Chapter 1309: A Regional Victory

A surprise—one that had been burrowing and crawling deep beneath the dark earth for an entire year—was now erupting with the force of a natural disaster. It burst forth from the rocks and soil along the border between the Black Forest and the ribbon-like plains, revealing itself to the hordes of mutants swarming out of the wasteland.

The earth trembled with a deep, rolling roar. Continuous tremors shook the southern border of the Dark Mountains. Far beneath the dark soil, in layers of earth imperceptible to humans, a vast network of plant structures had long since tunneled out from the Sorin Plains. These strange tendrils—neither quite roots nor vines—gnawed through soil and stone, drawing additional energy from biomass conversion factories and storage tanks along the way. Over the past months, they had grown relentlessly, accumulating strength for this very moment: to break through the surface and embrace the sunlight. Now, the “outer branches” of the Sorin giant trees began to spread wildly across the land.

Thorny vines and wooden spikes tore through the earth. From the southern forward base of the Cecilian forces to the dark mountain pass at the border with Typhon, countless plant structures surged out of cracks and caverns at a frenzied pace. The massive “roots” that emerged were chilling to behold—like the earth itself had sprouted countless writhing tentacles in an instant. Under the dim sky, these tendrils stretched and swayed wildly like seaweed in the air, and in the blink of an eye, they sealed off every entrance to the Dark Mountains.

The mutant army at the front sent back their final, dying visions—terrifying scenes etched deeply into the mind of the dark druid Berthelm. He saw dark green and deep brown root-like appendages bursting from the ground, sweeping over nearby mutants and various aberrations like predators. The vines pierced the flesh of the monsters, coiling their bodies; their immense strength could crush weaker creatures into pulpy masses. These tendrils dragged the dying, struggling mutant beasts and flesh hybrids one after another into the gaping mouths that suddenly opened in the earth’s surface. Within those dark, fathomless fissures, Berthelm glimpsed writhing teeth grinding and rubbing, muscles churning and crushing, and pools of boiling, bubbling digestive fluids.

Beneath the ribbon-like plains lay a vast digestive organ—hundreds of kilometers wide—a hungry, tooth-lined stomach formed from subterranean caverns and colossal biological structures. This enormous digestive system had been starving for a very long time. Now, the death of all things in the wasteland would provide it with a massive feast.

Soon, this food would be converted into new biomass for the green barrier forest, becoming the limbs and tendrils of the wildly spreading “sea of plants.”

A chill, forgotten for centuries, surged from the depths of his limbs and bones. Berthelm felt every inch of his bark and every branch trembling in the cold wind. In the last images sent back by the dying mutants, he saw the roots emerging from underground rapidly hardening and transforming. Their upward-reaching structures quickly took the shape of towering giant trees. These giants not only formed a green shield protecting the mortal world but greedily spread their leaves to soak up sunlight, extending their roots outward to strengthen the defensive line.

More terrifying than this scene was the voice linking into his mind.

Since the mutant army first encountered the green forest barrier, a vaguely familiar yet chilling female voice had been transmitted into his brain through some kind of neural link.

“You’re afraid. I can smell your fear, Berthelm… How amusing. We’ve ‘worked together’ for centuries. For hundreds of years, I regarded you and your malformed brethren as honorable comrades, willing to sacrifice yourselves for a great cause. You claimed to be fearless in the wasteland, that the survival of the world was your highest pursuit… Yet now, you command a frenzied, filthy legion to attack us, and after a slight setback, you tremble in terror. Berthelm, am I really that frightening?”

The voice seeped into his mind through neural nodes buried deep in the earth and scattered across the battlefield. The dark druid shook his branches violently, urging his guards to escort him as far away from this region of the wasteland as possible. At the same time, he roared in anger within his mind: “Beltira! You monstrous freak, more twisted than we are! More repulsive than the mutants themselves! You stand with those lowly creatures, gnawing the earth underground to build their barrier. But you’re still a freak. You have no place in that so-called ‘civilized realm’! You are… a traitor among the evolved!”

“I must correct you, Berthelm,” Beltira’s voice pierced his nervous system like a sharp needle, her calm tone dripping with irony. “Those ‘lowly creatures’ you despise have defeated the Mad God in direct combat, ended the famine on the Holy Spirit Plains within two years, allied with dragons, reconciled with gods, and unraveled the universe’s deepest truths within the divine realm. There is no one left in this world worthy of calling them ‘lowly.’ As for your concern about my place in the civilized realm… I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I have new friends everywhere here—a race that dares to kill gods. Their insight is far from the shallow ignorance you imagine.”

The earth trembled again. Near the now-extinguished grand wall in the distance, a thunderous roar echoed as another living forest erupted from the depths. The shaking tendrils and vines devoured every mutant and wasteland beast within reach before beginning to transform in place, forming layer upon layer of defenses. Beside this rapidly forming “forest,” the deafening roar of the “General Winter” armored train’s main cannon thundered once more.

As the human defensive line stabilized, the terrifying steel fortress resumed bombarding the direction of the Gondor Wasteland. Its powerful shells landed beyond the “living forest barrier’s” predation range, slaughtering all the monsters that had narrowly escaped the forest’s grasp.

Half of the legion’s vanguard had already perished beneath the relentless artillery fire and the churning stomach acid of the living forest underground. The staggering losses relayed back through neural signals made Berthelm’s eyes blaze with fury.

“Beltira!” he shouted in rage, turning to glare at the living forest standing at the edge of the grand wall, completely sealing the breach. His alien nervous system boiled with anger. “In the end, you’re just another mutated monster like us! You think you’re some great savior?!”

