Commander Rourke snapped his pocket watch shut with a sharp click and gave a crisp nod. "Time's up. Dismissed for chow."
The words had barely left his mouth when two blurs streaked past him, boots kicking up fine red dust across the parade ground. He blinked, staring after the vanishing figures, stunned. What in the abyss was that? Two overgrown black rats? They were supposed to be essence-drained after four straight hours of drill, for gods' sakes. He glanced back at the rest of the recruits, all staggering and gasping for breath, yet still somehow mustering the will to limp as fast as they could toward the mess hall, grim determination set in every jaw. Rourke sighed and shook his head.
The mess hall was a cavernous stone hall lined with scarred wooden tables, its serving counters heaped high with piled-high trays of food—unlimited portions, per the garrison contract. Laia had thought she'd be the first one through the door. She was wrong. A round, soft-featured young man with a cheerful, cherubic face had beaten her by half a step, his nose practically pressed to the glass sneeze guard.
"Ma'am!" he said, pointing eagerly at a tray of glistening braised chicken wings. "I'll take those, please!" The server behind the counter raised an eyebrow. "How many?" "Half the tray." "…Half?" She shook her head, dishing out over two dozen wings onto an oversized platter. "Don't waste it now, son. The fine's the least of it. Waste too much and we limit your portions next week." "Won't be a problem, ma'am," he said cheerfully, hefting a bowl bigger than his own head and piling the wings into it. He trundled off to a table, already taking a bite out of one mid-step.
The server sighed, then looked up as Laia stepped up to the counter. "What can I get you, miss?" "The other half of the wings, please."
The server stared.
Laia took a seat two tables away from the chubby recruit—Tobias, she'd heard someone call him. The mess hall was still mostly empty, so it was hard not to notice him—and hard not to notice him noticing her, his eyes flicking from her heaping plate to his own, then back again. Neither said a word. But the second they both took their first bite, the air in the hall shifted. A silent, unspoken competition ignited. Hands moved faster. Clean-picked bones piled higher. The only sounds were quiet crunching and the distant clatter of other recruits filtering through the doors.
Ten minutes later, two neat stacks of picked-clean bones sat on either side of the hall. Laia wiped her mouth with a napkin and gave the young man a small, respectful nod across the room. "You win. You started before me." He grinned back, wiping grease off his chin. "Nah. You caught up too fast. You're the winner."
They both stood to return their trays, perfectly cordial, like they hadn't just waged a silent war over braised poultry. The rest of the recruits filed in, laughing and chatting, none the wiser.
They were just setting their trays on the return rack when two veteran soldiers walked up to the wing tray, holding empty plates, and froze. Laia's shoulders tensed immediately. She stepped back, melting into the small crowd of new recruits, keeping her head down. Tobias, however, had no such self-preservation instinct. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and smiled brightly. "Hey, sergeants! You guys just getting out of late drill? What's with the empty plates?"
The two veterans stared at the empty tray, then at each other. One of them sighed, tossing his plate onto the return rack. "Nah, we're good. We ate last year." They turned and walked away, leaving the confused young man staring after them.
Laia slipped out of the mess hall, full and content. This place was perfect. All-you-can-eat meals. Steady merit pay. No weird faith-corroding side effects for her. Free villa. Full benefits. She'd half a mind to sign on full time after graduation, honestly.
The thought lasted all of ten seconds before she shook it off. There were no safe, cushy desk jobs in the Imperial Divine Military. It was all frontline duty, all abyssal campaigns, all being shuffled from one war zone to the next. Some nobody with no clan, no backing, no political connections? She'd get sent to the worst meat grinder on the border inside of a month, and no one would even notice when she died. Nope. Three months. Earn the Box of Avarice. Go back to the academy. Graduate. Find a quiet, low-profile way to make rent. That was the plan.
She grabbed her rifle from the villa, checked her ammo and explosive charges, and headed back through the perimeter gate into the purple mist. The outer zones were already starting to feel picked over, at least in the areas closest to the garrison. First and second tier spawns barely added up to anything. At this rate, it'd take three whole months to hit fifty thousand merits, not two. She frowned, staring down the winding ravine that led deeper into the abyss. A little further in wouldn't hurt. Third tier spawns were worth a hundred merits each. Just a few of those would speed things up drastically. She had Abyss Resistance. She had a rifle and explosives. She'd be fine. She hefted her weapon and started walking deeper into the mist.
