In the academy's monitoring spire, Headmaster Valerius stared silently at the wall of scrying feeds, a faint frown of disapproval tugging at his lips as he watched the Conquest Legion's followers brawl over a half-eaten crate of smoked meat.
The junior examiner beside him tilted his head, confusion written across his face. "Headmaster, if I may ask—why cut the resources so sharply? Frankly, it's unnecessary. In a proper divine realm, resources are the cheapest thing there is, worth less than gravel. If food runs short, the first thing that collapses is follower faith. If any contestants are eliminated because their followers starve to death, there will be an uproar. It could cause real trouble."
Valerius let out a cold huff, his gaze not leaving the screens. "Yes, resources are cheap. But have you ever stopped to think why they're cheap? They're cheap because we can replenish them at any time, from the safety of our core realms. But the second you step into the Abyss, into the deep void? No god dares open a stable link to their home realm there. To do so is to paint a target on your back, to expose your very divine essence to the void's corruption."
He turned to the examiner, his voice sharp with the weight of centuries of war on the void front. "You don't understand it now, but when you graduate and are assigned to the front lines, staring down the void and the Abyss hordes? Logistics are everything. If your followers can't feed themselves, can't sustain themselves without your constant divine handouts? They'll be dead the second they step into the void."
The examiner opened his mouth, hesitating. "Surely it's not that bad. We have automated farm enchantments, even for frontline outposts—"
Valerius sighed, shaking his head, and said no more.
This tournament's hidden parameters hadn't been his idea alone. They'd been mandated by General Xu, the commander of the empire's void front, who'd warned them months prior: the Abyss's intelligence was growing. Their incursions no longer targeted military outposts first. They targeted the automated farms, the supply depots, the logistics infrastructure. Destroy that, and an entire army's divine realm collapses in on itself. No food, no medical supplies, no ammunition. Faith plummets, followers desert, and there's no coming back from that.
Still, he hadn't left the contestants completely stranded. The ocean was teeming with fish— the Tide Pact would never go hungry. The Conquest Legion still held most of the continent's remaining supply drop zones, and a handful of their followers had brought automated farm enchantments into the realm. Their basic food supply was still stable, if they bothered to use it.
But none of that mattered to Laia's followers, not when they saw the intelligence report that morning.
Down in the underground fortress, the command cavern's heavy stone doors slammed open. Lirael the Elven King stormed in, his face thunderous, and slapped a crumpled scouting report down on the stone table. He dropped into a carved stone chair, crossing his arms, seething with quiet rage.
Korg the Void Ape King looked up from the floating rice paddy blueprints he'd been poring over, and chuckled, shaking his head. "What's with all the fire? We talked about this—steady growth, keep our heads down, no trouble. It's just a scouting report on the surface folks. What's got you this worked up?"
Lirael's head snapped up, his voice sharp with fury. "You don't understand. It's infuriating. Those people up there—they're despicable."
Korg snickered, leaning forward and grabbing the report off the table. "Calm down. How bad can it be?"
His eyes scanned the page once. Twice.
A deafening CRACK split the air. The solid stone table beneath his fists split clean down the middle, shards of rock flying across the cavern. Unbridled, volcanic rage erupted from him, and he roared, slamming his fist into the broken table so hard the stone turned to powder.
"THEY DARE?! Those arrogant, wasteful bastards! We're down here scrimping and saving, rationing every grain of rice, every slice of cheese for the Overgod, and they're up there gorging themselves? Forty pounds of food a day, minimum, per follower! Forty pounds! The big ones get even more! And we're hiding down here like moles, living on pickled vegetables and steamed buns? They're spitting in the face of every soul who's ever starved in the void!"
His voice rose to a scream, his massive frame trembling with rage. "And do you know what they're complaining about? Their bread didn't have jam on it! They threw the whole loaf on the ground! Stepped on it! They're wasting perfectly good bread because it didn't have enough sugar on it! How dare they?!"
Lirael stared at him, one eyebrow raised. Weren't you just talking about staying calm and keeping our heads down five seconds ago?
Korg took a deep, shuddering breath, pounding his chest to calm himself. Calm down. Calm down. Getting angry only makes the enemy laugh. Step back, breathe, endure it—
His eye twitched.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. No. No more enduring it. They're hoarding all the resources, wasting food like it's dirt, and they're still stealing the supply drops that are left? Today, they're taking it all back.
He shot to his feet, storming toward the weapons vault at the back of the cavern.
Lirael called after him, a flicker of amused concern in his voice. "Where are you going?"
"Fuck hoarding supplies. The neighbors are fat with loot, and we've raised millions of slimes for this exact day. I don't care if we have to blow a hole in the surface—we're raiding their granary today."
Lirael fell silent. He glanced to the side of the cavern, where rows upon rows of glowing red crystals sat stacked to the ceiling. These were the volatile, explosive byproducts of fire slimes, refined and compressed into crude but devastating bombs. And that was just the first storage cavern. Further down the tunnels, dozens of identical chambers were filled to the brim with the stuff, the faint red glow seeping through the cracks in the doors, casting the tunnels in an eerie, blood-red light.
They'd spent a year hiding underground, biding their time, hoarding resources, perfecting the explosives Laia had rambled about once, over a sandwich. Now? The time for hiding was over.
The second word of the surface dwellers' waste had spread through the fortress, the usually peaceful, live-and-let-live followers had snapped. The moles were done digging. They were ready to fight.
Minutes later, Korg, Lirael, and Gromm the Lizard King stood around a new map of the Conquest Legion's central fortress, spread across a stone slab. They glanced at each other, and a single, silent look passed between them. They all knew exactly what the others were thinking.
We're down here eating steamed buns and pickled vegetables three times a day, rationing cheese for the Overgod's return. And those bastards up there are feasting on spiced lobster and roasted boar, throwing away bread because it doesn't have jam? Is there any justice in this world? No.
So what do we do?
We take it from them.
This battle? They wager the very dignity of bread.
Lirael drew a slender, jet-black wand from his belt, forged from void-hardened uru steel by the dwarven smiths, capped with a glowing star sapphire blessed by the elven queen herself. The air around it hummed with frost and nature magic, refined and deadly.
Korg slipped on a pair of reinforced iron gauntlets, etched with runes of severing and impact, blessed by the human king's battle magic. The metal creaked as he clenched his fists, the runes flaring to life with a faint golden light.
Gromm didn't bother with fancy weapons or armor. His scaled hide was already harder than steel, blessed by the ancient dragon lord's bloodline, his body infused with hereditary void witchcraft. He'd gone toe-to-toe with Rank 4 void beasts barehanded and won. He cracked his knuckles, his sharp teeth bared in a feral grin.
The war was about to begin. Let those fools who threw away bread over a lack of jam never taste another crumb for the rest of their lives.
Around them, the clan leaders and warrior captains exchanged glances, slow, menacing grins spreading across their faces. The tunnels hummed with quiet, eager bloodlust.
The moon hung high in the sky, shrouded in thick, dark clouds. The night was hot and still, the only sound the shrill chirp of cicadas in the grass around the Conquest Legion's fortress. On the southern wall, a green-skinned orc sentry slouched in his watchtower, scowling into the dark, thoroughly miserable.
On a normal night, he'd have downed at least two jugs of strong ale before his shift was over. But because he'd drawn guard duty, he'd only gotten one. He spat over the edge of the wall, sneering. What was the point of this guard duty, anyway? The Tide Pact was all the way on the coast, days of travel away. Those "mole" freaks were cowards, hiding underground, too scared to show their faces. They'd never dare attack the greatest fortress on the continent, right in the heart of the mainland.
He yawned, slumping back into his chair, his eyes drifting shut. In his half-asleep daze, he swore he saw a meteor streaking down from the sky. He could feel the searing heat, smell the acrid smoke, hear the distant screams and the faint, sickly scent of roasted meat.
Wait. Roasted meat?
His eyes snapped open.
The entire fortress was engulfed in flames.
The southern wall had been blown clean open, massive chunks of stone and wood flying through the air, fire spreading across the wooden battlements like wildfire. He fumbled for the alarm bell, yanking the rope as hard as he could, the bell's deafening clang ringing out across the fortress.
"Enemtyz
Allhands TO battle tatlnox! We're unerp Attack!"
Panic erupted across the fortress. The followers of the Conquest Legion had grown soft, living in luxury and idleness for a full year, never once facing a real attack. Their defenses were lax, their weapons unsharpened, their battle formations forgotten. The second the first bomb hit, their lines shattered.
Warriors stumbled out of their barracks, half-dressed, grabbing for their weapons, staring around in wild confusion. There were no enemies in sight, no army charging the gates. Only a constant rain of explosive bombs, arcing over the walls from every direction, slamming into the barracks, the granaries, the watchtowers, sending fire and shrapnel tearing through everything.
One of the orc captains stared up at the sky, his face white with terror, and screamed. "IMPOSSIBLE! There's no way any of these savages have explosives! This level of technology doesn't exist in the tournament!"
No one answered him. There was only the endless roar of exploding bombs, the crackle of fire, and the screams of his men.
A mile away, hidden in a tree line at the edge of the forest, Korg squeezed a crude clay bomb in his hand, cackling like a maniac.
The Overgod had been right. The realm's level restrictions didn't stop them from innovating. A lot of the fancy tech Laia rambled about was impossible with their limited materials, sure. But with the dwarven smiths and the human king's engineering notes, plus the endless lessons Laia had given them while she ate her sandwiches? Mixing the fire slime's explosive byproducts with the rock slime's hardening secretions to make crude, devastatingly powerful bombs? Child's play.
Simple to make. And oh so satisfying to watch go off.
He glanced over his shoulder, at the row of perfectly calibrated trebuchets hidden in the trees, the heavy siege crossbows lined up beside them, loaded with explosive bolts. He turned back to the burning fortress, his grin fading into cold, sharp bloodlust.
You brats. In your next life, learn to apologize to the bread you wasted.
This battle had only just begun. And the moles were just getting started.