Red sat in the Void, his legs dangling over the edge of his interface. He was resisting the urge to micromanage.

“A good CEO delegates,” Red told himself, watching the little dots move on the map below. “If I have to click every button, I’ll never scale.”

He watched the resource counter.

[ FOOD: 2,500 UNITS (SURPLUS) ]

[ POPULATION: ~800 (STAGNANT) ]

The Bio-Reactor was churning out 1,000 units of Nutrient Paste a day. The tribe couldn’t eat fast enough. The storage silos were overflowing.

Down in the Bastion, the Council gathered in the shadow of the whirring Bio-Reactor.

Iron-Scale, the Inquisitor. Krug, the High Priest and the Flame-Keeper. Razor-Fin – Captain of the Grey-Fins, A tall, scarred Lizardman with a fin that looked like a serrated blade. Swift-Tail, the scout. Moss-Eye, the Kobold Scholar wearing quartz spectacles.

Iron-Scale paced back and forth, his tail twitching.

“We are drowning in meat,” Iron-Scale hissed. “The God provides too much. It is a test.”

“It is not a test,” Moss-Eye corrected, adjusting his glasses. “It is an equation. Input exceeds Output. If we do not increase Consumption, we must stop Production. If we stop Production, the Heart sleeps.”

“We cannot stop the Heart,” Krug rumbled. “That is heresy.”

Razor-Fin crossed his arms, his spear leaning against his shoulder. “My scouts are fat. They swim slow. We do not need more food. We need more mouths.”

Moss-Eye tapped a slate map given by Gorak.

“The Dust-Paw Tribe,” Moss-Eye pointed to the Eastern Foothills. “Kobolds. Cousins. Maybe 150 of them. They starve every winter.”

“And the River-Stalkers,” Razor-Fin added, pointing to the Southern Delta. “Lizardmen. Wild. Savage. But they know the swamps better than anyone.”

Iron-Scale stopped pacing. He grinned, a sharp, toothy expression.

“Expansion,” Iron-Scale whispered. “But not conquest. Conquest costs blood.”

He looked at Moss-Eye.

“You speak the words well, Scholar. And you,” he pointed to a corner where Swift-Tail was sharpening a dagger. “You know the paths.”

“Me?” Swift-Tail perked up.

“Take the wagons,” Iron-Scale ordered. “Take the Paste. Go to the Dust-Paws. Buy their loyalty with our trash.”

“And me?” Razor-Fin asked. “Do I bring the spears?”

“Bring the Shell-Kin,” Iron-Scale said. “Look big. Look strong. But do not strike unless struck. We are not raiders today. We are… merchants.”

While the South planned a merger, the North was fighting for the upgrade.

Warlord Gorak stood deep within the roots of the mountain.

Beside him stood Elder Zek, holding a lantern.

“The maps end here,” Zek whispered, shivering. “This is the Hollow. The Old Warlords forbade it.”

“The Old Warlords are dead,” Gorak grunted. He hefted his new pickaxe—made of refined iron.

He signaled his crew: twenty massive Troglodytes and five Shell-Kin acting as heavy loaders.

“Break it,” Gorak ordered.

CRACK.

The rock wall shattered. A cavern revealed itself, glittering in the dark.

[ STAR-IRON VEIN DETECTED ]

The walls were lined with a metal that absorbed the light—Star-Iron. It was denser than steel, lighter than lead.

“Beautiful,” Gorak breathed.

SKITTER-HISS.

From the shadows of the ceiling, shapes descended.

Crystal-Eater Spiders.

They were the size of ponies, their bodies covered in spiky crystals. They ate the ore, making their carapaces nearly indestructible.

“INTRUDERS!” Zek shrieked, hiding behind a Shell-Kin.

The Spiders hissed, webbing shooting from their abdomens.

Gorak didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask Red for help, nor did he pray. He simply grinned.

“They have armor,” Gorak roared to his men. “Break them open! The ore is inside!”

The Troglodytes charged. This wasn’t a holy war. It was a bar brawl. Sledgehammers met crystal chitin. CRUNCH.

Gorak leaped, driving his pickaxe into a Spider’s thorax. The creature screeched, green blood spraying over the Star-Iron.

“Collect the shells!” Gorak shouted, ripping his pickaxe free. “We make shields from their backs! We make armor from their legs!”

Red watched from above, impressed. “They aren’t just mining,” Red noted. “They’re looting the local wildlife for parts. That’s efficiency.”

—

–

.

The sun was setting over the dry, craggy hills of the East.

The Dust-Paw Village was a sad sight. Mud huts were crumbling. Kobold children with ribs showing through their fur watched with large, fearful eyes.

A Mud-Skipper  walked in front, holding a white flag. Behind him, two massive Shell-Kin pulled a wagon. Swift-Tail sat on the wagon, looking calm despite the fifty spears pointed at him.

“Halt!” The Dust-Paw Chieftain barked. He was missing an ear and looked desperate. “We have no food! Go away!”

“We do not want your food,” Swift-Tail said, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “We brought ours.”

He kicked the latch on the barrel.

SPLAT.

A mound of white Nutrient Paste spilled onto the dry earth. The smell of yeast, meat, warmth hit the starving Kobolds like a physical blow.

“What is…?” The Chieftain lowered his spear.

“The Harvest,” Swift-Tail said, puffing out his chest. “From the Bastion. From the Red Spiral.”

Swift-Tail hopped down. He filled a wooden bowl and offered it to the Chieftain.

“Our silos are full,” Swift-Tail lied smoothly. “Our God provides so much, we throw it away. We thought… maybe our cousins are hungry?”

The Chieftain snatched the bowl. He ate with his hands, animalistically. He froze. The energy hit him instantly.

“It is… warm,” the Chieftain whispered.

“There is more,” Swift-Tail gestured to the wagon. “And there is a city. With walls of stone. And water that does not make you sick.”

“What is the price?” The Chieftain asked suspiciously. “Slaves?”

“Workers,” Swift-Tail corrected. “You dig. You eat. You fight. You eat. You sleep. You eat.”

Razor-Fin, who had been standing silently in the back, stepped forward. His shadow covered the Chieftain.

“Or,” Razor-Fin rumbled, fingering his spear. “You stay here. And starve.”

The Chieftain looked at the bowl. He looked at his dying village. He threw his spear on the ground.

“We walk,” the Chieftain decided.

[ DIPLOMACY SUCCESSFUL ]

[ NEW FOLLOWERS: +150 KOBOLDS (DUST-PAW TRIBE) ]

“It feels like they are exploiting them…” Red muttered to himself.

Then, the next day, they reached the River-Stalkers and convinced them to join too.

[ NEW FOLLOWERS: +120 LIZARDMEN (RIVER-STALKERS) ]

Red’s civilization was growing, now he had more than a thousand followers. Still, he was far away from his goal.

“I guess… it’s time to speedrun.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep