The dawn after the feast was cold and sober.

Red hovered over the Bastion, looking at the logistical nightmare of housing 250 new refugees in a city built for 200. The sanitation graph was already dipping into the red.

“They can’t stay here,” Red decided. “Bastion is the Capital. Onyx Hall is the Factory. I need them working.”

He opened the [ HIERARCHY ] menu.

[KRUG.]

The High Priest was supervising the cleanup of the feast. He knelt immediately.

[THE MOUNTAIN IS NOT EMPTY. IT IS A RESOURCE. SEND GORAK BACK. THE ONYX HALL MUST RUN. THE MINES MUST CHURN. THE FIRE MUST BURN.]

Red dragged and dropped a unit selection.

[SEND 10 SHELL-KIN WITH THEM. TO CARRY THE ORE. AND TO REMIND THEM WHO OWNS THE MOUNTAIN.]

[ALSO… THE MOLEKINS. THEY ARE OF THE EARTH. THEY WON”T SURVIVE HERE. THEY BELONG TO THE STONE MOTHER. SEND THEM TO THE CANYON. WE DO NOT KEEP WHAT IS NOT OURS.]

[AND ONE MORE THING… FIND ZEK. THE COWARD WHO RAN. BRING HIM BACK TO THE FOLD.]

Krug stood up, his eyes glowing with the received commands.

The gates of Bastion opened.

Warlord Gorak stood at the head of his column. He looked different. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a hollow, haunted look. He wore a simple tunic of rough cloth, having refused to wear his armor until he “earned it back.”

Behind him were the 50 surviving Troglodytes and the 200 liberated slaves, Kobolds and Lizards who were now technically citizens of the Red Spiral.

Hundred of them stayed at Bastion, while the rest, alongside ten Shell-kin. They were massive, silent wardens. They were there to help carry the heavy mining equipment, but everyone knew the real reason: if the Troglodytes rebelled, the tanks would crush them. But even before that, Red could easily strike them now.

“Go,” Krug ordered Gorak. “Restart the forge. Send the iron down. And find the Coward Zek.”

Gorak nodded slowly. “The mountain will bleed for Him.”

To the side, a smaller group of twelve Molekins—the original slaves Gorak had brought—were being escorted by a Mud-Skipper guide toward the canyon. They were weeping with relief, heading toward Gorr’s territory.

Red watched the separation. It was efficient.

→ Bastion: The Military/Agricultural Hub.

→ Onyx Hall: The Industrial Hub.

→ Gorr: The Trade Partner.

As the heavy footsteps of the Shell-Kin faded into the mist, silence returned to the Bastion.

Krug leaned on his axe, watching the dust settle. Beside him stood Iron-Scale, wiping the grease of the feast from his claws.

“You knew,” Krug grunted. It wasn’t a question.

Iron-Scale raised an eyebrow. “High Priest?”

“You did not kill him in the pit,” Krug said. “You did not kill him on the wall. You let him live long enough to break. How did you know he would bow?”

Iron-Scale looked at the empty road where Gorak had vanished.

“I didn’t,” Iron-Scale admitted softly. “But I watched the sky. Ka-lam-tee struck the Hydra. He struck the barrier. But when Gorak screamed in the pit… the lightning never came.”

Iron-Scale smiled, a sharp, dangerous expression.

“If God wanted him dead, he would be ash. God let him breathe. So I let him suffer until he understood why he was breathing.”

It was a terrifying logic.

Pain as a form of evangelism.

As they stood there, a young Kobold warrior stepped forward from the gathering crowd. His name was Snarl, a skirmisher who had lost an ear in the battle.

“Inquisitor,” Snarl spat on the ground. “Why do we let them leave? Why do we give them Shell-Kin?”

Krug turned his massive head, but Snarl continued, his voice rising in anger.

“They killed us yesterday! They ate our kin for centuries! And now, just because the Warlord cried in the dirt, we call them brothers? We trust them with our iron?”

The crowd murmured. The hate ran deep. It was hard to forgive a predator just because he changed his coat.

“We should have killed them all,” Snarl growled. “While they were weak. They will betray us. It is in their blood.”

Krug opened his mouth to recite the Third Tenet, to speak of Unity.

WHAM.

Iron-Scale didn’t speak. He moved. He backhanded Snarl across the face with enough force to knock the warrior into a stack of crates.

The murmur died instantly. The Plaza went dead silent.

Iron-Scale didn’t look angry. He looked disappointed. He walked over to Snarl, who was clutching his bleeding jaw, and kicked him in the ribs—not to break, but to wake him up.

“Listen!” Iron-Scale hissed, turning to address the entire crowd.

He paced back and forth, his tail lashing.

“You worry about betrayal?” Iron-Scale laughed, a dry, mocking sound. “You worry that the Warlord will stab us in the back? Who are you to decide who Ka-lam-tee accepts?”

He pointed a claw at the Temple.

“If the God accepts the wolf, the sheep does not get to complain!”

Iron-Scale grabbed Snarl by the collar and hauled him up.

“You are looking at the wrong threat, fool. You think the danger is that they will kill us?”

Iron-Scale shoved Snarl away and spread his arms to the Grey-Fins, the Mud-Skippers, and the Kobolds.

“The Troglodytes are born with strength.. They have steel. They have stones. They have built engines we cannot understand. They have survived the ice for three hundred years.”

Iron-Scale’s voice dropped to a whisper that carried across the silent square.

“They are stronger than us. They are smarter than us. And now… they serve the same Master.”

He let that sink in.

“Do not worry about them betraying us,” Iron-Scale warned. “Worry about value.”

“If they mine the iron… if they build the weapons… if they fight the wars better than we do…”

Iron-Scale leaned forward, his violet eyes burning.

“Then why does Ka-lam-tee need us?”

A chill went through the crowd. It was a fear far deeper than war. It was the fear of obsolescence. The fear of being replaced by a better tool.

“You want to kill them?” Iron-Scale sneered. “No. You will work. You will train. You will grow. Because if you do not…”

He pointed to the mountain peak in the distance.

“…The God will look at his new shiny hammer in the North, and he will look at his rusty dagger in the Swamp. And he will drop the dagger.”

Iron-Scale turned his back on them.

“Get back to work. Before you are replaced.”

The effect was instantaneous. The Grey-Fins gripped their spears tighter. The Mud-Skippers hurried back to the nets. The Kobolds ran to the smeltery.

They weren’t working for survival anymore. They were working for favor.

Red, watching from the Void, felt a shiver of admiration.

“That,” Red whispered, “is how you run a corporation.”

[ FAITH TRAIT GAINED: COMPETITIVE DRIVE ]

[ PRODUCTIVITY INCREASED: +20% ]

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep