Chapter 185 — The Poisoned Mind

  Outer Wall — Beyond Human Sight

  Night pressed heavily over the forest.

  Beyond the torchlight of Fort Westmarch, three shadows slipped through the trees and dropped to one knee.

  Selvara.

  And two werewolves who had infiltrated the fort.

  Before them stood a towering figure nearly three meters tall, his silver-gray fur shifting softly in the moonlight. Even still, he seemed carved from stone.

  Silva — one of the Eight Demon Generals.

  The air around him alone was enough to suffocate.

  Selvara and the two werewolves bowed their heads in unison.

  Sweat rolled down their backs.

  “Report.”

  His voice was deep and calm.

  Gentle.

  But beneath that calm lay something razor-thin and merciless.

  One wrong word — and it would cut.

  “General!” the larger werewolf began. “With the map Selvara provided, we successfully laced most of the human supply crates with Madness Powder.”

  Silva did not react. His golden eyes remained half-lidded.

  “Any complications?”

  The werewolf swallowed.

  “…I was spotted by a human girl while scattering the powder. I used the remaining pouch to blind her and escaped. It is possible they’ve discovered the contamination by now.”

  Madness Powder.

  A creation of alchemical craft.

  A pinch could shatter reason.

  A mouthful could destroy a mind beyond repair.

  Silva’s original design had been simple:

  At dawn, humans eat.

  By noon, they tear each other apart.

  By dusk, the beast army enters a fort already devoured from within.

  Clean.

  Efficient.

  Instead, the plan was incomplete — and discovered.

  Silence lingered.

  “And you?” Silva asked the second infiltrator.

  “It has been planted as ordered, General. By tomorrow noon, the secondary trigger will activate.”

  “Good.”

  Then his gaze moved.

  “And you, Selvara?”

  She kept her head lowered.

  “…The mage remains alive. I was intercepted by [Silver Ward], [Silent Edge], and [Illusion] simultaneously.”

  One of Silva’s brows lifted slightly.

  “Mm. They treasure that mage greatly.”

  “No, General.”

  “No?”

  “The one who flies — [Emerald Gale] of the silver-rank party [Four Bastion]. She is wife to [Silver Ward]. She sensed her danger through a lover’s bracelet. She arrived with [Illusion] and [Silent Edge] to reinforce her.”

  Silva’s eyes sharpened faintly.

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  “So… miscalculation layered atop coincidence.”

  His mind began moving.

  Plans folding over plans.

  Possibilities stacking like blades in the dark.

  The first werewolf slowly lifted his head.

  “General… will I be punished?”

  “Why?”

  The word was indifferent.

  “I failed. The humans may not descend into madness now.”

  Silva stared at him.

  Then — slowly — he grinned.

  “Stupid mutt.”

  The werewolf stiffened.

  “Even if the madness fails… you still poisoned their food.”

  The three beneath him froze.

  “And if they discover it?” Silva continued. “Fear will spread faster than any toxin.”

  Understanding flickered.

  “Imagine it,” Silva said calmly. “You are surrounded. Enemy on all sides. Then you learn your food is poisoned.”

  His voice grew quieter.

  “They will check every crate in panic.”

  “They will recount their rations.”

  “They will whisper at night.”

  His golden eyes gleamed.

  “And when they finish counting… they will realize they have no more than three days.”

  The forest seemed colder.

  “They will argue. Some will demand breakout. Some will ration. Some will call for reinforcements.”

  His grin widened slightly.

  “Either way — morale fractures.”

  The first werewolf stared in awe.

  “Just because the first layer failed,” Silva murmured, “does not mean the plan has.”

  Selvara remained silent.

  He turned toward her again.

  “You said [Silver Ward] is husband to [Emerald Gale]. Friend to [Illusion] and [Silent Edge].”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Kill her.”

  Selvara’s breath paused.

  “…Kill her?”

  “She disrupted Alpha’s advance. She led the charge. She shielded the mage.”

  His voice lost its calm.

  “That is enough.”

  Selvara tried once more.

  “She is only fourteen.”

  Silva’s lips curled, exposing fang.

  “She is a blade.”

  A pause.

  “Remove it.”

  Selvara lowered her head.

  “As you command.”

  Inside her thoughts—

  Ah… little Ivaline.

  It seems your life weighs against my freedom.

  And I am selfish.

  Inside Fort Westmarch

  The alarm was sounded in the middle of the night.

  Margrave Alaric was roused from sleep.

  Selene had just stepped from the bath when the news reached her.

