Red hovered over the Vault of Whispers, watching the iron grate rattled by the screams of the broken Warlord below.

He had the intel (400 spears). He had the hostage. But he knew something the Troglodytes didn’t: Sieges are expensive.

If the Troglodytes turtled up in their mountain fortress, Red would have to march his army uphill, against fortified stone gates, into a meat grinder. His Shell-Kin and Treants would die by the dozen.

“I need to open the gates from the inside,” Red whispered.

He opened his inventory.

[ BLUEPRINT CRAFTED: ALCHEMICAL BLIGHT (RUST) ]

→ A microbial strain that feeds on refined ferrous bonds. Rapid oxidation. Highly contagious to metal. Inert to organic matter.

→ One time use.

“System,” Red commanded. “Synthesize one vial. Output: 100x Concentration.”

[ COST: 10,000 DP ]

[ CHARGE REMAINING: 900% ]

A small, stoppered gourd appeared on the altar of the Temple. It didn’t look like much, but the liquid inside was a thick, reddish-orange sludge that smelled of vinegar and ruin.

[IRON-SCALE,] Red projected.

The Inquisitor looked up from the pit.

[WE DO NOT NEED TWO PRISONERS. WE NEED A MESSENGER.]

Red highlighted the cowering survivor—the second guard—who was currently being dragged toward the slave mines by two Kobolds.

[LET HIM RUN. BUT BEFORE HE GOES… MARK HIM.]

—

–

.

Ratt, the surviving Honor Guard, was terrified. He had seen his Warlord boxed like a toy. He had seen his comrade turn black and die from poison. Now, he was being dragged into the dark to dig until he died.

They were passing the edge of the Mud-Skipper district. The ground was slick.

“Move, filth,” the Kobold guard grunted, shoving him.

Ratt saw his chance. The Kobold had stepped on a loose root.

Ratt didn’t hesitate. He slammed his elbow into the Kobold’s snout and bolted. He was a Troglodyte; he was fast and strong. He scrambled up the muddy bank, aiming for the tree line.

“Stop him!” the Kobold shouted.

From the shadows, Iron-Scale emerged. He held a small, curved dagger dripping with a strange orange slime.

Ratt’s heart stopped.

‘The Inquisitor!’

Iron-Scale lunged.

Ratt threw himself sideways, a desperate, adrenaline-fueled dodge. He felt the blade slice across his upper arm—a shallow, burning cut—but he didn’t stop. He kicked dirt in Iron-Scale’s face and sprinted into the fog.

Behind him, he heard Iron-Scale cursing. “No! Get him! He cannot warn them!”

Ratt ran harder, a savage grin breaking through his fear. I beat him, Ratt thought, clutching his bleeding arm. I was faster than the ghost.

He disappeared into the mountain pass.

Back in the shadows, Iron-Scale wiped the dirt from his face. He wasn’t angry. He was smiling.

He looked at the orange-stained dagger which had now become a normal rusted dagger that was beyond use.

“Run, little carrier,” Iron-Scale whispered. “Run home to your steel.”

A few hours later, the heavy iron doors of the Council Chamber burst open.

Ratt collapsed onto the floor of the Onyx Hall. He was pale, exhausted, and dripping sweat. His arm was wrapped in a rag soaked with orange-tinted blood.

The Council of Elders looked up from their map table.

“A guard?” Elder Vraxx frowned. “Where is the Warlord?! Where is Vex?”

“Taken!” Ratt gasped, crawling forward. “All taken!”

The room went dead silent.

“Speak!” Elder Korg roared.

“The City… it is real,” Ratt choked out. “Walls of living stone. They caught Vex… they snapped his neck like a twig. And the Warlord…”

Ratt shuddered, the memory of the stone coffin haunting him.

“They put him in a hole,” Ratt whispered. “Under their Temple. A hole that screams. Gorak is gone. He is their slave now.”

The Elders stared at the wretched creature. Their invincible Warlord, enslaved by swamp rats?