Half a mile ahead, tucked in a shadowed cave mouth, two third-tier abyssal beasts watched her approach. A massive shadowfang worg with matted black fur and eyes like burning coals paced back and forth, growling low in his chest. Beside him, Veyra, the ashscale viper matriarch, coiled around a jagged stone pillar, her forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. "This one's killed half our outer broods," the worg snarled, his voice like grinding rock. "If she keeps coming in deeper, she'll slaughter every last one of us before the moon turns. You got a plan or not?"
The viper hissed, slow and cold. "She is Fourth Tier. We are not. We cannot take her head on. Not alone. The elders in the core zones would never bother with a single hunter." "Then what? We just let her hunt us to extinction?" "Of course not." The viper's head tilted, smug and cruel. "I have sent my best warriors, infused with the mother venom. One scratch, one drop in her blood, and it will seep right through to her divine realm. It eats through faith. It rots a god's hold on their subjects from the inside out. Her realm will crumble. The Abyssal Lord will claim what's left. And we will feast on a god's flesh."
The worg threw back his head and howled, quiet and vicious. Perfect.
A minute later, the strike came. Dozens of scaled vipers burst from the cracks in the rock walls, striking fast as lightning from the purple mist. Laia's brow lifted, and she danced back, putting distance between herself and the swarm. Her rifle cracked, sharp and steady, one shot for every viper that lunged. Seven went down in the first volley. Twelve more in the second.
Too many were getting through. She pulled a small oval explosive charge from her belt, primed it with a flick of her thumb, and tossed it into the densest part of the swarm. Fire roared through the ravine. Scales and charred flesh rained down from the mist.
When the smoke cleared, most of the swarm was gone. Laia stepped forward carefully, scanning the rocks for stragglers. The giant viper matriarch struck from above, dropping from an overhang, fangs bared. Laia moved faster. She dropped the rifle, drew the hunting dagger at her hip, and slashed upward in one clean, sharp motion. The viper's head tumbled to the stone, its body thrashing for a few seconds before going still.
Laia wiped the dark blood off her dagger onto the stone, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips. Another big haul. A third tier matriarch had to be worth at least two hundred merits on its own. She had no idea a single drop of the viper's venom had splashed onto her wrist, seeping through the fabric of her sleeve and into her skin before she'd even noticed.
Far away, at the very heart of her divine realm, the veil trembled. The full force of the abyssal venom crashed against the realm's inherent defenses. The Abyss Resistance trait flared bright, burning away ninety percent of the toxin before it could so much as touch the mortal lands below. But a single, tiny thread of it slipped through, drifting down over the realm like fine dust.
It was the oldest, most insidious trick of the abyss. It did not burn. It did not rot flesh. It fed on desire. It amplified every quiet want, every unspoken resentment, every grudge held against the ruling god. It turned loyalty to doubt, doubt to anger, anger to rebellion. It had felled a hundred gods before her, their subjects turning on them overnight for no reason they could name.
The fine venom dust settled over the villages, the forests, the forges, the dragon roost.
And nothing happened. Well. Almost nothing.
In the dragon roost, Vorath rolled over in his sleep and mumbled something about double-layer cream cake frosting, then snuggled deeper into his hoard. In the human capital, a group of engineers paused their work, looked at each other, and said, "Hey, we should speed up the grain mills. Then we can bake more bread every day." In the dwarf holds, Gimli stroked his beard and nodded to himself. Extra ore runs this week. More hammers. Better forges. More storage for the surplus. In the elven groves, Elowen tilted her head and decided she'd plant another three acres of wildflower fields before the end of the season.
The venom amplified desire, yes. But all anyone in this realm desired was more food, better tools, and a quiet, comfortable life. No resentment. No anger. No urge to rebel. No crack in their faith for the corruption to seep into.
The toxin drifted, confused, with no bitter feelings to feed on. It settled into the soil, and went dormant. No one even noticed it was there.
Out in the abyss, Laia slung the matriarch's carcass over her shoulder and started the walk back to the garrison, already tallying up her merit count in her head. Another good day. At this rate, she'd hit her goal even faster than she'd planned. She whistled a quiet, off-key tune as she walked, completely unaware that the most feared corrupting force in the abyss had just been defeated by a bunch of people who were perfectly happy with their lives.