The ground vibrated. A rumbling thrumming that shook dust from the ceiling of the Temple. It was the sound of three hundred heavy mining boots marching in unison.

Iron-Scale stood over the iron grate of the Vault of Whispers. He checked his spear. The tip was freshly sharpened, coated in a paralyzing neurotoxin.

“Do you hear that, Warlord?” Iron-Scale whispered.

Below, in the radioactive gloom, Gorak sat slumped against the muddy wall. The Fragment of the Forgotten had been merciless. His skin was pale, his eyes sunken. The Level 45 aura that usually radiated from him was dim, suppressed by the psychic weight of the dark stone.

But his pride was iron. It didn’t bend.

“I hear the mountain coming to crush you,” Gorak rasped, his voice dry. “You cannot win, little lizard. The Obsidian-Claw has survived the ice, the fire, and the darkness for three centuries. We have fought wars that would turn your blood to water.”

Gorak looked up, his eyes burning with defiance.

“You have a wall. We have a history. Stone breaks mud. It is the way of the world.”

Iron-Scale unlocked the grate, but he didn’t open it. He crouched down, looking through the bars.

“History?” Iron-Scale chuckled softly. “History is written by the one who is left standing. And your history… it is rusting.”

Gorak frowned. “What?”

“Your steel,” Iron-Scale said, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. “The blades you are so proud of. The armor that makes you invincible. It is dust. My God whispered to your iron, and it died.”

Gorak’s eyes widened. “Lies…”

“Listen to the march,” Iron-Scale commanded. “Do you hear the ring of steel? Or do you hear the thud of heavy stone hammers? They are not coming as conquerors, Warlord. They are coming as desperate scavengers holding rocks.”

Gorak listened. He strained his ears against the psychic static of the pit. He heard it. The dull, heavy impacts of crude tools. No singing swords. No clanking plate.

“You… you poisoned the metal?” Gorak whispered, horror dawning on him.

“We ate it,” Iron-Scale corrected. “Growth consumes.”

Gorak stared at the Kobold. He looked for fear. He looked for the trembling he had seen in the North. He found none.

“It does not matter,” Gorak growled, trying to regain control. “Even with stones, they outnumber you. If you lose, you die. If you win… you still die eventually. Why fight for a ghost? Surrender, and I might grant you a quick death.”

Iron-Scale stood up. He looked at the violet fire burning on the altar above.

“You do not understand,” Iron-Scale said. “We were starving in the mud. We were prey. Ka-lam-tee fed us. He gave us iron. He gave us purpose.”

Iron-Scale looked back down at Gorak.

“We are already dead, Warlord. Every breath we take is borrowed from Him. If we die today, we are just returning the loan. We do not fear the end. We fear… disappointing Him.”

Gorak stared up from the pit. He was a Warlord. He had led men who fought for gold, for land, for survival. He had never seen this.

This wasn’t bravery. It was Absolution. The Kobold didn’t care about survival. He cared about the Service.

“You are insane,” Gorak whispered. But there was no mockery in his voice. There was shock. There was curiosity. And beneath it all, a grudging, terrified respect. “A zealot is a dangerous thing.”

“Kill me,” Gorak said suddenly.

Iron-Scale paused.

“If your army falls,” Gorak said, his voice steady, “kill me now. Do not let my kin find me in this hole. And if I survive… if I get out of here… I will burn this city to the ground. I will kill every hatchling you have.”

Iron-Scale smiled. “No.”

Iron-Scale turned his back on the pit.

“The next time this door opens,” Iron-Scale said, his voice echoing in the stone chamber, “it will be me, coming to feed you. Or it will be your kin, coming to bury you. Either way… pray.”

He walked away.

Outside, the air in the Plaza was electric.

The 120 defenders of Bastion were gathered. The Shell-Kin stood like boulders, their restored shells gleaming. The Grey-Fins checked their bone-spears, their gills flaring with adrenaline. The Treants loomed over the crowd, their branches swaying nervously. The Mud-Skippers chattered, sharpening their stones.

They were afraid. They could feel the vibration of the approaching army.

Krug was not there. The High Priest was inside the Temple, kneeling before the violet flame, chanting the deep, resonant prayers.

He didn’t ask for Red’s help or a miracle. He simply prayed.

The army needed a voice.

Iron-Scale stepped onto the raised platform in the center of the Plaza. He didn’t look like a scout anymore. He looked like the Harbinger.

He raised his spear.

“LOOK AT ME!” Iron-Scale roared.

The chatter stopped. Hundreds of pairs of eyes locked onto the small Kobold.

“Do you feel the ground shake?” Iron-Scale shouted. “That is the North! That is the past! That is the hunger coming back to eat you!”

He pointed his spear toward the closed gates.

“They come with hammers! They come to break your walls! They come to take your meat! They come to put you back in the mud!”

A low growl rippled through the Grey-Fins. The Shell-Kin shifted, their beaks snapping.

“But look around you!” Iron-Scale gestured to the city. “Look at the stone! Look at the fire! Who gave you this?”

“KA-LAM-TEE!” the crowd roared back.

“Who killed the Hydra?”

“KA-LAM-TEE!”

“Who filled your bellies?”

“KA-LAM-TEE!”

Iron-Scale slammed the butt of his spear onto the stone.

“They think they are strong because they are many!” Iron-Scale screamed, his voice cracking with intensity. “But they are empty! They fight for greed! They fight for fear!”

He leaned forward, his eyes burning with the violet reflection of the Temple fire.

“WE FIGHT FOR THE GOD WHO FEEDS!”

The Treants groaned, a sound like a war horn. The Shell-Kin slammed their feet. The Mud-Skippers shrieked.

“Let them come!” Iron-Scale bellowed, raising his spear to the sky. “Let them break their hammers on our faith! We do not die today! Today, we pay the debt! Today, we eat!”

“EAT! EAT! EAT!”

The chant rose up from the Plaza, a primal, rhythmic heartbeat that drowned out the marching boots outside.

Inside the Temple, Krug smiled as he prayed. Inside the Pit, Gorak closed his eyes, listening to the roar of a fanatic army.

High above, Red watched the morale bar fill until it turned gold.

[ MORALE: FANATIC ]

[ EFFECT: IGNORE PAIN / +20% DAMAGE ]

“They’re ready,” Red whispered.

BOOM.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep