The earth beneath them throbbed.

Beneath the cracked stone and blackened soil, the roots moved slowly, twitching tendrils that felt more alive than they should have been. For a treant, roots weren’t just anchors. They were eyes. Ears. Nerves stretched deep into the ground like veins. And now, those nerves were twitching wildly.

They had been watching long before anyone had noticed.

Kai felt it before he saw it. There was a slight tremor in the stone underfoot, the way the mana in the air thickened with tension.

Then the roots surged upward, clawing through gaps in the flagstone, reaching for the closest target — the Mage.

The young man had been holding his own. His robes were scorched, sleeves rolled up, sweat plastering his hair to his temple. Fire danced in his palms, bright at first, then dimming by the second. Kai witnessed it all. The panic rising in his movements, the drain of mana leaving his limbs trembling. One spell. Another. The flames sputtered. Then died.

Three roots lashed forward.

The Mage raised a trembling arm. Too slow.

A blur of steel shot forward from Viscount Redmont, aiming to protect him. But the roots were faster.

They would’ve torn into his flesh if not for the glowing spell structure that burned to life beside them.

With a whoosh, Kai’s flaming disk carved through the air like a wheel of wrath. The edges spun, red-hot and screaming. Roots thudded onto the ground, hissing as they burned, blackening into ash and curling away.

Kai didn’t stop. Another swing. Then another.

The roots reeled back into the earth, disappearing into the holes they’d come from like wounded animals. Silence returned, broken only by the Mage’s collapsing breath as he slumped to the ground, alive but barely.

The others stared now.

The Viscount lowered his sword, breathing hard. His eyes fixed on Kai, not with surprise, but something heavier. Like a man who had waited far too long for someone to arrive.

“Count Arzan,” he said, with fatigue thickly layered. “You’re here.”

Kai nodded, stepping forward through the smoke. “Seems like the roots have been giving you trouble.”

“They got worse two days ago. One of my men… didn’t make it. We burn them. Hack at them. Still they come. It’s like trying to drain the ocean with a spoon.” He paused, then muttered, “If we don’t find the source, they’ll kill us before the plague does.”

Kai’s gaze drifted to the retreating tendrils. “They are the same thing as the source. But don’t worry. That’s why I’m here.” He looked back at the Viscount. “We’ll stay the night. I brought a capable force with me.”

The older man blinked, then gave a small nod. “The Paladins and Clerics who arrived yesterday… they said the same. That they were here to purge the plague. Said your name.”

“I convinced the Church,” Kai said. “They’ve lost much to this plague. And if the people lose hope in the goddess now… we may never recover.”

Understanding dawned in the Viscount’s eyes. He gave a slow nod, more respectful than before. “I believe you’ve thought this through. I’ve assigned Knight Cais to lead my man to join the force and follow your orders. But… if you need another sword, I can fight.”

He straightened, fatigue visible in every joint — yet beneath it, the fire of an old warrior ignited.

“I’ve fought through wars in Vanderfall. Survived a dozen skirmishes. I won’t be a burden.”

Kai looked at him for a moment, then smiled faintly. The man’s spirit was admirable. Few nobles fought alongside their men. Fewer still bled for them.

“You won’t be,” Kai said gently. “But I’ll ask you to stay behind.” Kai’s voice lowered as he met Viscount’s eyes. “If anything happens to you… I wouldn’t know how to face House Redmont.” He paused, then added quietly, “Truth be told, I’m not even sure of my own survival.”

That part, though, wasn’t entirely honest. Kai was sure he’d survive.

He always planned for the worst — escape routes, fallback spells. At worst, he’d lose the fight and run. But death? That wasn’t something he intended to meet in the next few weeks. And if everything worked—every formation, every backup plan, every spell structure etched in his mind—then maybe he wouldn’t even have to lose.

The Viscount studied him, jaw clenched. Then he nodded, slow and understanding, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of disappointment.

“I hope you do come back,” he said. “The kingdom needs men like you. I wasn’t sure of you during the fief war… but now I see it clearly. You’re an honourable man, Count Arzan.” He paused. “And honourable men… they should live long enough to earn grey hairs.”

Kai gave a small smile at that. “I plan to.” His gaze shifted toward the twisted lands beyond the stone walls—where the sky looked sicker, and the air carried a stillness that didn’t belong in any living place.

“I don’t believe the roots will be a problem for the next twelve hours. And if they are… I’ll deal with them.” His tone was flat, final. “I’d like to be shown my quarters for the night. I doubt I’ll get good sleep in the plague lands.”

Viscount Redmont dipped his head. “I’ve had good accommodations prepared for you and your men. You’ll rest well tonight.” Then he hesitated, as if weighing something, looking behind Kai, before adding, “But before that… would you care for a drink?”

Kai arched his brow.

“I’ve been saving a bottle of wine,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “Plundered it from the camp of a Vanderfall general. It’s old. Rich. Never found a good enough reason to open it… until now.” He turned, gesturing. “A final sip before the expedition. What do you say?”

Kai considered it.

It had been a long time since he’d drunk anything that wasn’t tea or potion mix. But it had been a ritual once. The best food and the strongest wine right before any battle . As if to remind himself he was alive before he risked it all.

And tonight? Tonight felt like the right time to rekindle old habits.

He gave a short nod. “Lead the way.”

Viscount Redmont’s smile deepened. “Good. This way, Count.”

***

They ended up drinking for hours.

What was meant to be a quick toast turned into a quiet night of stories and laughter over low lantern light and a half-empty bottle of plundered wine. Kai hadn’t expected the Viscount to hold his liquor so well. The man drank like a soldier who had survived too many wars and knew when to pretend it didn’t weigh on him.

He rambled, mostly.

Talked about his sons—how they trained with swords better than most knights, but refused to step onto the battlefield. Called them “soft-hearted” and “spoiled,” but there was no real anger behind it. Just a wounded sort of pride.

Then came the stories about his daughters—how they preferred sneaking off to flirt with the farmhands rather than attending balls or learning statecraft. It made Kai smile. The Viscount tried to sound frustrated, but the fondness kept slipping in.

He was a man caught between tradition and the children he couldn’t quite understand.

Kai listened. Said little. But it was enough. The wine dulled the heaviness that crept in his chest, and for a few hours, the plague, the roots, the death—none of it mattered.

He even got a few hours of real sleep.

When morning came, the courtyard before the fortress gate was in chaos. The expedition force had gathered, armored and alert, weapons ready. Dust kicked up under boots and hooves. The sky above was pale and grey, like it hadn’t decided yet whether to rain or not.

Kai stood at the front.

To his left stood Bishop Maurice, robes pristine and staff in hand. To his right, Knight Killian.

Before them, soldiers, Mages, Enforcers, Paladins and Clerics, stood in lines. Some looked nervous. Others were calm. All were waiting for his word. He had thought that a small speech before the expedition would do them good. Especially since war speeches were common and he knew what exactly he should say–Killian had made sure that he did.

Kai stepped forward, clearing his throat.

He raised his voice, letting it carry through the morning crisp.

“All of you have gathered here because you understand the threat that the dead mana plague holds for Lancephil,” he began. “You know what it did to Vanderfall. It didn’t just take cities. It swallowed families. Entire generations. You might think of them as enemies. But we are all servants of the goddess Lumaris. And the goddess sees no borders. Only her children. It’s our duty to avenge them—and to protect those who still live under our sky.”

Across the lines, Kai saw shoulders straighten. Backs stood a little firmer. Even the Clerics seemed steadier.

Religion. Patriotism. Glory. It didn’t matter which one moved them. They were ready. He continued.

“This will be dangerous. Extremely so. There will be no rest, not until the source is dealt with. But once the treant falls, the plague will stop spreading. And when that happens… we begin reclaiming what was taken.”

He looked across the faces—young, old, some hardened, some too fresh.

“Killian’s already told you what to expect, gave you the knowledge all you need for the plauge lands last night. But I believe every one of you has the strength to survive this. To return home as heroes.”

His voice rose.

“So I ask you now—are you ready to take on the plague lands and return victorious? Are you ready to fight a crusade for our people… and for our goddess?”

A roar of yes surged from the ranks—mixed with cheers, metal clanking, and even a few raised weapons. Kai let it wash over him, then lifted his hand for quiet.

“Good,” he said. “I want to see the same spirit when we cleave through the weavers and fiends. When we grant them the rest they were denied.”

He turned slightly, gesturing to the bishop beside him.

“I will lead you all. And I will be supported by the hand of Bishop Maurice himself. With him here… the goddess marches with us.”

Maurice blinked in mild surprise at the public declaration but gave a small nod, visibly pleased. Kai turned next to Killian, who gave a silent signal to begin the advance. Then, before stepping forward, Kai cast one last glance behind him—toward the fortress, toward the wall where Viscount Redmont stood.

And he nodded.

A final farewell to the Viscount who had helped hold the line. A man who, despite all, had stood firm.

Without another word, Kai turned back to the gate. The doors creaked open, revealing the dead lands beyond—twisted trees, grey fog, and soil that pulsed with wrongness. And with that, he stepped through.

The crusade had begun.

***

The road stretched ahead like a scar.

Beneath the morning haze, what used to be stone-paved streets were now cracked and uneven, swallowed by creeping vines and black moss that pulsed faintly with dead mana. The plague had soaked into the soil like poison into flesh—leaving behind not just rot, but something wrong.

Gareth tightened his grip on his sword as the wind shifted. Even through his helm, the stench made his stomach turn. It was then the silence cracked.

“Knight Gareth, this is the worst smell I’ve had in my whole life,” came a voice from his right, nasal and muffled through the slit of a full helm. “Feels like we’re marching through a pile of every beast’s shit mixed into one.”

Another armored figure on his left gave a stiff nod, shoulders rising in a silent huff. “Swear to Lumaris, I’m going to soak in a bath for three days once we’re out of here.”

“If we get out of here,” the first one muttered, quieter this time.

The tension was rising. He could feel it in the way their armor shifted—slower movements, heavier footsteps, more glances to the side than forward. Gareth exhaled through his nose, voice steady as he spoke before the mood slipped into something worse. “We’ll get out of here. Just keep your eyes ahead and follow Lord Arzan.”

That name carried something… soothing. It always did.

He continued, “We’re scouts. We don’t even need to fight unless absolutely necessary. A bit of stink isn’t going to kill us.”

There was a pause. Then, more softly, he added, “Once we map the area, you two can head back to report. You’ll get a taste of Lord Arzan’s purifying spell and be breathing fresh air again before the others even break camp.”

The two nodded. Even through the visors, he could tell—by the slight shift in posture, by the way they started walking just a bit straighter. Gareth turned his gaze back to the road.

This used to be one of Vanderfall’s main arteries—marked on the Viscount’s map as a well-maintained path that connected two cities. But now? Now it looked like a corpse.

Trees on either side were blackened husks, leaves long since fallen. Some had grown twisted and knotted, as if the land had tried to birth something new and failed. Carts lay overturned in ditches, skeletons of wood and rusted metal. Bones were scattered in the grime, cracked and sun-bleached. And still, through it all, the roads persisted—cracked, uneven, yet still there.

It hadn’t even been a full year.

And already the land looked like a memory—a forgotten place dipped in ink and left to dry in the dark.

The deeper they moved, the heavier the silence grew. No birds. No insects. Only the low groan of wind against branches and the distant, ever-present thrum of something unnatural humming beneath their

boots.

Gareth ignored the images swimming in his head—thoughts of what this place had once been, and what it had become. Focus.

They had one task: scout the border city up ahead.

It was the next major landmark. And from what they could tell, if the map still held true, they’d reach the outer edges by dusk. He raised a fist, signaling the others to slow. Both did without a word. Good. Fear hadn’t made them sloppy yet.

They kept to the edges of the broken road now, footsteps lighter. And then, time flew by.

Even after an hour of slow, careful walking, the city was nowhere in sight.

The wind howled softly through dead trees, brushing against the twisted remains of wooden signposts and burnt-out watchtowers. And yet, not a single stone wall, tower silhouette, or distant smoke plume—nothing to mark the border town they were supposed to scout.

From beside him, one of his men slowed, breath hissing through his helm. “Knight Gareth… are we on the right path?”

He was already pulling out the worn, smudged copy of the Viscount’s map, holding it up to the pale, grey light. Gareth didn’t answer right away. His own doubt was already creeping in.

“I’m thinking the same,” he finally muttered, eyes scanning the landscape around them.

Blackened earth stretched endlessly in all directions. In a way, direction itself felt like a suggestion. And they couldn’t afford to wander aimlessly. Not with the plague thickening the air around them.

Gareth stepped forward, glancing at both his subordinates. “Wait here for five minutes. I’ll be back.”

Their helmets turned toward him in unison. The unease was clear in the way one shifted on his feet, and the other’s grip tightened on his spear. He didn’t blame them.

He was the only Enforcer in their squad. If something came crawling out of the shadows, they would be the ones to stall it, and without his strength backing them, that might be the end of their story.

“You have your equipment. Your potions. You’ll survive five minutes. We don’t find that border town, we fail our mission.”

The silence that followed was tense — but eventually, both nodded. Good enough.

Gareth turned and inhaled sharply, mana coiling through his core and bursting into his limbs as he activated the vaults embedded in his legs. Shadow and force converging under his skin. And then—

He was gone.

The sadness around him blurred.

Ashen trees whipped past like streaks of ink, the ugly road replaced by nothing but a smear of motion. Wind howled in his ears. His boots skimmed ruined rooftops, vaulted over collapsed watchtowers. Each heartbeat stretched longer as he poured more speed into his movement, his shadow affinity merging him with the darker patches of the land as he weaved across the plague-touched terrain.

Still no city.

He traced the road again. Then the map. Then the landscape. All of it twisted, broken, wrong. And then—finally.

A glimpse.

Far to the west, half-hidden in fog and vines, something loomed. Square towers. Cracked stone. A jagged wall that looked like it had been clawed apart and patched back by time. The border town. Without delay, Gareth pivoted, channeling another burst of mana through his legs and vanishing back into the blighted woods.

He reappeared with a soft thud, landing silently beside his subordinates. Both of them flinched at his sudden return.

“Sorry,” Gareth said, breath controlled. “Took a bit longer than planned.” He straightened, pointing westward. “The city’s that way. I think we missed a fork in the road—must’ve been destroyed by a fiend. That’s why we got turned around. But now that I’ve seen it, we’ll get there fast.”

The two men exchanged a look, then nodded.

With weapons drawn and eyes sharper than before, the trio turned, heading west—toward the silent city that waited behind the mist, toward whatever still lingered inside its broken walls.

More than once, Gareth raised a clenched fist, signaling a halt. Each time, it was because one of them had appeared—first a lone weaver dragging itself across the road, then a small cluster of mindless fiends snarling and snapping at shadows. The scouts ducked behind crumbled walls, shattered boulders, or half-toppled carts, waiting in absolute stillness as the creatures passed.

Their orders had been clear, do not engage.

Every second lost in a fight was a second too long in these lands. They held their breath. Let the monsters move on. Then continued.

By the time they reached the town, Gareth’s armor was stained with ash and dried sweat. But the moment his eyes fell on the walls, fatigue vanished.

From a distance, the city still looked… alright. Stone ramparts, towers, the faint remnants of a banner clinging to a broken pole. Gareth could almost picture what it had once been—how this place must have stood proud on the border, guarding the heartlands of Vanderfall.

But as they got closer, that illusion crumbled like the wall before them.

Large gashes tore through the outer fortifications—holes, uneven wounds as if something massive had slammed through stone and iron without slowing down. Portions of the wall lay in rubble, claw marks visible even through the grime. Charred bones and armor remains littered the base, half-buried in dirt and rot.

Gareth didn’t like it.

If a creature large enough to do that still wandered nearby, they wouldn’t last minutes in a fight. Still, duty was duty. He motioned for the others to follow, and together they crept forward—through the breach, past the fallen stones, and into the hollow shell of the city.

And then they stopped.

All three of them froze.

The town was alive—but not in any way that word should be used.

Hundreds of weavers crawled across the ruins like insects on a corpse. Some skittered across rooftops, their misshapen limbs tapping on tiles. Others walked in the open, hunched and twitching, dragging chunks of corrupted meat behind them. The air was thick—choked with the stench of rot, bile, and something Gareth could only describe as wrongness.

Then he saw the source.

Corpses. Dozens. Maybe more. Fiends lay scattered across the ground, mauled and half-eaten. Weavers crouched over them, jaws tearing flesh from bone with wet, smacking sounds. And it didn’t stop there. Some were feeding on each other.

One weaver, its torso split open and barely stitched by tendrils of flesh, lunged at another, biting into its neck while the second creature thrashed in agony. And still, others watched with blank, stitched eyes—unmoved, unblinking.

Then Gareth saw the smallest of them.

Tiny weavers, no bigger than toddlers, stumbling through the filth. Some were alive. Others were not. Their unmoving bodies left out in the open, ignored by the rest. Like they hadn’t even mattered.

He felt something tighten in his chest. His subordinates were stiff beside him, unmoving, their heads slowly turning as they took it all in. Even through their armor, Gareth could tell—the stillness, the shaking fists, the sudden need to breathe deeper.

They were overwhelmed. He clenched his jaw and forced his voice low, sharp.

“Pull yourselves together.”

Both men flinched, heads snapping to him.

Gareth’s gaze didn’t leave the grotesque scene before them. “We’re not here to fight. Not today.” He stepped back slowly, never turning his back to the swarm of creatures. “We need to move. Now. This isn’t just another cursed outpost. This is a fucking battleground waiting to happen.”

The others nodded stiffly, their hands gripping weapons tighter as they began to retreat—step by slow, careful step. The city faded behind them. But its stink would follow them all the way back.

***

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