Chapter 123: Supply Inventory List

At this moment, the air along Starfall Beach was unbearably hot, mingling the stench of seaweed, sulfur, tar, and lingering rotting flesh, yet still unable to drown out the clamor of the crowd.

The lizardmen fleet—over a dozen low, narrow transport ships with hulls coated in anti-magic paint—crowded beside a hastily widened, crude pier.

No heavy cranes existed, only crude wooden pulley systems and endless muscle. Pig-headed laborers chanted low, rhythmic chants, bare-chested, sweat carving muddy trenches through their gray-black skin.

Heavy wooden crates, bound parcels wrapped in beast hides, and iron cages netted over living creatures were dragged from the holds, rolled down gangplanks, or hoisted directly onto floating rafts and hauled ashore.

Occasionally, distant demons flew overhead; sporadic flaming arrows from watchtowers streaked across the sky, or were intercepted by newly erected anti-airballistae on the beach.

Several tamed, elephant-sized abyssal lizards panted uneasily—they were living cranes, using their thick tails and backs to assist in dragging the heaviest siege engine components.

Lizardmen sailors clad in black leather armor, armed with poisoned blow darts, patrolled the ship rails and pier, their cold gazes sweeping the sea and sky, alert for demonic ambushes from beneath the waves or invisible infiltrators.

On shore, several rapidly forming piles of sorted supplies rose like small mountains.

Bundles of gleaming iron spearheads were stacked, crates of arrowheads and crossbow bolts were hastily counted. Sealed barrels of hardtack, strings of dried seaweed fish (a salt-preserved, boneless species), and barrels of fresh water.

Strange-shaped objects covered by waterproof tarps, magical rune boxes emitting faint blue light, guarded personally by campaign sorcerers, and wooden cages emitting dull thudding impacts—inside were the supplementary war beasts.

Gisk stood atop a slightly elevated pile of black rocks, overlooking the entire unloading zone and the distant, smoke-choked demonic lines.

His plate armor bore several new scorch marks, yet he stood straight. Shadowclaw, the lizardmen fleet’s commander, approached swiftly.

Shadowclaw’s frame was leaner than ordinary lizardmen, his scales a dull, deep green bordering on black.

He wore no heavy armor, only a fitted robe embedded with sound-dampening pads and aquatic leather, a string of bone whistles for communication hanging at his waist.

His eyelids blinked slowly, revealing the fatigue of a long voyage and his innate caution.

Shadowclaw, in a rasping but clear Common Tongue, placed his right claw over his chest in a brief, formal salute.

“Marshal Gisk, the Duke’s will has come with the tide. Shadowclaw, commander of the ‘Black Tide’ fleet, delivers the first supply batch.”

“The sea is not peaceful. We lost the ‘Stalker.’ It sank behind us, dragged down by abyssal undercurrents and… something with tentacles.”

Gisk: (his yellow-brown eyes swept over Shadowclaw, a slight nod, voice rough and direct) “Loss recorded. Compensated from spoils. The Duke’s letter and inventory.”

Shadowclaw withdrew a sealed metal cylinder and a waterproof beast-hide scroll.

Gisk quickly scanned the letter—bearing the Neizheng Force’s rune seal and a brief military requisition order—then unrolled the scroll, Shadowclaw beside him delivering an oral report, rapid and steady.

“Below are the primary supplies, ranked by your priority:

First, three thousand five hundred barrels of field rations—enough for fifteen days of full rations for current forces, provided you take no more ‘mouths.’

Two hundred purification rune stones, each capable of purifying ten tons of saltwater or poison water. Forty crates of medical bandages, hemostatic moss, and antitoxin serum.

Only fifty barrels of strong liquor. The Armaments Office strictly forbids exceeding rations until the outer walls are breached.” (He glanced at Gisk, who merely grunted.)

Second, siege weapons: one hundred twenty thousand standard arrows, eight thousand heavy crossbow bolts, three hundred standard stone projectiles for trebuchets. Eight tons of replacement bowstrings, crossbow arms, and trebuchet torsion sinews—specifically requested by the Artificers’ Guild.

Additionally, your requested ‘special munitions’: fifty explosive jars infused with holy flame, two hundred vials of strong acid pottery. But only one hundred frost rune arrows—three ice mages who crafted them died last month in the internal strife.”

Third, for ‘chewing stone’: enough ironwood planks for two and a half standard units of siege tower outer armor. Three hundred rapid-set rock pillars for tunnel supports.

Five tons of black powder (the Goblin Engineers’ Director warned repeatedly to store with care). And… (he lowered his voice) that thing—three jars, sealed in abyssal frost-iron, stored in the lead-lined hold of the ‘Abyssal Breath,’ requiring your personal guard and the Chief Sorcerer to unlock and take custody.”

Fourth, living assets and ‘eyes’: two hundred replenished hell hounds, already sedated and caged. Twenty reconnaissance wyverns, in good condition, but requiring one day to adapt to the sulfur-laden air.

Finally, (he pointed to several carefully lowered cages covered in black cloth) “a dozen ‘Shadow Bats.’ They can slip into crevices, detect magical fluctuations and life echoes, but are extremely fragile—require live mice for feeding.”

Shadowclaw paused, his gaze drifting to the trebuchets assembling farther off. “We delivered roughly seventy percent of the listed items.

Storms, demonic aerial harassment, and increasingly active things beneath the waves… the route is narrowing, Marshal. The Duke instructed me to convey: the next supply will arrive either in one month, or after you capture the ‘Crystal Horn Bay’ port—then we can dock directly, rather than risking our lives on this exposed beach.”

Gisk rolled up the inventory, his metal claw-gauntlet crushing it with a crackle, his eyes fixed on the faint outline of the port beyond the demonic lines, a calculating gleam flashing within.

“Tell the Duke a month is too long. Within twenty days, I will have his men unloading at the port. These supplies—especially arrows, sinews, and those three jars of ‘things’—will be used where they matter.”

He turned to leave, then stopped. “Shadowclaw, your fleet rests one night. Before dawn tomorrow, I need your men to assist in a feint, drawing the demons’ attention out to sea. Can you do it?”

Shadowclaw’s eyelids blinked slowly again—that was the lizardmen’s way of accepting and understanding. “As you command, Marshal. The ‘Black Tide’ excels at creating chaos.”

“Return to the Duke: lizardmen scales only gleam in inland rivers. Your few transport ships survived crossing the Mothdeep Sea not because of skill, but because the Abyss briefly closed its eyes.”

“If you want another supply, wait until I take Crystal Horn Bay. There dwell the ‘Crabfolk’—crustaceans saturated by the Abyss, born as the bones of the open sea. They hate demons, yet will never bow to land-bound rulers.”

“When I clear this ruin, invite the Duke himself to come. Those mutated crabs need someone who speaks a language they understand… to talk.”

“Your will shall be delivered intact,” Shadowclaw said, his eyelids slowly lowering then lifting, scales glinting with damp, cold light under the beach’s pale glow.

“Before departure, the Duke entrusted me with one more message: ‘The Shadow of the Dragonworshipers has surfaced in the mist of the Shattered Star Strait. Gisk, use your claws and cunning to delay their advance. The door to that ruin must not open for them within a month.’”

“Hmph. So the rot beneath these stones isn’t just demon stench,” Gisk muttered, his claw idly stroking his sword hilt, his gaze passing Shadowclaw toward the swirling purple-black mists deep within the ruins.

“Even the Dragonworshipers—those secretive lizard-lovers—want a share? No wonder I’ve felt more than one pair of eyes watching this beach.”

He bared his teeth, revealing sharp, white fangs—not a smile, but a predator’s territorial warning.

“Tell the Duke I understand. A month? Fine. On this battlefield, time’s length is decided by my war drums and the speed of their blood flow.”

“The Dragonworshipers had better grow accustomed to circling the maze’s edge, for every path that seems to lead to the ruin will become a trench requiring lives to fill.”

The sea wind carried the scent of gunpowder; he inhaled deeply, as if tasting the cruelty to come.

“Let the vultures circle overhead. But the first to step into the ruins will be me and my warriors. As for what’s inside…”

He paused, a cold calculation flashing in his eyes, “when it’s in my hands, it will know who it belongs to.”

…………

“Gentlemen, I’ve called you here because an uninvited guest has slipped into our ‘backyard.’” Gisk’s voice was low and steady, a gray-white withered branch held between his claws.

“According to reconnaissance reports brought back at great risk last night, the Dragonworshipers’ traces have appeared in the valleys along our flank.”

He gently placed the branch atop the crude tactical map, beside the markers representing the demonic lines.

“This isn’t an ordinary branch. It comes from a ‘Pale Soul-Sucking Tree.’ It cannot survive on the Shattered Stone Continent beneath our feet.”

He scanned the silent commanders in the tent, his gaze sharp. “Yet it now lies less than thirty miles from our camp. What does that mean? You all know.”

“Those scale-worshipping scholars and tomb-robbers have noses sharper than hyenas. Demon stench didn’t deter them—our battle lines mean nothing to them.”

He leaned forward slightly, shadow falling across the twisted branch. “They’re searching for something—something worth risking passage through the war zone. And we cannot allow an invisible hand to reach onto our siege chessboard.”

“I have no interest in probing the flags or motives behind each of you,” Gisk said, his gaze slowly sweeping the silent representatives in the tent, the gray-white branch turning gently in his claw.

“But since the Dragonworshipers’ shadow has fallen upon our shared battlefield, some things… have become simpler.”

He pressed the branch lightly onto the valley marker on the map, as if pinning an invisible moth.

“They are hyenas drawn by secrets, ghost players outside the board. Whether you seek treasure, knowledge, or power—

When a group of scholars skilled in ancient tongues and dragon-beast control begins operating at your target’s flank, any rational person should be wary.”

His voice lowered half a notch, acquiring a metallic rasp. “My army is locked in struggle with the demon walls—no hands free to deal with these shadow guests. But you… your flexible blades behind you… may be suited for such work.”

“I don’t need to know who struck, nor care whose emblem is stained with blood,” Gisk’s lips curled into a nearly polite curve.

“I need only one result: within a month, the Dragonworshipers… must remain forever weathered in those valleys.”

“After all,” he released his claw, letting the branch roll toward the map’s edge, “compared to visible demons, hidden watchers are far better at… disrupting everyone’s carefully laid plans. Eliminating them is a guaranteed profit for each of you, isn’t it?”

The tent fell silent, save for the wind rustling the curtains. Gisk’s words were a stone dropped into a still pond—beneath the ripples, hidden currents churned in the minds of the representatives.

Fernand tapped his fingers lightly on the table, his gaze as sharp as a hawk’s. “Marshal Gisk, permit me to speak plainly: your Duke’s intelligence network has always been more sensitive than the sea serpents of the Mothdeep.”

“For the Dragonworshipers to penetrate so deeply into the war zone, if no one turned a blind eye… even the sand beneath your feet wouldn’t believe it.”

Gisk: (bared his teeth in a lazy, feral grin) “Mr. Fernand, you jest. The Duke’s authority spans the entire Shattered Star Strait. In the fog of war… who truly cares if a few more souls vanish, or a few less live?”

His claw traced lightly over the valley marker on the map. “What matters is that these unwelcome guests have conveniently become our shared ‘problem.’ And problems… must be cleaned up, don’t they?”