CHAPTER 305: THE TRIAL OF THE LODGES

Beyond the dimensional gateway, the sky of the blighted wastes burned a sickly crimson. Three hundred thousand rot-monsters stretched across the horizon, an ocean of bone, shadow, and weeping corruption. Yet for all their terrifying numbers, the spatial rift and the stone archway of the First Gate imposed a ruthless physical limit.

They could not march as an ocean. The narrow bottleneck funneled the grand host into a tight, choked stream, allowing no more than a single legion to pass through at a time.

A nimble Skulkin shadow-scout slipped through the pulsing portal, creeping along the high archway to assess the progress of the first four thousand invaders. It anticipated a gory breach, shattered walls, screaming mortal cattle, and the sweet scent of spreading contagion.

Instead, its crimson eyes widened in sheer, paralyzing horror.

The horseshoe arena below was completely empty. The stone floor was spotless, washed clean of all black ichor and smelling faintly of ozone and cleansing fire. High above on the elevated battlements, thousands of masked warriors were cheering, taking heavy draughts of ale, and laying bets on when the next wave would arrive. Of the four thousand Skulkins and their Dreadblade Captain, not a single bone remained.

Screeching in pure terror, the scout turned on its heel and scrambled frantically back through the portal.

In the blighted wastes beyond the gate, Malthuurn the Rot Sovereign stood upon a ridge of black stone. His torso vents spewed thick, suffocating clouds of emerald rot-smoke as he listened to the scout’s frantic, stammering report.

Four thousand troops, erased in minutes.

"USELESS BEASTS!" Malthuurn bellowed, his voice vibrating with apocalyptic wrath as he backhanded the scout, crushing it into black paste against the rock. His crown-like carapace flared with blinding, corruptive light as he thrust his clawed hand toward the glowing portal. "SEND IN THE SECOND LEGION! DROWN THEM IN FLESH AND BONE!"

Roaring in unison, five thousand heavier rot-monsters surged forward. Armored Fleshglaives with forearm bone-blades led the charge, flanked by quadrupedal Crawlborn burrowers and heavily armored Ironmaw hulks.

Inside the First Gate, the thunderous pounding of five thousand heavy beasts reverberated through the stone floor as the second rot legion flooded the Plaza of Death.

On the high balcony, Caius watched the tide of black chitin fill the horseshoe pit. He raised his hand, signaling the Black Crows to remain on the upper walls.

The author publishes this chapter on NovelPhoenix, yet the text here was copied without consent; readers support them by reading the source.

"Rotate the floor," Caius commanded smoothly. "Bring forth the brotherhoods."

Heavy iron grates at the base of the inner walls swung open. Five thousand masked warriors marched onto the stone floor in tight, brutal formation. They were the brothers of the Lodges of the Fang and Claw, provincial militia, hunters, and mercenary veterans drawn from across the realm's three major cities.

Clad in volcanic glass Tiger and Wolf helms, bearing layered hardwood Chimalli bucklers, and gripping heavy, obsidian-toothed Macuahuitls, they looked like a pack of primal beasts standing eager for the hunt. They lacked the sub-spatial warp arts of the Black Crows, but their eyes burned through their narrow eye-slits with fanatical, unrelenting resolve.

"One legion against one legion," Caius murmured, leaning forward on his throne. "Let us see if their masks hold true."

The five thousand Fleshglaives and Ironmaws slammed into the Lodge lines like a tidal wave of corrupted iron and bone.

BOOM!

The collision was a visceral, bloody brawl. The Sabre-Tiger Lodge brothers locked their Chimalli bucklers, unleashing explosive kinetic shock-strikes that shattered the advancing Fleshglaives' bone-blades. Behind them, the Shadow Wolf Lodge brothers darted through the flanks, their Macuahuitls swinging in brutal, tearing arcs that ripped through corrupted joints.

Unlike the sleek, untouchable Black Crows, the Lodge warriors took heavy, painful blows. Fleshglaives carved through leather armor; Crawlborn scuttled beneath shields to tear at legs; Ironmaws snapped their crushing jaws onto arms and shoulders.

Yet, not a single Lodge brother yielded an inch of ground.

When a warrior’s shield cracked, he dragged his blade across the beast's throat with his bare hands. When a mask was shattered, the bleeding warrior spat blood and drove his obsidian Macuahuitl straight into the monster's eye socket. They fought with the raw, terrifying ferocity of wild beasts backed into a corner, screaming their sacred lodge oaths as they hacked through the wave.

For nearly an hour, the horseshoe arena became a grinding mill of kinetic impacts, roaring beasts, and shattering bone.

When the final Ironmaw hulk collapsed into the dirt with three Macuahuitls lodged in its chest, a heavy, panting silence fell over the blood-soaked plaza. Five thousand rot-monsters lay slaughtered across the floor.

Standing among the piles of black flesh, the surviving Lodge brothers raised their bloodied obsidian weapons toward the high balcony, letting out a unified, deafening beast-roar of victory.

Old Bones stepped to the edge of the balcony, reviewing the glowing casualty ledger in his hand. He turned to Caius, his voice low. "The Lodges have held the floor, My Sovereign. But the toll was heavy, thirty percent casualties. Nearly eight hundred fallen, and over seven hundred gravely wounded."

Old Bones braced for his Sovereign's scrutiny, but as he looked at Caius, he found a look of profound, cold satisfaction in the God-King's golden-and-obsidian eyes.

"They are not my elite cohorts," Caius said softly, a genuine smirk touching his lips as he looked down at the blood-drenched, roaring men in beast-masks. "They are provincial recruits, hunters, and mercenaries who joined only months ago. Yet they stood ground against five thousand rot-monsters and wiped them out to the last beast."

Caius stood from his throne, his voice echoing across the entire plaza like thunder.

"A forced draft yields cowards who break at the first sight of blood," Caius declared, his Tri-Pupil Eye flaring with divine pride. "But my Lodge brothers bleed like wild beasts and claim victory! Clean the floor... and prepare the next rotation!"