Chapter 313 - 313: Starving the Heavens
Rubedo pulled up a bowl of synthetic noodles from the automated dispenser, sitting down in the dim light of the terminal screen. The heat from the bowl warmed his palms, but the lingering emptiness in his chest remained undisturbed.
He tapped a series of command lines into the primary interface, bypassing the standard imperial channels completely. A heavily encrypted, isolated frequency blinked to life.
Four distinct holographic columns rose from the floorboards.
Gorr materialized first. The short, sturdy deity leaned heavily on her spectral pickaxe, her avatar shedding a faint trail of gray dust.
To her right, Sylara shivered into view, instantly pulling her white moth-silk hood forward to shield her face from the terminal's glare.
Beside her, a complex, multi-armed mechanical frame whirred to life. The Brass Construct's digital projection stabilized, its central ocular lens clicking as it calibrated to the sanctuary's lighting.
"Nice show, Rubedo," Gorr chuckled, her rough voice breaking the silence. "I thought Thokk was going to turn into actual gravel right there on the floor. You practically scared the dust off him."
"They are cowards," Rubedo said, taking a slow bite of his noodles. "I handed them the wealthiest kingdoms on the continent and they whined about the security bill."
"Probability of the standard seventy-eight vassals successfully neutralizing a single deity is… twelve point four percent," the Brass Construct chimed in. Its multiple metallic arms shifted in a synchronized, fluid rhythm. "They lack the structural optimization for high-density warfare. Their panic is mathematically justified."
Sylara shrank back into her digital robes, her shoulders trembling. "S-Sovereign... the way you looked at them... it was terrifying. Are we truly going to war with the four gods of the fourth continent? I don't want them to hate us. What if they attack my nursery?"
Rubedo set his bowl down on the console and leaned forward, resting his chin on his crossed fingers. "The rest of the pantheon is a distraction, Sylara. I put on a performance to keep them compliant. You three are the ones who actually run the infrastructure of this empire. Tell me how we crack the hidden realms without relying on those idiots."
Sylara stammered, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her sleeve. For a moment, she looked like she might cut the transmission entirely out of sheer anxiety. Then, her breathing slowed, and the terrifying, cold intelligence of her hive-mind took over.
"If... if we want to minimize direct structural damage, we shouldn't use armies," Sylara whispered, her eyes glowing faintly beneath her hood. "The central aqueducts of Tarnstead flow directly into the deep spiritual leylines of the continent. I can introduce a decaying mycelium strain into the water grid. It will passively infect the citizens' spiritual frequencies."
She took a sharp breath, staring at her own hands. "It won't hurt the mortals physically. But every time they pray, the spores will digest the faith mana before it can leave their bodies. The gods will starve in their locked pockets of space. They will wither away in absolute silence, completely cut off from their food source. Perhaps, that will force them to reveal themselves."
She suddenly flinched, her aura turning a frantic shade of pink. "Oh no... that sounds absolutely horrible. I am a terrible person. Please don't look at me, I'm sorry."
"The biological decay model introduces excellent tactical synergy," the Brass Construct analyzed, completely ignoring her breakdown. Its ocular lens whirred as it projected a series of geometric schematics into the air.
"While the mycelium destabilizes their anchors, my automated factories on the coast can manufacture specialized reality-anchors. We can covertly install them around the ancient temples."
The machine deity's multiple arms pointed to the schematics. "We turn their own sanctuaries into pressurized, localized gravity wells. If the deities attempt to physically manifest to investigate their sudden starvation, the immediate atmospheric pressure will crush their avatars before their divine mass can stabilize."
Gorr let out a loud, booming laugh, slapping her knee. "See, Spiral? This is why you keep the blue-collar crowd around. The shiny boys upstairs just know how to swing swords and scream. We actually know how to tear a house down from the basement."
She leaned on her pickaxe, a sharp, greedy glint appearing in her eyes. "But let's talk business. If my Molekin laborers help the Construct plant those heavy anchors, I want exclusive mineral rights to whatever falls out of the sky. A god's sanctuary is built on high-density ley-ores. I want to strip those dead realms bare."
Rubedo looked at the three projections. For the first time since the final battle of Tarnstead, the hollow numbness in his chest receded, replaced by a cold, familiar satisfaction. This was the calculated, industrial cruelty he understood. This was how you actually won a war against the heavens.
'They don't need a savior,' Rubedo thought, a dark smile pulling at his lips. 'They just needed a blueprint.'
"The terms are acceptable, Gorr," Rubedo said, tapping his console to approve the resource allocation. He looked back at the Brass Construct and Sylara. "Begin manufacturing the anchors immediately. Sylara, seed the water supply. Let's see how long the gods can keep their silence when their throats are being choked from the dark."
A few days later, heavy iron wheels ground against the ruined cobblestones of Tarnstead's central plaza. The Vanguard transport caravan from Aethelgard had finally arrived.
Torix descended from the lead carriage. His massive, black-chitin spider lower half clicked rhythmically against the pavement. He stretched his humanoid torso, his six crimson eyes adjusting to the glaring midday sun, while his four muscular arms casually rested on the hafts of barbed spears.
"Unload the cargo," Torix ordered, his voice a low, clicking hiss. "Carefully. The Sovereign wants them intact for the collection."
A squad of Deep-Weave Hunters pulled the heavy iron bolts back and dragged eleven shivering Earthlings out into the light. Jason, Chloe, Tyler, Jessica, Brandon, Ashley, Derek, Brittany, Zach, and Sarah fell onto the stones, their wrists bound in star-iron.
Julian Vance was hauled out last. His face was a swollen, bruised mess from the beatings his betrayed classmates had inflicted on him in the Aethelgard cells. He gasped for air, his eyes darting frantically toward the towering Arachne commander.
"Keep walking, little gods," Torix hissed, aiming a spear tip at Julian's back. "Your new kingdom awaits."