He was blind in one eye, a veteran of a hundred tunnel wars. “The rock grows too hard.”

“Then forge harder picks,” Elder Vraxx replied, tapping a stylus against a slate tablet. “We have the steel. Increase the ration of meat for the miners. Muscle breaks rock.”

The council murmured in agreement. They voted by slamming their metal gauntlets against the table.

CLANG.

And the motion passed.

They discussed grain storage, border patrols, and the culling of the weak winter herds. It was a civilization at its peak—efficient, brutal, and utterly self-reliant.

Then, the heavy iron doors of the chamber swung open.

Warlord Gorak strode in. He was the giant who had turned Iron-Scale away. He wasn’t wearing ceremonial robes; he was clad in plate armor forged from high-carbon steel, a massive greatsword strapped to his back.

He didn’t bow. In Troglodyte culture, the Sword was equal to the Gavel.

“Warlord,” Elder Vraxx acknowledged. “You return from the Gate. Any interesting reports?”

Gorak scoffed, grabbing a goblet of wine from the table and draining it. “A rat,” he spat. “A scrawny Kobold from the swamp. He came waving a wooden spear, preaching about some new God.”

The Elders exchanged amused glances.

“A God?” Elder Korg wheezed, a dry, dusty laugh escaping his throat. “The weak always invent Gods to explain why they are failing. What did this… rat… want?”

“He wanted us to submit,” Gorak said, wiping his mouth. “He said his God gives meat. He said his God gives iron.”

The table erupted in laughter. It was a deep, belly-shaking sound.

“We have meat!” Vraxx roared, slamming his fist down. “We have the best steel in the Sector! Why would we bow to a swamp-ghost?”

“Did you kill him?” Korg asked, leaning forward.

“No,” Gorak shrugged. “He was beneath my blade. I shamed him. I threw a scrap of meat at his feet and told him to run. He looked like he was going to cry. He won’t be back.”

The laughter died down, replaced by the calculating silence of politicians.

“Where did he come from?” Vraxx asked sharply. “Kobolds are solitary rats. They don’t have the courage to knock on our gates unless they are organized.”

Gorak’s expression tightened. “I had the same thought. I sent a Shadow-Runner to track him.”

The Warlord leaned over the table, his voice dropping an octave.

“They aren’t solitary. They have settled in the Old Lowlands. The runner reports a city.”

“A city?”

“Walls of living stone,” Gorak confirmed. “Defended by Shell-Kin tanks and Mangrove Treants. The Kobolds are mining the cliff face. They are… organized.”

The Elders shifted uneasily. Shell-Kin and Treants didn’t work together. And Kobolds didn’t build cities.

“That is our land,” Elder Korg growled, his one good eye narrowing. “The Lowlands. We mined that cliff fifty years ago.”

“We left it for a reason,” Vraxx reminded him, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The Water.”

A chill went through the room.

“The Pale Doom,” Korg whispered.

The Elders looked at each other. They remembered the history. They had abandoned the rich iron veins of the south not because they ran out of ore, but because every full moon, the Moon-Crazed Hydra rose from the lake and slaughtered their miners by the score. Their steel shattered against its scales. Their numbers meant nothing against its breath.

“If they are building a city there…” Vraxx began, a cruel smile forming on his face. “…then we do not need to go to war.”

“Exactly,” Korg chuckled. “The moon was full two nights ago. If they are settled near the lake, the Pale Doom has already woken.”

“We don’t need to waste soldiers,” Vraxx waved his hand dismissively. “The beast will clear the infestation for us. We wait a week. Then we march down, collect their scattered iron, and reclaim the mine. The problem solves itself.”

The Council nodded. It was the smart play. Why bleed when the monster would do the butchering?

“Let the swamp-rats pray to their God,” Korg sneered. “Let’s see if their God can stop a Region Guardian.”

Gorak didn’t laugh. He stood stone-still at the end of the table.

“That’s the thing,” Gorak said quietly.

The Elders stopped laughing. They looked at their Warlord.

“The lizard…” Gorak hesitated, his grip tightening on the back of a chair until the wood creaked. “Before he left… he didn’t just preach. He boasted.”

“Boasted of what?” Vraxx asked.

“He said his God commands the lightning,” Gorak said, his voice echoing in the silent hall. “He said his God killed the Hydra.”

The silence that fell over the Onyx Hall was absolute.

The stylus dropped from Vraxx’s hand, clattering loudly against the slate. Korg’s one eye went wide.

“Impossible,” Korg whispered. “The Pale Doom is a calamity. It has a regeneration factor that laughs at steel. No Spirit can kill it.”

“The Shadow-Runner…” Gorak continued, his face grim. “He didn’t get close enough to see the carcass. But he said the lake… the lake was quiet. And the Kobolds… they were wearing armor made of white scales.”

Gorak looked at the Elders.

“Hydra scales.”

No one voted. No one banged the table. For the first time in a century, the Obsidian-Claw Council looked at each other and felt something they thought they had forgotten.

It was fear.

It wasn’t as though they didn’t trust gods existed, they just didn’t need them to survive…. Or so they had thought.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep