The stone crate sat in the middle of the Plaza, vibrating slightly as Warlord Gorak tried to shoulder-check his way out from the inside.

Red hovered over the scene, biting his spectral lip.

“I didn’t think this through,” Red muttered. “I have a Level 45 Boss in a box. If I let him out, he kills everyone. If I keep him in there, he suffocates, and I lose the intel.”

He looked at his available structures.

[ BLUEPRINT: WOODEN CAGE ] – Useless. He’d snap it.

[ BLUEPRINT: IRON CELL ] – Better, but he bends steel.

“I need a dampener,” Red analyzed. “Something that drains Stamina and strength faster than he can regenerate it.”

His eyes drifted to the Temple floor. Specifically, beneath it. The Fragment of the Forgotten. The radioactive, sanity-eroding slab of black stone they had dredged from the lake.

“It emits psychic radiation,” Red recalled. “It makes weak minds crazy. But what does it do to a strong soul?”

He checked the item description again. [ EFFECT: SOUL EROSION ] → Continuous drain on Willpower and Spirit. → High-Level entities suffer stat penalties due to constant spiritual resistance checks.

Red grinned. “It’s a microwave for the soul.”

“Krug!” Red projected.

[DIG A PIT. UNDER THE TEMPLE. DEEP. MOVE THE BLACK STONE TO THE BOTTOM. BUILD AN IRON GRATE OVER IT. THAT IS WHERE THE WARLORD SLEEPS.]

Construction took two hours.

The Kobolds, working with frantic speed, dug a cylindrical shaft beneath the Temple altar. They lined the walls with the remaining Hydra scales to keep the radiation from leaking out into the city, but left the shaft itself open.

At the bottom, resting in the mud, lay the Fragment of the Forgotten. Even looking at it gave the workers a headache. The air above it shimmered with a sickly, oily heat.

Iron-Scale stood at the lip of the pit. He looked down at the black stone, then up at the iron grate they had forged to cover it.

“Nasty,” Iron-Scale whispered appreciatively.

He turned to the stone cage. “Open it.”

Old-Shell, the Tortoise tank, stepped forward. He raised a massive, armored leg and stomped on the corner of the stone prison.

CRACK.

The integrity failed and the stone crumbled.

Three bodies tumbled out onto the cold stone floor of the Temple dungeon. Warlord Gorak and his two Honor Guards. They were gasping, covered in sweat and mud, their eyes adjusting painfully to the torchlight.

Gorak tried to stand. He reached for his greatsword, but it was gone—confiscated by Krug.

“On your knees!” Krug roared, kicking Gorak in the chest.

Gorak took the hit. It was like being kicked by a mule, but his Level 45 physiology absorbed it. He snarled, grabbing Krug’s ankle.

“I will break you, rat!”

THWACK.

A club made of Hydra-bone slammed into the side of Gorak’s head. He reeled, seeing stars.

Iron-Scale stepped forward. Beside him stood a Mud-Skipper named Bog-Rot. Bog-Rot wasn’t a warrior. He was the tribe’s herbalist, carrying a bandolier of pouches filled with neurotoxins derived from swamp frogs.

“You are loud,” Iron-Scale said softly. “You are in my house now.”

Gorak shook his head, clearing the dizziness. He looked at his two guards. They were terrified, huddled against the wall.

“We are Obsidian-Claw!” Gorak shouted at them, trying to rally their morale. “Steel does not bend!”

Iron-Scale sighed. He pointed to the first guard—a young Troglodyte with a scar over his lip.

“You,” Iron-Scale said. “How many spears in the Onyx Hall?”

The guard trembled. “I… I cannot…”

“Silence!” Gorak bellowed. “Remember your Oath! The Mountain keeps its secrets!”

The guard clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head.

Iron-Scale looked at Bog-Rot. He nodded.

Bog-Rot stepped forward and blew a pinch of purple powder into the guard’s face. The guard coughed. Then he screamed. It wasn’t a scream of pain; it was a scream of muscles seizing. His veins turned black. He fell to the floor, convulsing as his nervous system misfired.

It took him thirty seconds to die.

The second guard pressed himself into the corner, weeping.

“You,” Iron-Scale pointed to the survivor. “How many spears?”

“Four… four hundred!” the second guard blubbered. “And the gates… the gates are three feet thick! Please! No powder!”

“Traitor!” Gorak roared. He lunged at his own man, his hands reaching for the guard’s throat to silence him.

Krug intercepted him, grabbing Gorak in a bear hug from behind. Even with his immense strength, Gorak couldn’t break the Apostle’s grip.

“He talks,” Iron-Scale said coldly. “You watch.”

“The Oath!” Gorak screamed, straining against Krug, his muscles bulging. “You are filth! You have no honor! Fight me! Fight me in the light!”

Iron-Scale walked up to Gorak. He looked into the Warlord’s furious eyes.

“The light is for the fed,” Iron-Scale whispered. “The hungry fight in the dark.”

Iron-Scale signaled Krug.

“Put him in the hole.”

Krug dragged the thrashing Warlord to the center of the room. He lifted the heavy iron grate.

“No,” Gorak gasped, feeling the aura of the stone. His soul recoiled. “What is that? What is that magic?”

“Bedtime,” Krug grunted.

He threw Gorak into the pit.

THUD.

Gorak hit the mud at the bottom, ten feet down. He immediately tried to jump out, to climb the walls.

Then, the radiation hit him.

It wasn’t heat. It was a wave of absolute, crushing despair. It felt like spiders crawling inside his brain. It felt like every memory of joy was being surgically removed.

[ SYSTEM ALERT: TARGET SUPPRESSED ]

[ EFFECT: SOUL EROSION ]

[ STAT PENALTY: -70% STR / -90% INT / SKILLS LOCKED ]

Gorak fell to his knees in the dark pit. He clutched his head, screaming. It wasn’t a warrior’s scream. It was the sound of a mind being sanded down.

“Make it stop!” Gorak pleaded. “The voices! The hunger!”

Krug slammed the iron grate shut and locked it.

Iron-Scale stood over the grate, looking down at the broken Warlord.

“We will talk again tomorrow,” Iron-Scale said. “Maybe then you will tell us about the gates.”

Iron-Scale turned to the surviving guard, who was curled in a fetal position.

“Take him to the mines,” Iron-Scale ordered. “If he works, he eats. If he stops, he joins the Warlord in the hole.”

Red watched the scene fade.

[ PRISON ESTABLISHED: THE VAULT OF WHISPERS ]

[ PRISONER SECURED: WARLORD GORAK ]

[ INTEL GAINED: 400 SPEARS / HEAVY GATES ]

He looked at his city. He had the labor, the resources, and now, the intelligence.

“400 spears,” Red mused. “Gorak has an army. I have a cult. Let’s see who wins.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep