Chapter 130: Sarut

“Gum, how is the fleet construction progressing?”

The pig-headed artisan leader Gum, clad in a thick leather apron caked with wood shavings and resin, with a measuring rope hanging from his tusks, immediately pounded his chest in salute at the sound. Before him stood the Legion Marshal, who had personally come to inspect the riverside shipyard.

“Report, Marshal!” Gum’s voice was coarse but clear, drowning out the ceaseless sawing and hammering. “Construction is advancing at full pace according to plan.”

“Ten ‘River Claw’-class light patrol boats have been fully completed and launched, and are now undergoing final calibration and oar training by the lizard artisan masters. Their speed and maneuverability exceed expectations—they can control any waters within fifty li upstream of the Mudu River.”

He turned sideways, gesturing toward a more bustling dry dock area behind him, where the rhythmic chants of men hauling heavy timber echoed. “Look over there—three ‘Iron Tusks’-class medium troop transports. The main keels were magically bonded yesterday; rib framing is being installed in parallel.”

“According to the lizard artisans’ calculations and our three-shift work schedule, the entire hull structure, armor plating, and basic rune engraving will be completed within nine combat days. On the tenth day, we can begin load and speed tests.”

He paused, then added: “Each will be able to deliver at least two fully equipped heavy infantry companies at once, with a speed no less than seventy percent of the patrol boats.”

“Gum, the wood shavings and the sound of waves before your eyes have blinded you to the true level of war.”

Sarut’s voice was low, yet it drowned out the entire shipyard’s clamor. He stepped forward, his shadow engulfing the artisan still in salute.

“Ten patrol boats, three keels… do you think we’re building a pleasure flotilla for a riverside estate?” He raised his hand, pointing toward the murky, vast expanse of the Mudu River—as if pointing to an invisible strategic map.

“On my records, after accounting for battle losses and garrisoned outposts, there are twenty full legions—two hundred thousand swords thirsting for blood—waiting to sail downstream along the river.”

His gaze returned, cold as iron. “Their destination is the Mudu River Plains. Accompanying these two hundred thousand soldiers are five thousand fully armored Iron Tusks war boars. They are not cargo—they are living battering rams, meant to launch the first wave of death across the plains.”

“Tell me, Gum,” Sarut leaned slightly forward, his eyes beneath the helmet rim locked onto the artisan, “can the three beautiful keels you’re laying, and the paltry dozens of ships you’ve planned, carry my war?”

He straightened, no longer looking at Gum’s instantly pale face, but toward the river wind, declaring his final, unyielding demand like a verdict:

“I need at least three hundred ‘Iron Tusks’-class transport ships—on this river, before the next dry season arrives. Now, tell me: do you and your shipyard truly understand the meaning of that number?”

Gum was nearly suffocated by the Marshal’s words; his thick neck tensed slightly, his tusks grinding nervously. He wiped a hand across his forehead, smearing sweat and wood shavings, his voice now tinged with rare, professional shame and urgency.

“M-Marshal,” his throat was dry as he struggled to form words, “myself and these boys—you know us best.”

“We were born to swing hammers and shatter city walls, to dig trenches and build ramparts that break enemies’ skulls. Every heavy crossbow’s craftsmanship, every stone block’s stacking method in the battlements—is etched into our bones. But this…”

He whirled around, his arm slashing toward the noisy, inefficient dockyard, pointing to a young pig-headed soldier trying to hammer a curved plank straight—the wood cracked sharply in two under his excessive force, drawing swift, furious hisses from nearby lizard overseers.

“—but shipbuilding is different!” Gum’s voice rose, laced with a near-helpless frustration.

“The Academy only taught us how to build battering rams to smash ships—not how to make wood float and carry men! Curves, draft, keel stress… these terms are harder to grasp than spells!”

He pointed to several bronze-skinned figures standing out among the green-aproned lizard artisans, who were gathered around a ship model, exchanging rapid, incomprehensible signals.

“The lizard masters… their craftsmanship is unmatched, but there are only twelve of them! They can draw the most precise blueprints, mix the most miraculous adhesives—but they can’t multiply their hands! They can only direct; the critical steps must be done by their own hands.”

“And our people…” Gum shook his head in pain, “learning to use a plane is ten times harder than learning to wield an axe! Drying, steaming, bending wood—slip up once, and days of work are ruined.”

“We’ve already pulled our most skilled engineers here, but the speed… the speed simply won’t increase. This isn’t a matter of will, Marshal—it’s… it’s that this craft isn’t etched into our bones.”

The Marshal’s gaze sharpened instantly, like a razor scraping across Gum’s face.

“Who told you to build a turtle shell that never sinks?!”

His voice was low, yet carried a brutal, almost savage pragmatism.

“Gum, are you still carrying the Academy’s dogma in your skull? Open your eyes—this is a battlefield, not a model workshop!” He slammed his hand toward the lower reaches of the Mudu River, as if piercing the horizon to the blood-soaked plains beyond.

“I need twenty thousand warriors who can slash and kill, five thousand boars that can charge, and enough supplies to feed them!”

