Poisoned Fontaine
Jia Xu stood just beyond Fontaine's border, his gaze cold and grim as he stared at the clear waters the Fontainians regarded as a "gift from the gods."
He ordered three thousand rotting corpses, heavy with plague and death, to be hurled into the river by catapult.
In just three days, the rippling blue waters turned deep purple. One hundred thousand elite Fontainian soldiers drank from the river and perished, their bodies rotting away.
Then one hundred and fifty thousand civilians fell, coughing blood in despair. The river's surface became choked with corpses, blocking out the sky.
Lü Bu laughed savagely and hurled oil firebombs into the armory. Amid the towering flames, Furina knelt on the palace terrace.
The scepter that symbolized her authority as Hydro Archon slipped from her hand and shattered with a crisp, final sound.
Fontaine's border, bathed in autumn sunlight, looked like a ribbon casually drawn by the gods. On this side of the boundary marker lay the dark, imposing camp of Lü Bu's army—cold armor, forest of spears, thick with the stench of iron and blood. Beyond the narrow buffer zone lay Fontaine. Its sky seemed bluer, the moist wind carrying fresh grass and trees, and in the distance, the river sang as it rushed. The Freyja River, proudly called the "Mother of Life" by the Fontainians, along with the countless streams and lakes it fed, glinted like scattered silver under the midday sun.
Before the central military tent stood two men.
Lü Bu stood nine feet tall, his scarlet cloak flapping violently. He crossed his arms, his Sky Piercer halberd slanted in the dirt beside him. His rough face showed unbridled greed and impatience.
"Damned place," he spat, his voice like thunder. "Hiding behind a few lousy rivers and those fire-spitting iron tubes! Kept this lord waiting two months! Jia Wenhe, when will your 'brilliant plan' finally work? My halberd has not drunk divine blood in far too long!"
Behind him stood the strategist Jia Xu. Thin, dressed in an unassuming dark gray scholar's robe, his face gaunt, his eyes as deep as an ancient well—no light, only cold, silent darkness. At his lord's outburst, the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
"General, be patient," Jia Xu said flatly, his voice like a frozen river. "Fontaine relies on two things: water, the foundation of their nation and lives; and fire, those foreign-forged cannons, truly fierce. Our cavalry cannot approach. A direct attack is the worst strategy. Even if we win, our army will be decimated."
He raised a bony finger toward the glittering waters—the very source the Fontainians worshipped as divine gift and pride.
"To break their nation, first break their spirit. Cut their roots, and their strong walls and powerful cannons become meaningless."
Lü Bu frowned. "Speak plainly!"
A faint glint flickered in Jia Xu's eyes. His voice dropped lower, smooth and bone-chilling.
"General, come. Watch me… perform my art."
His "ritual" took place not at the front, but in a tightly sealed valley behind the army. The air was heavy and stagnant, reeking of rot and death, mixed with lime and burning herbs—almost suffocating.
Inside the valley, the scene was hell itself.
In massive, hastily dug pits lay thousands upon thousands of corpses: men and horses, fallen soldiers from nearby battlefields, even civilians forcibly taken from plague-stricken villages. None were properly buried, only covered with thin soil and straw mats, now burst open by decomposition gases. Bodies swelled, blackened, skin turning eerie purple and green, oozing yellow-green pus down the slopes. Swarms of flies buzzed in a black cloud, feasting on the rotting flesh.
Even Lü Bu, a butcher of men, felt his stomach churn. He held his breath, his face twitching. His soldiers guarding the area were pale, covering their mouths with soaked cloths, eyes filled with terror and disgust.
Jia Xu, however, seemed unaffected. He walked calmly through the valley of death as if strolling his own courtyard. The stench, the horror—none stirred his well-like eyes. He even stopped at a pit, gazing at a maggot-ridden corpse as if admiring a treasure.
"Enough!" Lü Bu roared. "Wenhe, what in the world are you doing?!"
Jia Xu turned slowly, his face still empty, only his eyes sharp as poisoned ice.
"General, these are the seeds of plague… the source of death. The Fontainians worship water as pure and divine. We shall feed their god the filthiest, most desperate thing in the world. Let their own deity deliver death and fear to its people."
He turned to the ashen engineer officer behind him and issued an order that would stain history with infamy:
"Begin. Hurl every corpse into the upper Freyja River and all its main tributaries. Leave… not one."
And so hell moved.
Soldiers endured unbearable nausea, dragging the slimy, rotting bodies out with hooks and stretchers. Black ooze and shredded flesh dripped, leaving stinking trails. Wagons loaded with these "special ammunition" rumbled silently toward the catapults.
Dozens of massive catapults stood ready, their arms like demon limbs aimed at Fontaine's blue sky. Even with promised rewards, the operators trembled, avoiding looking at the cargo.
"Launch!"
With a grating crack, the first wave flew.
Not boulders. Not fire oil.
Dozens of twisted, rotting, plague-ridden corpses arced ugly parabolas and splashed into the once-clear Freyja River.
One. Ten. A hundred. A thousand.
At first, only faint ripples and dark streaks. But soon, the river truly changed. Clear blue turned murky yellow, then brown, then—in the main channels and slow bends—a terrifying deep purple.
The stench drifted downstream, even against the wind. Oily, multicolored foam floated on the surface. The once-cheerful river became a vast, flowing trench of death.
Day One
Border soldiers drank deeply as usual, unaware.
Day Two
Soldiers began falling ill: high fever, vomiting, weakness. Then black spots, bleeding under skin, swollen lymph nodes. Skin rotted away, oozing pus. Coughing up blood. The strongest warriors curled in agony, watching their bodies dissolve.
Panic exploded like the plague itself. One hundred thousand elite troops, dependent on the river for drinking, cooking, cleaning—betrayed by the very water they trusted. Camps turned into open-air morgues. Coughs, screams, and death rattle filled the air.
Day Three
The disaster spread to towns and villages.
Civilians drank, washed, played in the same water. The same symptoms erupted. No medicine worked. Prayers and hymns meant nothing. One hundred and fifty thousand civilians—old, women, children—fell in agony. Streets littered with unburied bodies. Once-prosperous river towns became ghostlands. Corpses clogged the rivers, blocking sunlight and boats.
Fontaine fell into the deepest despair in its history. The dead outnumbered the living.
Just as resistance neared collapse—
BOOM!
A burning oil firebomb streaked through the foul air and slammed into a cannon position. Gunpowder barrels detonated. Fireballs erupted, spraying shrapnel and limbs.
Then another. And another. Hundreds.
Lü Bu's long-awaited assault began.
Soldiers covered their mouths, cavalry charging forward, infantry pushing catapults and crossbows. A black tide crossing the border. Their targets: cannons, armories, powder stores.
Firebombs rained down, igniting everything. Wood, tents, supplies, especially gunpowder. Deafening explosions blossomed across Fontaine. Black smoke blotted the sky. Fortresses shattered. Cannons that once tormented Lü Bu melted into twisted scrap.
Explosions neared the heart of Fontaine. Flames painted half the sky blood-red.
On the highest terrace of the Hydro Archon's palace…
Furina stood alone. Once elegant, now disheveled. Her heterochromatic eyes, once lively, now hollow as she stared at the distant fires and smoke.
She saw the sky polluted. Smelled burning ash and… faint, pervasive, sickening rot. Heard explosions and the desperate cries of her people.
Her nation. Her people. Everything she cherished—destroyed in the filthiest, cruelest way. The river that once gave life now delivered poison. As Hydro Archon, she could not purify it. Could not save the millions dying in the tainted water.
A crushing sense of powerlessness flooded her heart like cold water.
Below, footsteps and clanging armor approached. They had broken through the last gate.
Furina closed her eyes slowly. Two tears slid down her pale cheeks, falling onto the cold stone and vanishing.
The scepter—symbol of her archon authority, forged from pure sapphire and mithril, capable of summoning rain and waves—slipped from her limp fingers.
Clang—clatter—
It struck the terrace edge, then fell into the shadows below. A sharp, piercing sound of gemstone and metal shattering.
That sound was the wail of her broken divinity.
The death knell of an era.
Beneath the terrace, Lü Bu stepped over rubble and fresh blood into the palace square. He looked up at the small, trembling white figure on the high terrace and grinned—a conqueror's cruel, satisfied smile. His Sky Piercer, still dripping fresh blood, dripped onto the polished court floor.
Fontaine had fallen.