“There are no saviors—only mortals saving themselves,” Beltira’s voice stabbed into his mind again, “as my brother Gawain once told me. And as for monsters… my former comrades, sometimes only monsters can fight monsters. The Cecilians have always valued pragmatism.”

Berthelm turned and strode away. Under the protection of his guards, he retreated deeper into the wasteland, leaving half his forces behind to draw the Cecilians’ fire. After moving a good distance inward, he finally felt the constant neural sting begin to fade.

Relieved, he realized that although the living forest looked terrifying, its power was limited to a fixed area—like a plant, it could only spread as fast as its biomass reserves and structure allowed. It couldn’t chase him into the wasteland.

An immobile enemy was no true enemy.

For the first time, Berthelm allowed himself to relax—too much, even. He tried to forget the horror of the living forest, the agonizing images sent back from the front lines of mutants torn apart by subterranean teeth and dissolved in the forest’s stomach sacs, and most of all, the terrible defeat that had cost half his vanguard.

He stopped in a low-lying area, surrounded by towering jagged rocks that shielded him from the cold wasteland wind. He thought he could still faintly hear the distant thunder of falling shells and the chewing sounds of the living forest. Amid these phantom echoes, a faint, broken whisper drifted into his mind—

“Run as you will… crawl back to your old nest… but we will find you, Berthelm… My outer limbs still lack a final dessert. There is a corner in my stomach sac reserved for you and Bolken…”

…

In front of a half-buried communications bunker, Findel stared in stunned silence at the astonishing changes on the battlefield. He looked toward the Dark Mountains and saw a lush, dense forest standing tall in the wind. The greenery was so thick it was impossible to imagine that not long ago, this land had been barren, scorched earth. Within the shadowy depths of the forest, twisted, writhing roots and vines still moved swiftly, smoothing the surrounding soil as they rapidly transformed into bushes, flowers, and berry thickets.

Findel recognized those berry bushes and shrubs. He had visited Sorin Fortress, a miraculous place where similar berries and bushes were everywhere—an important local economic resource.

The young Marquis of the North had already pieced together much. He glanced down at a bright green vine creeping near the fortification’s gate and a few small flowers just blooming on the surface, murmuring softly, “This really is… a grand move.”

He couldn’t guess the Emperor’s full plan, but he sensed this was a trump card—one forced to be played early. The mutant army’s attack on the Sentinel Tower was an unexpected event, and the grand wall’s extinguishing was not part of the plan. Thus, the living forest that suddenly rose to seal the breach was never meant to be revealed now. This card was meant for another purpose, but now…

The grand wall’s collapse forced Lady Beltira, who had been stealthily spreading underground into the wasteland’s depths, to emerge prematurely, exposing herself as a living forest to the enemy’s eyes.

Findel shook his head, refusing to let his thoughts spiral any further—this wasn’t something he was ready to grapple with right now.

The initial excitement and impulsiveness he’d felt when first joining the army had long since been tempered by harsh reality. This vast, uncontrollable battlefield—so far beyond the lessons taught in school—had forced the young soldier to confront the stark difference between the front lines of this era and the idealized version he’d once imagined.

Just then, a buzzing sound came from inside the bunker, mixed with crackling interference.

Findel exchanged quick glances with the communications soldiers under his command before turning and sprinting into the shelter.

The hastily repaired arcane network terminal was broadcasting a faint, broken message. The voice from the frontline command center was relaying orders to every soldier along the defensive line.

The broadcast instructed troops to use this brief respite to rest and regroup: report losses, evacuate the wounded, reorganize units, abandon the once-magnificent wall that had now gone completely dark and was beyond repair, and rely on the newly emerged “Greenwood Barrier” to rebuild the defense.

The general had not issued any rash orders for a counterattack or to push into the wasteland after this sudden “victory,” which brought Findel a measure of relief.

The retreat of the mutant legion was only a localized phenomenon. Beneath that surface lay the far graver possibility that the entire grand wall—except for the Cecil line—was spiraling out of control. Besides, that living forest couldn’t simply be ordered to retreat like a regular military unit.

Stabilizing and reinforcing the defense was the immediate priority; a victorious counteroffensive would have to wait.

“Sir…” a soldier’s nervous voice broke through Findel’s thoughts. The young man glanced anxiously at the “forest” swaying gently in the wind not far off, whispering cautiously, “That forest… is it really our ally?”

“…The Empire’s army is constantly evolving. Sometimes unexpected friendly units just appear out of nowhere,” Findel said awkwardly, unsure how to explain the theory he’d pieced together. “You’ll get used to it. I even learned about stranger things back at the officer academy…”

“Yeah?” The soldier’s mouth twitched, but he couldn’t help stealing another glance at the forest nearby, muttering under his breath, “This one’s a little too strange, though…”

“Stop worrying. The orders have come down,” Findel sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s report back to the main base first… I have a feeling this is only the beginning.”

…

The “living forest” that had suddenly appeared near Sentinel Tower 98 wasn’t visible only to the Cecilians and the mutants.

Its vast scale and reach even extended close to the Typhon defensive lines.

At the eastern edge of the Greenwood Barrier, atop a treacherous mountain ridge, Andersa Wendell stood cloaked against the biting cold wind. Her eyes twitched involuntarily as she stared at the forest blocking the gap in the barrier.

“The Cecilians… what have they conjured up this time?”

She suddenly felt as if the world was shifting beneath her feet, becoming something she could no longer understand.

(End of chapter)