Dawn broke over the Onyx Hall.

The mobilization bell rang—a deep, resonant gong that usually signaled the march of conquerors. Four hundred Obsidian-Claw soldiers stood in formation outside the Great Armory, waiting to receive their steel.

Quartermaster Gorn unlocked the heavy iron doors. He walked to the first rack, where the officers’ greatswords hung in pristine rows. He reached for the blade assigned to the First Captain.

He gripped the hilt and pulled.

The weapon felt light. Too light.

The blade didn’t slide from the scabbard with a sharp hiss. It came out with a dry, grinding crunch.

Gorn stared.

The steel was gone. In its place was a jagged, pitted spine of metal covered in a thick bloom of orange moss. He touched it. The metal crumbled under his thumb like dry clay, dissolving into a fine, reddish powder.

“What…?” Gorn breathed.

He ran to the next rack. Spear tips snapped off at the touch. He ran to the plate armor. The leather straps held, but the breastplates were riddled with holes, looking like lace moth-eaten by time.

The infection had thrived in the warm, airless dark of the armory. It had jumped from blade to blade, feasting on the high-carbon bonds that made their steel legendary.

“The steel!” Gorn screamed, his voice cracking. “The steel is dead!”

Within a few minutes, the council gathered.

The Council Chamber was no longer a place of debate. It was a riot.

Elder Vraxx stood by the window, holding a handful of orange dust that used to be a dagger.

“It is a blight,” Vraxx said, his voice flat. “Biological sabotage. The survivor, Ratt… he was the carrier. We let the poison walk right through our front door.”

“We march anyway!” Elder Korg roared, pacing the room like a caged animal. “We fight with stones! We fight with teeth! We do not let swamp-rats humiliate us!”

“With what?” Elder Zek spoke up from the end of the table.

Zek was the oldest of them. His fur was grey, and he walked with a cane made of unrefined iron. He looked at the orange dust in Vraxx’s hand.

“They killed the Pale Doom,” Zek said quietly. “They trapped our Warlord in a stone box. And now, without stepping foot on our mountain, they have turned our greatest strength into dust.”

Zek looked at the other Elders.

“We cannot win this.”

“Coward!” Korg spat.

“Pragmatist,” Zek countered. “Look at them. They are lizards, who starve and die everyday. Now they have walls, food, and a God who commands disease and earth. Why do we fight?”

Zek slammed his cane on the floor.

“We should kneel. We take the remaining unrefined iron. We march down. We offer it as tribute. We ask to join their ‘Bastion’. If they can kill a Hydra, they can protect us.”

Silence filled the room. For a moment, the logic hung in the air. They dreamed of survival and prosperity.

Then, Korg laughed.

“Kneel?” Korg mocked. “We are the Obsidian-Claw! We enslaved the Kobolds! We do not bow to our slaves!”

“We have the numbers!” another Elder shouted, fueled by denial. “They are soft. We are hard. We don’t need swords to crush skulls!”

“You are fools,” Zek whispered. He looked at their faces—twisted by pride, unable to accept that the world had changed. “You are marching into a grave because you are too proud to ask for a rope.”

Zek stood up. He turned to the door.

“Where are you going?” Vraxx asked sharply.

“Away,” Zek said. “I will not send my kin to die for your vanity. I am taking my clan. We are leaving the mountain.”

“If you leave,” Korg threatened, his hand drifting to the stone-crusher hammer at his belt, “you are exiled. You are no longer Troglodyte. We will hunt you.”

Zek looked at Korg with pity.

“You won’t have time to hunt anyone,” Zek said. “You’ll be too busy dying.”

Zek walked out. Within the hour, One hundred and sixty Troglodytes—mostly the elderly, the very young, and the few who valued life over pride—packed their furs and vanished down the eastern goat paths, away from the Bastion, away from the war.

The Council watched them go.

“Let the weaklings run,” Korg growled. “We have a war to win.”

—

–

.

The Armory was useless. The refined steel was dust.

But the Troglodytes were miners.

“Open the Deep Storage!” Vraxx commanded.

They bypassed the racks of swords and went to the industrial lockers. They pulled out the tools of their trade. These weren’t elegant weapons. They were heavy, brutal instruments made of low-grade cast iron and stone—materials too impure for the Rust to eat.

Massive Pickaxes designed to crack bedrock. Pneumatic Drills powered by compressed steam. Sledgehammers the size of cinder blocks.

The soldiers strapped the heavy tools to their backs. They looked less like an army and more like a demolition crew.

“These will do,” Korg grunted, swinging a twenty-pound hammer. “A sword cuts. This… this shatters.”

“It is messy,” Vraxx noted. “But against Tortoises… blunt force might be better.”

They gathered at the gate. Three hundred and forty soldiers remained. They were terrified. They knew their Warlord was gone. They knew their steel was gone.

But fear, when trapped, turns into frenzy.

“For the Onyx Hall!” Korg screamed. “We take their city! We take their cure! We kill their God!”

The army roared back. It wasn’t a cheer of glory. It was a scream of desperation.

They began the descent. A landslide of angry stone and iron, rolling down the mountain to crush the city below.

Red couldn’t watch what was happening there, but he had the gist of it. He had played many games, read history books, and had real life experiences of similar situations.

Fools forget their ancestors and die to their own doom. It always repeats itself.

Iron-Scale stood atop the gatehouse, peering through a brass spyglass he got from Gorak’s belongings. He saw the dust cloud on the mountain road. He saw the heavy shapes descending.

“They come,” Iron-Scale shouted down to the courtyard.

Krug stood in the center of the Plaza. He looked at his diverse army. The Shell-Kin formed the front line, locking their shields. The Grey-Fins stood behind them with long spears. The Treants reinforced the gate. The Mud-Skippers perched on the rooftops with nets and stones.

Red checked the enemy composition.

[ ENEMY FORCE: 340 TROGLODYTES ]

“They didn’t break,” Red noted, surprised. “They adapted. They’re bringing hammers.”

He looked at the Shell-Kin. Their armor was strong against cuts, but a sledgehammer? That could crack a shell. This wasn’t going to be a slaughter; it was going to be a brawl.

“Krug,” Red whispered.

[THEY ARE SCARED. THEY ARE DANGEROUS. THEY FIGHT FOR SURVIVAL. DO NOT OPEN THE GATE. LET THEM BREAK THEMSELVES AGAINST THE WALL.]

Krug nodded. He slammed his axe against his shield.

“HOLD!” Krug bellowed.

The ground shook as the Troglodyte army reached the valley floor. They didn’t stop to parley. Or to form lines.

They charged.

The Siege of Bastion had begun.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep