Once Bishop Maurice had realized there was no dodging involvement—not if he still wanted the greatest merit of his life—things began to move fast.

Kai knew he had hit the nail when Bishop agreed to all of his demands.

He hurried once he had gotten the support of the church, knowing he couldn’t trust Viscount Redmont’s Mages. Not to keep burning the roots every day. They weren’t fourth-circle ones. They’d drain their mana, overuse potions and burn out. Using one spell for hours would exhaust one, not just physically, but mentally. Mana potions could only take one so far, and madness often took the rest.

Every hour wasted was another mile for the plague’s spread. He needed this done fast.

Thankfully, Killian didn’t waste time either. The knights had already wrapped up most of their duties in his new territory that required Enforcer presence, and all of them had returned to the castle—with new recruits in tow. Every week, more Mages and Enforcers were being brought under his banner through the testing program run by Claire.

And Balen—Balen had delivered.

With Tharnok, the grumbling dwarf at his side, their forge had run hot near every hour of the day. Rumor had it they slept in shifts, four hours at most, snatching rest between enchantments and reinforcement seals. It could be because of seeing Shakran so close, or the plague-twisted lands, or the urgency of war—regardless, it only lit a fire under them and they worked tirelessly. And the result of that fire now stood before him.

A full legion, armored in freshly forged lightwood sets, enchanted and battle-tested, stood in rows across the open yard. Their armor shimmered faintly, reinforced by warding lines etched into the plating. And each soldier stood firm, weapons in hand. Spears were the standard—perfect reach, ideal for airborne threats—but there were swords, axes, even glaives interspersed through the ranks.

Killian had insisted on it—every man trained in the use of multiple weapons and deciding the one they had the most affinity with.

Behind them stood the archers, lines straight, bows strung. And further back still, the support crews—blacksmiths, engineers, and handlers meant to maintain the golems, drones, and other mechanical contraptions Balen and Tharnok had cooked up.

They were followed by a small force of barbarians led by Brugnar. He felt like they would feel the absence of Yafgar and Ragnar. They weren’t here because they were working on the Berserker’s Path, and Kai understood—it was crucial in the long run. For now, Brugnar and his men would be enough alongside the rest of the force. He was just glad that they were able to send a good number of barbarians in such a short time.

And to the side, the Mages.

Cansor and Klan stood at the front, leading a tight formation of second-circle casters, each wearing light Mage armor and robes stitched with thread glimmering in the sunlight. Not one of them was here without proving their readiness. And yet, as Kai’s gaze swept across them, a cold thread of dread worked its way into his chest.

How many of them will survive this?

Beside him, Balen grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. “I believe they’ll make the weavers and fiends run for their cursed lives.”

Kai nodded slowly, eyes still on the soldiers. “They need to. We can’t afford to lose here.” He turned then, looking between Balen and Tharnok. The dwarf grunted, arms crossed, lips twitching at the rare thanks he knew was coming.

“Thank you,” Kai said. “Without the two of you, we’d never have had the resources to stand a chance against this plague.”

Balen cracked his knuckles, his grin toothy and proud. “I’m happy enough working on lightwood and golems. No better way to spend my days.”

Beside him, Tharnok let out a gruff snort, beard twitching. “Aye. Wasn’t much work. In my youth, I went on five days with no sleep durin’ the siege of Gruddenhold. Just make sure your lot don’t go aroun’ breakin’ the babies I made.” He jabbed a thick thumb toward the wagons at the back. “Those took the most dam’ed effort.”

Kai smiled. He knew exactly what the dwarf meant. The babies were the two prototype golems that had given Balen and Tharnok the most trouble—and the most pride.

His gaze shifted forward, landing on Killian, who stood at the front of the formation, already speaking with the lead Enforcers. Kai nudged his horse forward, reining in beside him.

“We’ll join the church forces at the gate,” he said quietly. “Then head for Fortress Aegis.”

Killian nodded once. “Understood.”

Kai studied him for a moment longer. Originally, he’d wanted Killian to stay back in Veralt—to watch over the nobles and handle the city. But the man had insisted on coming.

“Feroy can manage,” Killian had said. “You need strength on the field, not sitting behind a desk.”

He wasn’t wrong. Killian was their strongest Enforcer, and with a treant that corrupted mana and soil alike, Kai would need him. As for the nobles… Regina had no teleportation circle to abuse anymore, and security around Veralt had been locked tight. Even if she did pull something, she’d find herself caged fast. Kai had already arranged contingencies in case another Third-Circle Mage somehow got through.

They were ready.

He turned in the saddle. “Everyone! Mount up. We move in five!”

The formation broke. Soldiers jogged to their horses. Blacksmiths clambered into the wagons, securing crates full of gear and backup supplies. Golems and drones were tethered behind reinforced carriages.

Kai guided his horse toward the front, exhaling slowly and ran through the streets. As the gates of Veralt came into view, he saw people already gathering to watch—men, women, children lining the streets, whispering, pointing, staring in awe.

He offered a casual wave, keeping his expression calm. The story had already been planted among the commoners—a mana weaver infestation that had taken over a village. Dangerous, yes, but not enough to cause panic. The church’s involvement fit that story perfectly.

And then he saw them—white and gold glinting under the rising sun.

A small cluster of Paladins and Clerics stood waiting near the outer gate, two dozen strong, Bishop Maurice at their head. The bishop looked… tense. Nervous. His Clerics and Paladins wore standard issue robes and armor—well-maintained but uninspired. No enhancements on them.

Kai’s brow creased slightly looking at their numbers. He’d expected more.

Maurice must’ve noticed the look. He stepped forward hastily. “More will join us at Redmont,” he said quickly. “I—I wasn’t able to rally many in three days. But most of the Sylvan Enclave’s blessed Clerics and Paladins are en route. I called in favors. They will come.”

“Good,” he said, tone warm for once. “Get in line with my men. We move now.”

He turned then, eyeing the Clerics and Paladins. Most of them wore their nervousness like ill-fitted armor—fidgeting, glancing around, adjusting reins more times than necessary. It seemed like they had been told where they were heading.

Kai’s voice rang out, clear and firm, as he addressed them. “Those who can’t ride, get into the carriages. We’ll be marching without long breaks—short rests only. Our goal is to reach Fortress Aegis as soon as possible.”

A noticeable chunk of the church’s force—over a third—hurried toward the supply carriages, robes billowing as they climbed up with little grace. Bishop Maurice remained on horseback, as did the more seasoned paladins, but the energy was jittery at best.

Kai gave one last glance at the open gates of Veralt. Behind him, the armored force stood ready, sunlight glinting off weapons and armor. He raised his hand.

“Let’s march!”

The shout rippled outward like a war cry, answered by the thunder of hooves as the legion surged forward, galloping down the road toward Aegis.

The wind caught their cloaks and banners—and it wasn’t just natural wind.

Kai whispered the incantation under his breath, subtle formation lines glowing beneath his glove. A gust surged outward, subtle and controlled, wrapping around the hooves of every horse in the company. Speed surged. Dust flew. The long road began to shrink behind them. And they moved forward.

Initially, Kai had considered flying ahead. Scout the plague land, feel the mana corruption himself, and then return with a plan since he won’t be able to fly around freely to conserve his mana into the plague lands.

But Killian had talked him out of it.

“They’ll need to see you ride with them,” he had said. “Soldiers remember that sort of thing. It matters.”

So he rode, cloak fluttering behind him, embedded in the center of the force. And despite everything, morale… wasn’t bad.

Whenever the horses slowed to a gentler canter or pacing stride, his men began singing. Not loud, not drunken—just rhythmic chants and melodies passed from old soldiers to fresh recruits. It was quite the experience.

Voices carried through the breeze, verses of bravery and dumb jokes in equal measure. Laughter rang out now and then, oddly grounding in the march toward death.

They’re calming themselves, Kai thought. Masking the dread.

He didn’t join in. He couldn’t. Bishop Maurice, riding beside him now, had taken to peppering him with questions that kept him busy.

“Are we expecting weavers only or will the corruption mutate beasts as well?”

“Both,” Kai answered. “The root system spreads its influence to anything with flesh and a will to kill.”

“What about divine resistance? Have your Enforcers been trained in church-based formations?”

Kai nodded absently. “Killian drilled them in two-layered formations. We’ll interlock with your clerics in sectors with a lot of enemies.”

It didn’t stop. The questions kept flowing, one after another, and Kai answered most of them—until finally, the bishop’s voice dropped, hesitant when they had been on the topic of the treant.

“So… it won’t be something you can take on yourself?” Maurice asked. “I thought you slew a vermorga. That’s not exactly a feat most mortals accomplish.”

Kai glanced at him, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I did. But I wasn’t alone. I had my men, my traps, and it was on my territory. I had time to plan. Control the battlefield.”

He turned back to the road. “This won’t be like that. And a treant isn’t something you take on alone unless you’re a peak Sixth-Circle Mage. Even then… you don’t delay. You strike. Fast and hard to finish it as soon as possible.”

Killian, riding to his left, cut in. “Why’s that, Lord Arzan?”

Kai’s gaze narrowed. “Because treants aren’t just monsters. They’re hive minds. Through their roots, they connect to everything they corrupt—fiends, weavers, corrupted men and beasts alike. You don’t just fight one creature. You fight all it controls. And if you wait too long?”

He paused, letting the silence stretch before finishing.

“You get buried under a forest of death.”

Kai fell silent for a moment, thoughts drifting to the old war records he’d read—first-hand accounts of battles against treants.

“The roots,” he finally said, “are what make it hell.”

Maurice looked over, eyes still slightly wide from the earlier revelations.

Kai continued, “The one advantage we have is that it can’t move. It’s rooted. That limits its reach—but only so much. Its ranged attacks are bad, yes. Spore clouds, flying bark shards, even a mana screeching sound it lets out. But the roots?” He exhaled sharply. “Those are the real killers.”

The bishop’s brows drew in. “Can’t you just… burn them?”

“You can burn a root,” he said. “Maybe even a dozen. But imagine a thousand—thick, blackened things writhing through the air, fast enough to split stone, sharp enough to punch a hole through your stomach before you even see it. You burn a few, more just come up. Mages get overwhelmed. They falter for even a second, and they die.”

His tone flattened as his imaginations ran wild. Even the thought sent shivers down his spine. “If we want to win, it won’t be with a clean strike. It’ll be a battle of attrition. That’s why I brought an entire force. If I could do it alone—I would’ve already.”

Maurice went quiet. Dead quiet.

For a moment, he looked as though he might bolt—eyes flicking down the road they’d come from, fingers tightening on his reins. But then he dipped his head instead, whispering soft prayers to Goddess Lumaris beneath his breath. His knuckles were white on the reins, but he didn’t fall behind.

Killian, meanwhile, looked… energized. The kind of man who saw a fight coming and met it with sharpened calm. “A hive mind controlling hundreds of weavers and fiends?” he muttered under his breath, smirking faintly. “Sounds like a battle that the bards would make songs out of.”

Kai didn’t smile. His mind was still working—mapping routes, adjusting the formations in his head, listing every measure he could take to bleed as little as possible.

There’s always something you don’t account for, he reminded himself. And it only takes one.

He’d brief the others once they reached Aegis—go over every tactic, every danger, every backup. They’d combine forces, unify formations. Then they’d move. As the hours passed, conversation dwindled. The further they rode, the quieter it became. The looming threat of the plague lands had begun to settle over them like a stormcloud.

Even the marching songs died out.

Of all the groups, the church forces were the most visibly shaken. Some whispered constantly with Maurice, others rode in tight clumps, white-knuckled and silent. To the bishop’s credit, he didn’t try to sugarcoat things—just offered words of resolve, hands clasped to his pendant between exchanges.

Kai didn’t mind. They were afraid, but they were still riding forward. That was enough.

By the time the sun began its descent, the dark silhouette of Fortress Aegis rose in the distance. A line of stone and reinforced battlements cut against the horizon—and with it, the tension spiked again. Horses began to fidget.

Soldiers sat straighter, eyes scanning every tree and shadow around them.

Kai felt it too—that pressure in the air. The sense that what came next would be different. He tapped his heel once, urging his mount faster. “Hard gallop!” he called, voice carrying like thunder. “Let’s finish this ride!”

The force surged forward one last time.

Within minutes, the outer scouts of Aegis spotted them. Soldiers poured from the gate, rushing to greet them—dozens in tight formation, led by a familiar face. Knight Cais.

Kai dismounted, brushing dust from his cloak as the rest of his men slowed to a stop behind him.

Cais approached with haste and bowed low. “Count Arzan. We’ve been expecting you. The rest of the expeditionary forces are here already. Viscount Redmont ensured we gathered every able fighter available.”

Kai nodded, eyes flicking past him to the fortress. “Good. I want to meet with all the different groups—Church, Mages, Redmont’s officers. We’ll hold a full briefing before we set out for the plague lands. I believe I should go check on Viscount Redmont first before anything.”

The knight hesitated then. Just a moment. Kai caught it.

“…Where’s the Viscount?” he asked, brow furrowing.

Cais straightened. “He’s on the walls, my lord.”

Kai’s frown deepened. “Why?”

Cais scratched his neck, but straightened when he saw the curious look on Kai’s face.

“You… should come see for yourself, Count Arzan.”

Kai gave a brief nod and turned toward the stairs, his cloak snapping behind him as he ascended with a handful of Enforcers in tow. Below, the clamor of movement filled the fortress courtyard—soldiers guiding horses, blacksmiths unloading gear, Mages being directed to their assigned quarters. They’d be spending the night here. No marching till morning.

But something was wrong. He could feel it.

By the time he reached the top of the wall, the reason hit him like a slap of cold water.

His eyes narrowed.

Beyond the stone parapets, the horizon was dark—not from nightfall, but from motion. Roots. Dozens of them, thick and glistening, writhing in the air like tendrils of some deep-sea monster. They twisted and lashed toward the fortress, sharp ends glinting in the dying sunlight.

And in the middle of it all—was the Viscount.

Armored and commanding, sword in hand, leading a small detachment of soldiers against the encroaching roots. Shields raised, spells slinging and blades swinging—none of it stopping the growth, only barely pushing it back.

Fuck, this is terrible.

His eyes went to a Mage who stood among them, hurling fire spells in rapid succession, but the flames sizzled harmlessly across the bark, not digging deep enough to burn. The roots were too wet, too saturated with dark mana.

Then, he looked at another man who was likely another Mage slumped against the far wall, breathing heavily, eyes unfocused. Spent. Likely the first caster, now replaced by the one still holding on.

There was no time for questions.

Kai’s palm rose, mana already swirling to his fingertips. Lines of energy flickered into being, building a spell structure in the air before him with mechanical speed. The wind shifted around him—building, forming, waiting to strike.

***

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