“And you?” Vraxx asked, his eyes narrowing. “How did you escape?”

“I fought,” Ratt lied, puffing out his chest weakly. “I struck the Inquisitor. I broke his line. I ran to bring you the warning.”

Ratt reached out a trembling hand toward the table.

“Please… Elders. I am wounded. The blade… it burns. I need a healer. I need rest.”

Elder Korg looked at the bleeding guard. He looked at the orange stain on the rag. He didn’t see a hero. He saw a failure. He saw a witness to their humiliation.

“You left your Warlord in a pit,” Korg growled. “And you returned with nothing but fear.”

Korg looked at the guards standing by the wall.

“We do not heal cowards,” Korg declared. “Execute him.”

Ratt’s eyes went wide. “No! I brought you the truth! I—”

The nearest Citadel Guard stepped forward. He drew his pristine, high-carbon steel longsword.

SHING.

The blade was a masterpiece of Troglodyte smithing.

He thrust the sword through Ratt’s chest.

The steel blade pierced the leather, pierced the flesh, and slid directly through the wound on Ratt’s arm—the wound coated in Alchemical Rust.

Ratt gasped and died.

The guard pulled the sword out. The blade was wet with blood. And something else.

A microscopic colony of engineered bacteria had just made contact with high-carbon steel.

The guard wiped the blade on Ratt’s tunic, sheathed it, and stepped back into line.

Inside the scabbard, in the warm, dark, airless environment, the bacteria began to divide. It began to eat.

“Gorak is gone,” Elder Vraxx announced, breaking the silence. “The morale of the army hangs by a thread. If the soldiers learn their Warlord is digging ditches for Kobolds, we lose the city.”

“Then we strike!” Korg yelled. “We mobilize the Legion! All 400 spears! We march down there and crush their mud walls before they can prepare!”

“But the God…” a younger Elder whispered. “The guard said Vex was killed.”

“If their God was all-powerful, he would have come here!” Korg countered, his greed and arrogance overriding his caution. “He hides in the swamp because he is weak! We have the numbers. We have the high ground. And we have Steel.”

Korg slammed his gauntlet on the table.

“Our weapons cleave their bronze. Our armor shatters their stone. We are the Obsidian-Claw! We do not fear a few lizards!”

Vraxx nodded slowly. It was the only choice. If they waited, the fear would rot them from the inside. They had to overwhelm the enemy with superior technology.

“Mobilize,” Vraxx ordered. “Gather the Legion in the Armory. Inspect every blade. Sharpen every axe. At dawn, we march.”

“We will bring their ‘God’ back in chains!” Korg sneered.

The meeting adjourned.

The guard who had executed Ratt walked to the Great Armory. It was a massive cavern filled with racks of swords, spears, and heavy plate armor. It was the pride of the North.

He unbuckled his sword belt and hung his scabbard on the rack, right next to fifty other swords which were there to get sharpened.

Inside his scabbard, the Rust had already consumed the edge of his blade. It released a byproduct—a fine, orange spore-dust.

The guard walked away.

The spores drifted. They landed on the sword next to it. They settled on the rack of spears below. They floated into the ventilation shaft that cooled the racks of plate armor.

The bacteria found the iron. It found the carbon. It found the feast.

And It just multiplied.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

By dawn, the pride of the Obsidian-Claw would not be steel. It would be dust.

Red watched the map. A tiny, pulsating orange icon had appeared inside the Onyx Hall.

[ INFECTION ESTABLISHED ] [ SPREAD RATE: EXPONENTIAL ] [ ESTIMATED TIME TO TOTAL FAILURE: 12 HOURS ]

Red smiled.

“They think they have 400 soldiers,” Red whispered to the sleeping city of Bastion. “Tomorrow, they’re going to have 400 angry civilians with orange sticks.”

“Iron-Scale,” Red projected. “Get some sleep. We have guests coming for breakfast.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep