Chapter 62: THE FOG OF WAR

Night fell over the swamp. Normally, the darkness was complete, but tonight, the eastern horizon was illuminated by the unnatural, blinding golden glow of Aurelius’s massive encampment across the Black River. To the west, the smog-choked skies of Bastion glowed violet and orange from the war-forges.

Root-Father stood at the edge of the city.

He watched the Troglodytes laughing cruelly as they planted sharpened Star-Iron spikes into the mud. He smelled the horrific, unnatural stench of the Crawler’s Kiss acid being loaded into clay pots.

This wasn’t nature. This was an abomination. And the Golden Army was an even greater one. The swamp was going to be caught in a meat grinder between two ruthless gods.

If he stayed, his Plant-Kin would be used as living shields. They would be chopped, burned, and melted to buy Red a few extra hours of survival against thirteen thousand soldiers.

Root-Father made his choice.

Silently, his massive feet sinking softly into the familiar muck, Root-Father slipped past the outer patrols. He blended perfectly with the dense swamp foliage, a ghost made of bark and leaves.

Root-Father did not follow the river south to flee. He waded across the deep, black water, his glowing green eyes fixed on the eastern bank, where the Golden Army was encamped.

To create their staging ground, Aurelius’s Paladins hadn’t just cleared the land, they had also incinerated a massive swath of the ancient, petrified swamp forest. Centuries-old willow trees and towering Cypress giants had been chopped down and thrown into massive bonfires to dry out the mud.

Root-Father felt the screams of the burning trees in his own sap. The Spiral asked for industry, yes, but Red only consumed what was needed to build. The Golden King was burning the world simply because he didn’t like the shade.

The Treant Elder’s wooden fists clenched. He was the forest, and the forest knew how to rot a trespasser from the inside out.

He slipped beneath the dark water, moving silently toward the golden encampment.

Inside the largest pavilion—a sprawling tent of white silk and gold thread—Aurelius stood over a massive parchment map of the region.

He was in his element. He pointed a golden baton at the map, flanked by his High Paladin, Sir Valerius, and three other glowing demigod commanders.

“We do not march the thirteen thousand straight down the center,” Aurelius ordered, tapping the Black River. “The mud is a trap. I want the Vanguard split into three battalions of five thousand. We sweep the perimeter.”

“The terrain is toxic, my King,” Valerius noted, pointing to the dense fog banks.

“Then we burn it,” Aurelius stated coldly. “The Mages will cast continuous Solar Flares ahead of the infantry. We evaporate the fog, dry the mud into clay, and push the smoke into their city. We will choke them out before we even draw our swords.”

Aurelius leaned on the table, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“This ’Spiral’ thinks he is clever. But he is just a rat in a hole. Tomorrow, we flood the hole with light.”

The next day, the sun rose, but the Golden Camp did not shine.

Aurelius stepped out of his pavilion, his perfect morning ruined by the sound of retching, screaming, and the chaotic clatter of armor.

“Valerius!” Aurelius barked. “What is this noise?!”

The High Paladin ran up, his golden armor splattered with dark, foul-smelling mud. He looked terrified.

“My King… the camp is in ruins,” Valerius gasped. “The men… they are sick. Nearly eight thousand of our Paladins are incapacitated.”

“Sick?” Aurelius grabbed Valerius by the breastplate. “They are infused with my Divine Share! They do not get sick!”

“It isn’t a normal sickness, sire. It’s… spores.” Valerius pointed toward the supply wagons. “The grain rations. The water barrels. Overnight, they were infested with some kind of hyper-accelerated black fungus. The men who ate breakfast are vomiting blood and bile. The healers’ magic is barely keeping them alive.”

Aurelius looked around. The massive cavalry pens were empty. The wooden fences had been pulverized into splinters.

“And the warhorses?” Aurelius hissed.

“Stampeded,” Valerius swallowed hard. “Something terrified them in the night. The tethers were rotted through. And according to the initial investigation, they fled into the deep swamp.”

Aurelius’s eyes blazed with a blinding, furious white light. Half his army was crippled before a single sword was swung.

His ’logistics’ were crippled.

“Rubedo,” Aurelius screamed to the sky, his voice shaking the tents. “Or that moss-brained Druid! One of them snuck a miracle past my wards!”

“Not a miracle, my King,” a heavy voice called out.

Two massive Paladins approached, dragging something behind them with heavy iron chains.

“We caught the saboteur by the river.”

They threw Root-Father to the ground at Aurelius’s feet.

The Treant Elder was a horrific sight. The Paladins had already taken their axes to him. His left arm—a massive, mossy branch—was completely hacked off, leaking thick, glowing sap. Deep, burning gashes scored his bark-covered torso.

He was breathing heavily, a sound like dry leaves rustling in a harsh wind, but his green eyes stared up at the Golden King with absolute defiance.

“A weed,” Aurelius sneered, stepping closer. He recognized the creature from the Sector’s monster logs. “A Rank 4 Treant. You belong to the Rotting Druid.”

Root-Father said nothing.

“Or did the Suit send you?” Aurelius demanded, crouching down. “Did the God of the Spiral order you to poison my men?”

Root-Father remained silent. He looked past Aurelius, at the smoldering ash of the forest the Golden Army had burned the day before.

“Speak!” Aurelius roared, kicking the Treant in the face with his golden boot. Bark splintered, but Root-Father didn’t make a sound.

“Bring the axes,” Aurelius ordered.

For the next hour, the center of the camp became a torture chamber. The Paladins systematically chopped at the Treant’s roots. They used red-hot iron pokers to burn his open wounds, trying to boil the sap inside his veins.

“Where are his traps?” Aurelius demanded, pacing around the dying elder. “How many monsters wait behind the walls? Tell me, and I will let you take root in my gardens! Stay silent, and I will turn you into charcoal!”

Root-Father slowly raised his head and looked at the Golden King.

Then, the ancient Treant opened his mouth and spat a thick glob of black, toxic sap directly onto Aurelius’s pristine golden breastplate.

It hissed, immediately tarnishing the metal.

Aurelius stared at the black stain, and his face went entirely blank.

“Burn him,” Aurelius whispered.

“My King, the interrog—” Valerius started.

“BURN HIM TO ASH!” Aurelius shrieked, his composure shattering completely.

The Paladins backed away.

Aurelius raised his hand and a beam of pure, concentrated solar fire erupted from his palm, striking Root-Father squarely in the chest.

The Root-Father didn’t scream. Even as the holy fire consumed his ancient wood, turning his moss to cinders and his branches to ash, Root-Father kept his burning eyes locked on the Golden King until there was nothing left but glowing embers on the mud.

Red sat in the absolute silence of the Void.

He couldn’t see exactly what had happened. Aurelius had erected Sun Shrines along his path, and the moment the land fell under his Divine Claim, a golden fog of war rolled over Red’s map.

The Omni-Web could sense the seismic vibrations, but it couldn’t pierce a Rank 9 God’s personal domain.

[ UNIT LOST: ROOT-FATHER (ELDER) ]

[ CAUSE OF DEATH: EXTREME THERMAL DAMAGE ]

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