The Abyssal Corruption was the missing variable, the horrifying key that made the entire, impossible equation balance. The demonic taint wouldn't just make the virus more lethal; it would have fundamentally, and grotesquely, altered the host. It would have overwritten the bats' natural, timid instincts, supplanting their fear of humans with a mindless, unholy aggression. The Devilification had transformed a harmless, nocturnal creature of the night into a perfect, self-guiding biological weapon. It was a tiny, flapping drone of corrupted flesh, programmed with a single, overriding, and monstrous directive: find a warm-blooded human host and infect it. A moment of horrified, professional admiration for the sheer, diabolical genius of his enemy washed over him. It was a masterpiece of asymmetrical, fourth-generation warfare. No army. No siege engines. No grand declarations of war. Just a handful of corrupted animals, a tainted well, and a single, well-placed point of infection in a remote, forgotten village. It was cheap. It was completely deniable. And it was terrifyingly, apocalyptically effective. The question that had been nagging at him—how did the plague start?—was now replaced by a far more important, and far more dangerous one: who? Who in this world possessed the unholy knowledge to fuse demonic energy with a viral agent? Who had the resources, the access to the Abyss, to deploy such a weapon? And why Oakhaven? Why this small, strategically insignificant logging village? His mind cycled through the possibilities, each more chilling than the last. The Altamirans were the obvious suspects, their recently confirmed alliance with the Devil Race making them the prime candidate. But this felt different from their usual methods of targeted assassination and political sabotage. This was cruder, more chaotic, more… experimental. The thought sent a new, penetrating chill down his spine. Was Oakhaven a strategic target, or was it a laboratory? Were they testing the weapon's efficacy, its spread rate, its mortality, before unleashing it on a larger, more significant target like the capital? Was this a field test for an apocalyptic weapon? The implications were staggering. He was standing in the middle of a live-fire weapons trial for a demonic bioweapon. He had to assume that the architects of this horror were watching, gathering data, observing his own response. He was no longer just a doctor in a plague zone; he was an unauthorized, and now very much hostile, observer in an enemy weapons test. His presence here had just escalated the situation from a crisis to a confrontation. He carefully gathered his samples, not just of the corrupted sludge at the bottom of the well, but of the very air itself, sealing them in oilcloth and lead-lined pouches from his advanced medical kit. This was no longer just evidence; it was intelligence. This was the beginning of his own counter-intelligence operation. The war in the shadows had just spilled over into the real world in the most horrifying way imaginable, and as far as he knew, he was the only one on his side who knew the true nature of the battle. The command tent at the quarantine line became the nerve center of a grim new war. Under the flickering lamplight, Lloyd and Princess Amina transformed into a brutally efficient command duo. Spread before them on a makeshift table was a hand-drawn map of Oakhaven and the surrounding territories. Lloyd, the field commander, dictated a series of cold, precise, and non-negotiable orders. Amina, the grand strategist, translated his commands into logistical realities, calculating the required manpower, resources, and political capital. “We need a full company of engineers,” Lloyd stated, his finger tracing a hard line around the village on the map. “Their task is to create a firebreak. A hundred yards wide, cleared to the soil. Nothing stands. Nothing burns uncontrolled.” Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✦𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮✦𝓷𝓮𝓽 “It will cost a fortune in lumber and labor,” Amina countered, not as a protest, but as a statement of fact. “The treasury will scream.” “Let them scream,” Lloyd replied, his voice flat. “The alternative is the entire Whisperwood becoming a graveyard. We also need every alchemist with a background in purification south of the capital. Their task: mass-produce a lye-and-alcohol solution. Every inch of that village needs to be scoured.” They worked through the night, a symphony of pragmatic ruthlessness. They planned the controlled burning of the village, house by house. They designed a protocol for the volunteer "cleansing teams"—a suicide mission for condemned prisoners