He stepped forward, his face nearly touching Gum’s, his breath hitting the artisan’s cheeks.

“As long as they don’t fall apart before reaching the Mudu River Plains—that’s the only standard! Once they arrive, even if they shatter into splinters on the shore, as long as my soldiers and boars are on land, their mission is complete!”

He stepped back half a pace and jabbed his finger hard into Gum’s solid chest.

The Marshal slashed his hand through the air, cutting off all excuses.

“Change it! Lower the standards, halve the timeline. Use the sturdiest raw timber, lash and reinforce directly. Brace the interior with iron bars, wrap key sections in iron plates. Runes? Only the most basic ‘Reinforce’ and a touch of ‘Water-Repel’—enough to last ten days of sailing.”

“I want to see thirty keels rising simultaneously in the dockyard. I want to see those idiots who can’t plane wood hauling timber, hammering rivets, and tying ropes!”

“Yes, Marshal. Within twenty days, the ships you require will launch on schedule.”

…………

The model ruins on the command table’s sand table were cast in eerie, flickering light by burning torches. Jisk’s massive claw pressed directly onto the section marked “Crystal Jaw Bay.”

He lifted his head, his beastly pupils flickering with iron and blood, sweeping over every face in the tent—etched by smoke and exhaustion.

“Save the speeches. The Dragon-Worshipers have been purged. Now, it’s time for the main course.” His voice was low, yet it drowned out the wind and waves outside the tent.

“Our fist cannot keep smashing against the demon’s hardest skull until it’s pulp. Next, we strike its waist—where it least expects, and where it hurts most.”

His claw stabbed sharply into the depression on the sand table representing the Crystal Jaw Bay harbor.

“Here. Crystal Jaw Bay. Within five days, I want it flying our flag.”

“Iron Jaw!”

A pig-headed war banner commander, his face thick with muscle and tusks jutting outward, stepped forward, armor clanking.

“Present!”

“You, hold the front line. Starting tomorrow, move every siege engine to the very edge of the beach—bombard day and night without pause!”

“Dump every last one of those explosive, shrieking, poison-smoke ‘junk devices’ from the arsenal onto the demon’s walls! I want them unable to open their eyes, their ears filled with your ‘greetings’!”

Jisk stared at him, each word deliberate: “Your task is not to breach the city—it’s to make the demons believe I, Jisk, am coming straight through the front. Miss even an hour of noise, and I’ll answer for it.”

“Understood!” Iron Jaw grinned, pounding his chest.

“Gornel!”

A lean, vulture-eyed jackal-man scout banner commander stepped forward silently.

“Your Cliff Banner—deploy them all. You have one day to map every crack, every protrusion that can hold rope, every rat hole within five li above and beside Crystal Jaw Bay—draw it clearer than your own faces!”

Jisk pulled a black bone talisman from his chest and tossed it to him.

“Take this—it’ll help you evade most Shenyuankuishi . I need to know: where can you drop down to land directly on the harbor tower’s roof? Where can you circle behind their gate winches?”

Gornel caught the talisman, his eyes glinting with bloodlust: “Understood, Marshal. I’ll count every moss patch in their wall cracks.”

“Shadow Claw!”

The lizard commander’s cold, vertical pupils turned toward him.

“Your fleet is the lifeline of this operation. Two days from now, at nightfall, I want your ‘Black Tide’ main force to create maximum noise at the Star-Shattered Strait—pretend you’re launching a full-scale naval assault on Crystal Jaw Bay.”

Jisk stepped closer, his hot breath puffing onto Shadow Claw’s icy scales.

“But what matters most are your three fastest, quietest ‘Shadow Ships.’ When I raise the signal, they must glide like shadows right beneath the harbor breakwater!”

“The men aboard aren’t sailors—they’re my elite heavy infantry. When the gate opens, they’re the first wedges to storm inside!”

Shadow Claw’s eyelids blinked slowly: “Signal?”

“Bloodfire Meteor. You’ll see it explode from the cliff top.” Jisk’s voice was low. “If your ships are late—or discovered early—you know the consequence.”

“The Black Tide never misses its time.” Shadow Claw rasped.

“As for the main assault…” He grinned, revealing rows of sharp white fangs. “I lead it myself. The Bloodfang Guard, plus all the underground goblin engineers’ grappling hooks and demolition teams—we descend from the cliffs.”

He seized the small flag representing the demon harbor garrison and crushed it in his claw.

“All clear? Go prepare. Fail, and we all feed the abyss’s worms. Win…” He paused, his voice thick with naked hunger, “then the Duke’s battle merits are worth claiming.”

The officers roared in unison, a storm of killing intent filling the tent.

Jisk added one final remark, his gaze fixed beyond the tent into endless darkness:

“Oh, and by the way—the official story is that we launched this full-scale assault to avenge our ‘unfortunate slain’ Dragon-Worshiper allies. This performance? Give it your all.”

The meeting ended; the officers hurried out, leaving only the sand table’s harbor model, deeply indented by Jisk’s claw, and the cold, precise fire burning in his eyes.

The decapitation strike is about to begin. And this time, his blade will bypass the hardest skull and strike straight for the throat.