  Madness Powder.

  The rations were compromised.

  “They got us,” the Margrave muttered darkly.

  Before the siege, the fort held one week of provisions — including supplies escort by [Meteor Fall].

  He had hoped to endure until reinforcements from Barton Edrien arrived.

  Now—

  “How long can we stretch what remains?” Selene asked.

  “Two days,” the Margrave replied. “Three, if we cut portions. Four… if we starve.”

  Silence thickened.

  All top parties were present.

  [Dragon Piercer]

  [Meteor Fall]

  [Four Bastion]

  [Grim Vulture]

  Voices erupted.

  “Wash the grain!”

  “It could still trigger!”

  “Break through!”

  “Civilians will die!”

  “Open the gates!”

  “We’ll be slaughtered!”

  Arguments piled atop arguments.

  Fear disguised as strategy.

  Near the edge of the table stood Ivaline.

  Quiet.

  Her fingers rested against the map.

  Inside her mind—

  A slow rustle.

  Like old parchment turning.

  Chronicle did not speak immediately.

  He hummed softly, as if reaching into shelves only he could see.

  Not often that Ivaline has reach her mind so deep like this.

  Ans when she did, she could feel chronicle move.

  A silhouette of an old man could be seen barely.

  “…Mm.”

  She waited.

  When he spoke, his voice was that of an old man who had lived too long with history book.

  “Food poisoned. Siege intact. Morale unstable.”

  A faint sigh.

  “I’ve read this before.”

  “How did it end?” she asked inwardly.

  “They salted wells outside a border city once. Not to deny water.”

  A dry chuckle.

  “To make the defenders panic and consume their stored reserves too quickly.”

  “And?”

  “They opened the gates three days earlier than planned.”

  Ivaline’s eyes sharpened.

  “He wants us to move.”

  “Yes.”

  A pause.

  “When a general poisons food, Ivaline… he isn’t thinking of stomachs. He’s thinking of minds.”

  The shouting in the chamber swelled again.

  “If I were him,” Chronicle murmured, “I would wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “Yes. You will count. You will argue. You will ration. You will lose sleep.”

  His voice turned distant.

  “I have read armies crumble not because they were starving… but because they believed they were.”

  Ivaline inhaled slowly.

  “Then we deny him that.”

  “Mm.”

  Another pause.

  Then—

  “In the War of old, a duke found himself encircled. Supplies dwindling.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He take enemy’s supply instead.”

  Her pulse quickened.

  “He attacked?”

  “Not to win,” Chronicle corrected gently. “To unsettle.”

  He gave a faint old-man grunt.

  “Generals hate uncertainty. It forces them to act before they are ready.”

  Ivaline looked up.

  The room still argued.

  “Small blade,” Chronicle said quietly. “Not large hammer.”

  She raised her voice.

  “He wants us to panic.”

  The room quieted.

  Selene turned.

  “What are you proposing?”

  Ivaline placed her finger on the western ridge.

  “We strike.”

  Murmurs.

  “Not a breakout. A raid.”

  She traced beyond the beast encampment.

  “We destroy or take their supplies.”

  Margrave frowned. “We are the besieged.”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes were steady.

  “So he will not expect us to act as attackers.”

  Silence deepened.

  “If we destroy their supplies, Silva must accelerate his assault.”

  “And if he attacks early,” Selene said slowly, “we fight from the walls.”

  Chronicle’s voice softened.

  “Disturb his rhythm.”

  Ivaline nodded almost imperceptibly.

  The chamber grew contemplative.

  “It’s reckless,” someone muttered.

  “So is waiting to starve,” another replied.

  Hope flickered.

  Not bright.

  But real.

  “The north gate,” Margrave suggests. “A small elite strike team. Before dawn. Forest cover. Wind at our backs.”

  “And the south?” Selene asked.

  “We create noise. A false breakout. Loud enough to draw attention.”

  “The north team risks annihilation.”

  “The south team risks encirclement.”

  “Both have its own risk.”

  She did not waver.

  “But both risks are ours to choose.”

  The room fell quiet.

  For the first time since the news broke—

  No one was shouting.

  Only thinking.

  At last, Selene nodded.

  “Very well.”

  Alaric crossed his arms, eyes sharp.

  “Dawn.”

  Orders began to flow.

  Assignments given.

  Rest commanded.

  One hour before operation, all would assemble.

  The rest would remain as reserve.

  Outside the walls, unseen—

  Silva stood beneath the moon.

  Waiting.

  “show me… what will you propose to this general?”