who would be offered a pardon for their families if they survived. It was a brutal, ugly, but necessary calculus of survival. They were no longer a lord and a princess; they were two generals planning a scorched-earth campaign against an invisible enemy. In the midst of their grim work, a sentry announced a rider. Lloyd looked up, his focus broken. A moment later, a figure strode into the tent, bringing a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in the dark, unadorned leather armor of a professional soldier. His face was a stoic, unreadable mask, dominated by a thick, well-maintained beard and a network of old, silvery scars. He moved with a quiet, dangerous economy, the gait of a predator. He stopped just inside the tent flap, his gaze sweeping over the scene with a professional, assessing coolness, before settling on Lloyd. “Lord Ferrum,” the man said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. He gave a short, correct, but entirely un-servile bow. “I am Captain Graph, in the service of Viscount Rubel Ferrum. My master sends his deepest regrets for this tragedy that has befallen his lands.” Lloyd felt a surge of cold, immediate suspicion. He knew Graph by reputation. The man was Rubel’s shadow, his most loyal and lethally competent retainer. A former captain in the ducal army, he had been disgraced for his brutality during a border skirmish and had found a new home in Rubel's service. He was a weapon, and weapons were never sent without a purpose. “Captain Graph,” Lloyd responded, his own voice a perfect mirror of professional courtesy. “Your master’s concern is… noted. Though it seems to have taken some time to arrive.” Graph’s eyes didn’t even flicker at the subtle insult. “The Viscount was securing resources to render proper aid, not just empty sympathies. We have brought a full contingent of his household guard, a wagon of medical supplies, and our own physician.” He spoke with the cold formality of a man delivering an official report, his explanation for their delay plausible, yet reeking of manufactured altruism. “Oakhaven falls within the territories granted to the Ashworth branch. As such, it is my master’s duty and his right to assist in this crisis. We are at your command.” The declaration hung in the air, a perfect, poisonous piece of political maneuvering. Noblesse oblige. Rubel was asserting his territorial rights, inserting himself into the crisis he had conveniently ignored until the main house arrived. It was a brilliant, infuriating move. Lloyd was now saddled with a new, unwelcome, and deeply untrustworthy ally. He couldn't refuse the offer without looking petty and weak, a lord more concerned with family politics than the lives of his people. He was trapped. A cold, professional mask settled over Lloyd’s features. He had to play the game. “Your master’s generosity is commendable, Captain,” Lloyd said, his tone perfectly level. He unrolled a fresh map of the outer perimeter. “Your timing is fortuitous. My own forces are stretched thin securing the inner cordon and preparing the cleansing teams. I need a reliable commander to manage the outer perimeter and enforce the quarantine. Your men are veterans; they are perfect for the task.” It was a brilliant counter-move. He accepted their help but gave them a critical yet isolated task. He was placing them on the outermost ring of the operation, far from the village itself, far from the evidence, and far from the heart of his investigation. They would be useful, but they would be kept at arm's length, under the watchful eyes of his own loyal soldiers. He was using his enemy’s forces while simultaneously containing them. Graph accepted the assignment with a slight, almost imperceptible nod. If he was disappointed by the remote posting, he showed no sign of it. He was a professional, and he had his orders. He turned and left the tent as silently as he had arrived. The moment he was gone, Amina let out a low hiss. “A snake,” she whispered, her eyes dark. “You just invited a snake into our garden.” “Better a snake in a cage where I can see it,” Lloyd countered grimly, “than one hiding in the grass.” He looked down at the map, his mind already shifting. The crisis in Oakhaven was no longer a simple two-front war against a virus and the clock. It was now a three-dimensional chessboard. He had a biological apocalypse to contain, a secret demonic conspiracy to unravel, and now, a political enemy operating within his own camp. An unwelcome, dangerous shadow had fallen across their desperate mission, and Lloyd knew, with a cold and absolute certainty, that the battle for Oakhaven was about to become infinitely more complicated, and infinitely more bloody.