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Chapter 908: A Bloody Road

Back in the meeting room, Wendy had barely begun reading out the new intelligence when El interrupted.

“There is no such thing as a safe distance from the demons.” The ancient witch’s voice carried no patience for the premise. “Taquila learned that at tremendous cost, and using the Red Mist’s consumption range to define a war zone is exactly the kind of thinking that gets armies destroyed. Devilbeasts can carry multiple gas tanks—extending their range far beyond what you’re imagining. Or they bury caches in advance and rotate them as they march. The most direct method is simply to build forward outposts and use them as links in an ever-lengthening chain. Control over those outposts will determine the Battle of Divine Will. And finding all the hidden caches scattered across a vast plain is nearly impossible. Never forget: the demons are always more cunning than you expect.”

Wendy found herself staring at the table and not seeing it. She was picturing it—the overwhelming assault, head-on and unstoppable, while Devilbeasts seeded Red Mist caches across every corner of the Fertile Plains in the dark. Each cache was another link, and each link extended the chain until the old Union’s territories were severed from one another, cut off, dying piecemeal. A stone rolling downhill. The more ground lost, the harder to hold what remained—until holding anything was no longer possible.

“In your judgment,” Tilly said, her voice steady, “what are the odds of a large-scale attack on Neverwinter in the near term?”

“You’re fortunate,” El said—and in the witch’s flat delivery, the word sounded almost surprised. “Though the Red Mist can’t define the enemy’s reach precisely, it does reveal their intentions. The demons went underground and left only a patrol above ground instead of establishing a camp. That means their current supply is insufficient to sustain a push. Even if there are border skirmishes, they’ll be small—probing actions, nothing more. Whether this changes depends entirely on what happens next.”

Tilly looked to Pasha.

“El’s assessment is sound,” the carrier said, her main tentacles shifting. “In the days of the Union, she commanded a small platoon of the Blessed Army and successfully struck the Devil’s Town multiple times.” A beat. “Her temper is another matter.”

“My patience is reserved for things worth worrying about,” El said flatly. “Compared to the Devilbeasts’ long-range ambush capacity, those new war machines concern me more.”

Barov had been searching for an opening. He found one. “I wanted to ask—how did the demons transport Red Mist before these machines existed?”

“Much as we move supplies,” Pasha said. “Low-level demons carrying loads. Carts. Enslaved demonic hybrids. Converted Siege Beasts. Their preparation time for war was comparable to ours. Before every major battle, Red Mist supply lines stretched across the entire Fertile Plains—dozens of them, running in every direction.” The carrier’s tentacles stilled. “To cut those lines, every resource was committed—the Blessed Army, combat witches, common soldiers, all of them. When we had to break a well-defended convoy, the blood that spilled turned the plains red. Those supply lines were the axis on which the entire war turned—theirs and ours alike.”

A silence settled over the room.

No one in it had faced demons in battle. Yet the pressure of four hundred years pressed down on them, specific and heavy: the weight of what it had actually cost to fight this enemy when they had supply lines that could bleed.

Wendy understood logistics the way Roland had taught her to understand it—as the true measure of an army’s endurance. If the demons now possessed machines capable of moving Red Mist in bulk, they could supply a front line without stripping their guard strength to do it. Fewer supply lines meant fewer vulnerable points. Lorgar’s description of the ruins might not be an anomaly. It might be the new standard.

If Roland were not Roland, I would have no idea how to fight this war. The thought moved through her quietly and without drama. It was simply true. The demons had changed. Senior demons moving independently. Colossal skeleton machines that turned soil into wasteland. Against that, the human kingdoms outside Neverwinter—nobles with cavalry who’d never encountered a Devilbeast—were not an army. They were a rounding error.

“In any case, the current situation doesn’t entirely contradict our prior assumptions,” El said, apparently aware that dwelling too long on catastrophe was corrosive to morale. “Only the timing was misjudged. The Blackrock Spire—which produces Red Mist—must be built atop God’s Stone mineral veins. It’s therefore no surprise the enemy chose to secure the ruins of the Holy City. Taquila is the easternmost God’s Stone deposit on the Fertile Plains. Once they build the Spire, the Red Mist’s range will cover the entire Impassable Mountain Range. At that point, any resistance becomes futile.”

If the demons were no longer tethered to a supply chain, they could strike from any direction. Devilbeasts were faster and more flexible than any hydrogen balloon. Venturing outside the city walls would become a sentence. Humanity’s capacity to resist would erode within years.

Wendy had attended enough of these meetings to recognize the convergence. Roland’s position and the Church’s position and the Taquila survivors’ position—all three had been pointing at the same target before they had any reason to coordinate. Taquila could not be allowed to fall.

“Fortunately, the demons revealed their intentions prematurely,” El continued. “And the Bloody Moon won’t appear for another three to five years. That window is real—if we use it. Even in failure, the nearest Blackrock Spire to the demons lies hundreds of miles north of the Dragonspine Mountains in the Fertile Plains. Their supply advantage over us is not yet decisive. But make no mistake: the war has begun.”

The weight on Wendy’s shoulders was not metaphorical. It was the specific, calibrated pressure of knowing exactly what was coming.

“Wait.” Barov raised his hand—not the posture of a man petitioning, but of a man who had waited as long as he could. “How you intend to fight the demons isn’t my concern. But we can’t seal the gates forever. If the army is still far from Neverwinter and an attack isn’t imminent, shouldn’t we lift the alert? The farms—”

“Neverwinter needs a more reliable warning system,” the garrison commander said. “His Majesty mentioned previously that a deeper defensive perimeter would provide more time before an alarm reached the city. Could we ask Miss Lotus to build beacon towers along the plains? Or better still—the instantaneous communication device Lord Carter mentioned. That would let City Hall continue functioning without disruption.”

The first option was straightforward; the second required both Anna and Roland, and no one present knew how to realize it. Beacon fire was also not necessarily faster than a Devilbeast ambush.

Wendy was still turning this over when a voice entered their minds.

“Leave this to us.”

“What do you have in mind?” Ashes raised an eyebrow.

“Now that we know the location of the demons’ camp, the problem simplifies considerably.” Pasha extended a tentacle into the light curtain—and there, caught in the glow, was a Five-Colored Stone. “This can create a surveillance system similar to a light curtain. We can watch the demons’ movements continuously.”

Wendy remembered Phyllis—Number 76—and what she had done. “You plan to use it to locate the phantom instrument?”

“Exactly. When shattered, the magic core unfolds a light curtain at the corresponding location. But these stones are finite. Each use reduces what remains. They’re also essential to locating the keys of the Chosen One.” Pasha’s tentacles curled inward. “I can only authorize their use in critical situations.”

“But—” Wendy saw the obstacle at once. “To place the stone, someone would have to approach the Taquila ruins. With the demons already there—”

“Rest assured.” El’s tone was final. “Since we conceived the plan, we execute it. Taquila has never been in the habit of proposing plans for others to carry out at cost to themselves. This is a small matter. Every God’s Punishment Witch has been prepared to give her life since before your grandmother was born—”

“But best if no one has to.” Tilly’s interruption came with a smile, light but precisely placed. “Leave the placement to the Sleeping Spell. Their combat capacity is limited, yes—but they have skills suited to this. And as newcomers to the Western Region, they should be looking for ways to earn their place here, shouldn’t they?”

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