The migration was not a pilgrimage; it was a forced march.

At dawn, Red issued the command. By noon, the Tribe of Black Mud had abandoned their stilt-village. They carried everything they owned: rotting nets, the blackened bones of the Mire-Stalker, and the new iron-tipped spears Red had taught them to fashion.

They moved North, away from the safety of the deep swamp and toward the grey, rocky foothills that marked the border of the Fungal Deep.

Red watched from the obsidian interface.

[ MIGRATION STATUS: 100% ] [ CASUALTIES: 0 ]

He hovered over the destination coordinates. The terrain here was harsh. The mud dried into cracked earth, and the vegetation shifted from moss to thorny scrub brush. But the scanner didn’t lie. Beneath the grey stone lay a vein of hematite rich enough to arm an empire.

“Stop,” Red commanded.

Krug raised his fist. The tribe halted instantly.

‘BUILD,’ Red projected. ‘WALLS FIRST. SHELTER SECOND.’

The Kobolds scrambled. Under Red’s guidance—and the borrowed knowledge of the [ SIMPLE TRAPS ] blueprint—they didn’t just pile rocks. They dug punji pits around the perimeter. They lashed thorn-bushes together to create natural barbed wire. They were primitive engineers, driven by divine fear.

By sunset, a crude fortress sat at the base of the cliff.

“Iron-Scale,” Krug barked, pointing at the cliff face where a dark fissure split the rock. “Dig.”

Red zoomed in on the fissure. This was the entry point to the vein.

Iron-Scale and five other laborers approached the crack. They had no pickaxes, only stone hammers and desperation. They stepped into the darkness of the cave.

Red switched his view to [ X-RAY ] mode to monitor the ore extraction. He expected to see solid rock.

Instead, he saw a tunnel.

It wasn’t a natural cave. The walls were smooth, hewn by tools. Support beams made of calcified bone held up the ceiling. And deep inside, about two hundred meters from the entrance, there were heat signatures.

“Wait,” Red whispered.

He tried to warn them, but the connection lag was real. He had to pay DP to transmit thoughts, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second, weighing the cost.

In that second, Iron-Scale turned a corner in the tunnel and stopped.

The feed on the obsidian slab flickered, then stabilized.

Standing in the torchlight were three creatures. They were humanoid, but shorter and broader than Kobolds. Their skin was pale and hairless, their eyes wide and milky-blind. They held heavy bronze pickaxes.

[ SPECIES DETECTED: DEEP-CAVE MOLEKIN ]

→ Rank: F (Laborer).

→ Intelligence: Low.

→ Status: Hostile / Territorial.

The Molekin froze. They sniffed the air, smelling the swamp-stink of the Kobolds. Then, they screeched—a sound like grinding stones.

One of the Molekin raised its pickaxe. It wasn’t just a tool; the head of the axe glowed with a faint, amber light.

‘Run?’ Red thought.

No. If they ran, they lost the mine. If they lost the mine, they lost the iron. If they lost the iron, they died.

‘KILL THEM,’ Red ordered.

Krug, standing outside the cave, heard the command. He didn’t ask questions. He roared and charged into the fissure, his warriors following.

Inside the tunnel, it was a brawl. The Molekin were strong, their thick hides absorbing the stone hammers of the Kobolds. But the Kobolds had range. Iron-Scale thrust his spear, the wooden tip hardened by fire, catching a Molekin in the throat.

Krug arrived a second later. He didn’t use a spear; he used the Mire-Stalker’s jawbone, fashioned into a crude club. He smashed the skull of the second Molekin.

The third Molekin dropped its pickaxe. It didn’t fight. It fell to its knees, pressed its forehead against the stone floor, and screamed a single word.

“O-Gorr!”

The amber light on its pickaxe flared. It wasn’t magic. It was a signal.

Red’s obsidian slab turned red. The map of the sector violently expanded, revealing a massive territory overlay that Red hadn’t seen before. The grey fog of war rolled back, revealing that this mine wasn’t abandoned.

It was a border outpost.

[ SYSTEM ALERT: DOMAIN CLASH DETECTED ]

[ FOREIGN DIVINITY INTERCEPTED ]

The screen shook. Text burned itself into the interface, bold and bordered.

[ WARNING: YOU HAVE ENTERED THE TERRITORY OF ANOTHER DEITY ]

[ GOD NAME: GORR ]

→ Title: The Stone-Eater. God of Deep Labor.

→ Rank: 4 (Lesser Deity).

→ Followers: ~3,000 (Molekin).

→ Dominion: Subterranean / Earth.

Red stared at the Rank.

Rank 4.

He was Rank 3 (Lesser Spirit). He was a ghost haunting a swamp. Gorr was a Deity with a Dominion.

“A neighbor,” Red whispered.

On the screen, the surviving Molekin’s prayer ended. The amber light on the pickaxe pulsed, and the earth beneath the Kobolds rumbled.

[ EVENT: ENEMY MIRACLE DETECTED ] [ TYPE: EARTH SHIFT (MINOR) ]

The ceiling of the tunnel groaned. Stalactites detached, falling like stone rain aimed directly at Krug.

Red didn’t think. He reacted.

“Not today,” Red snarled.

He pulled up his own interface. He couldn’t stop the rocks with telekinesis—he wasn’t strong enough yet. But he could cheat.

[ MIRACLE: REPLICATE MATTER ] → Target: The Air above Krug. → Concept: Density.

He poured 5,000 DP into the command.

[ TRAIT ACTIVATED: 100x GROWTH ]

He didn’t make a shield. He targeted the dust particles floating in the air above his warriors and multiplied their density by a hundredfold, instantly fusing them into a solid, albeit crude, canopy of compressed matter.

CRASH!

The falling rocks slammed into Red’s invisible barrier, shattering into dust. Krug and his warriors flinched, covered in debris, but alive.

The Molekin looked up, its blind eyes widening. It sensed the interference. It sensed a rival power.

Krug stepped forward, shaking the dust from his scales. He looked at the cowering Molekin, then up at the ceiling where Red’s miracle had saved him.

“My God is stronger,” Krug growled.

He brought the club down.

[ THREAT ELIMINATED ]

[ DOMAIN CONTESTED: IRON VEIN (OUTER) ]

Red exhaled, watching his DP counter drop.

[ DP: 129,000 ]

He had won the skirmish. But the map showed the truth. He was a speck of red in a sea of amber.

A new notification pinged. It wasn’t a system alert. It was a direct message.

[ INCOMING TRANSMISSION FROM: GORR ] [ MESSAGE DECODING… ]

“Little Spirit,” the voice grated through the obsidian slab, sounding like tectonic plates grinding together. “You break my toys. You steal my stone. I will grind your bones to make my mortar.”

[ DIPLOMATIC STATUS: WAR ]

Red looked at the threat. He looked at his starving, primitive Kobolds, holding their stone hammers. Then he looked at the dead Molekin’s bronze pickaxe lying on the ground.

“Krug,” Red whispered. “Pick up the axe.”

Krug obeyed, lifting the heavy bronze tool.

“Gorr has metal,” Red analyzed, a ruthless grin forming on his spectral face. “He has three thousand workers. He has a Rank 4 status.”

Red leaned closer to the screen.

“He has so much loot.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep