Chapter 34: Ninth Fortress

“Give me a reason to trust her.”

Saint Lord’s palm rested on the edge of the desk, the flattened paper beneath her fingers bearing the maintenance report for the Shell Membrane failure in District 21-8-7 from a month ago.

Tina straightened up, swearing with utmost conviction: “Lola’s intel is packed with interlocking details. Fake intelligence would have inconsistencies and contradictions, but Lola’s has none—every detail matches up perfectly.” Tina paused. “Saint Lord, is there some concern?”

Saint Lord offered no reply. She slowly pushed back her chair and stepped away from the desk, her slightly furrowed brow betraying her calculations on the risks and benefits of trusting Lola.

What Tina proposed wasn’t the issue. The real question was what trusting Lola’s intel would bring.

She thought even deeper. This intel was a godsend. If they prepared for battle based on it, their warriors could march out soon. It was a winning hand—opponents arguing against deployment would lose their rationale, sparing her the need to negotiate with other factions. Those shortsighted, cowardly ministers never grasped the blood and sweat required to run a fortress.

Saint Lord’s shoes sank into the soft carpet, heavy as forged iron. On the flip side, distrusting Lola meant a prolonged standoff with Ninth Fortress, or even indefinite delay.

Could they afford to wait? Clearly not. A month prior, the already dim Shell Membrane in District 21 had finally failed. In those mere five minutes of outage, two Tier Four Bone Eaters had appeared right at the breach, nearly invading the fortress. Though it was an uninhabited zone—the population of District 21 long since evacuated by her orders—this was the first incident of its severity. It hung over Saint Lord’s head like a massive sword.

This wasn’t about belief. It was the graver choice between war and inaction.

Saint Lord turned her back and spoke slowly: “Very well, then.”

The response clearly eased Tina’s tension—Saint Lord trusted Lola.

Tina’s rigid shoulders relaxed, then she straightened her back, awaiting the next order.

With her back to Tina, Saint Lord gazed at the oil painting on the wall. Before her loomed a two-zhang-high arched surface bearing an ancient work titled Babel Tower. The massive canvas dwarfed the tiny Saint Lord, making her seem like one of the humans in the painting erecting the tower.

Unlike the existing High Tower, the Babel Tower in the oil painting stood unfinished, its half-built shaft piercing heaven and earth like a ruin.

When Saint Lord had first taken the scepter years ago, artisans had overlaid the painting with fresh paint, depicting the real Babel Tower that now pierced the skies. But those new pigments couldn’t match the ancient relics of Ivyen City. Now, the paint had faded and peeled alongside the wallpaper, revealing the mottled original beneath.

Saint Lord studied the painting, then turned slightly sideways.

“Aside from Ide and Asta, does that intel mention any other particularly thorny opponents?”

“None. The current Thorn Lamps number forty-eight, with no one standing out in ability.”

“And Su Ling?”

“You mean their fortress’s logistics head?” Tina narrowed her eyes in thought. “The intel doesn’t describe her much—just that she handles Ninth Fortress logistics, has never summoned a Nestsoul, and has almost no combat ability… Oh, and Lola said she’s a muddle-headed sort of do-gooder.”

“Kindness?” Saint Lord frowned at the unfamiliar word. “In an age where food is scarce, self-righteous ‘kindness’ only breeds greater evil.”

She felt a jolt of incredulity and turned to Tina: “Guess what the unarmed citizens inside the fortress think when it’s overrun—do they resent their leader for protecting them too well in peacetime, only to fail when it mattered?”

Tina chuckled: “Such cases aren’t rare.”

First Fortress history brimmed with examples. The direst fallout of mercy was the sovereign losing power amid uprisings everywhere.

Humans, driven by selfish desires and needs, could never build a utopia on barren land—that was less likely than a god manifesting.

Saint Lord had witnessed the fall of such ideals. In her eyes, only absolute power could secure one’s throne.

And only overwhelming strength earned the resources everyone coveted—could they be begged for meekly?

As her devotee, Tina fully agreed.

“I’ve met Su Ling,” Saint Lord said, eyeing the ancient painting again. “Back when the fortresses first allied, Ide often brought her along on visits between them. She never spoke up.”

Disappointment crossed Saint Lord’s face: “I thought she had something special back then. Since she doesn’t, it’s a miracle she’s still alive.”

“Maybe Ide protected her too well,” Tina nodded in agreement. “I deeply despise those who hide in the rear and still overflow with misplaced goodwill.”

“Then forget it. Kill her.” Saint Lord glanced up casually, coolly eyeing the peeling paint scars.

“It’s a shame—Ide’s a fine warrior. I’d have spared her life, but that reckless youth would sooner die than submit… Kill all of Ninth Fortress’s Thorn Lamps. Their wills are devilish specters—leave no threats behind.”

“Yes.”

“Are the soldiers ready?” Saint Lord asked.

“Ready. They’ll strike with precision, knowing the enemy better than themselves—especially Ide.” Tina brimmed with confidence, but paused. “They lack long-distance march experience, though. We need full checks.”

“Real combat forges the best experience.” Saint Lord scowled. “Throughout history, tech booms happened under pressure from rival powers. The battlefield tests if it’s useful. Streamline the process—these are honed broadswords, not penknives.”

“Yes.” Tina was deeply impressed by Saint Lord’s decisiveness. “We’ll give them top-tier gear.”

“When do they deploy?”

“Five days from now,” Tina said. “The generals discussed and thought—”

“Too late, Tina.” Saint Lord cut off the prepared speech curtly. Her red velvet cloak gathered at a golden brooch, gleaming sharply.

Her brown eyes fixed on the subordinate below the dais, tone brooking no argument: “Tomorrow. Go prepare.”

“…Yes.”

…

“Apostle, I don’t know how to use a gun.” Heli held the iron lump awkwardly, fear in her eyes. The barrel was still hot to the touch—two minutes ago, Little Bit had snatched it eagerly to play with, only wrested back by Gu Xianqing’s brute force.

“You don’t know guns?” Gu Xianqing frowned. “Like I said, Su Ling protected you all too well.” She pressed her dagger’s tip against Heli’s elbow: “Elbows out—don’t hug it like chicken wings. Barrel on target.”

“That’s not it,” Heli said, lifting the gun toward a dead branch at the Swamp’s edge, defending Su Ling: “We have our strengths. Professor Su thinks if we all spent time on guns, no one would handle other tasks—the fortress would never advance.”

“Oh.” Gu Xianqing didn’t care if Su Ling was right. “Things are different with me. We don’t need ‘advancement.’ Just maximize impact in our limited lives.”

She twirled her dagger with a flourish, then pressed the tip to the barrel. “Chamber it, aim, pull the trigger. That’s it. Got it?”

Little Bit raised her hand: “She can’t, but I can!”

“You can’t even hold it steady—what can you do!” Heli muffled Little Bit and fired. Her labor-steady hands absorbed the rifle’s recoil effortlessly.

“Not pinpoint accurate, but it’ll do. Better than Little Bit.” Gu Xianqing nodded approval, ignoring Little Bit’s whines.

Heli clamped Little Bit’s noisy mouth and asked Gu Xianqing: “How long do we ambush here?” She glanced back—the group numbered thirteen, all armed with rifles. They lurked at the Swamp’s edge, several motorcycles buried in the sand. The sun blazed high; sunset was hours off.

“Afternoon, or dusk,” Gu Xianqing said leisurely, rising. “When people appear on that horizon, shoot—but not at them.”

First Fortress’s legion had mobilized, tripping Gu Xianqing’s infrared sensor at the road mouth a month prior. She’d gotten the alert. By her math, they’d skirt the Swamp at dusk.

Barring surprises, the enemy would camp in the fringe wasteland overnight, resuming to Ninth Fortress next day.

A full legion couldn’t match solo speed—solos like her and An He’s nonstop dash.

But large forces, especially pre-battle, needed rest. So it’d take them two days and nights to reach Ninth Fortress.

Gu Xianqing strolled the wasteland leisurely, pondering the best time to visit An He tonight.

Heli practiced the gun: “We don’t shoot people—who then?”

Gu Xianqing narrowed her eyes with a charming smile: “The Radiated Creatures in the Swamp.” She pointed behind them. All followed her finger—old and young alike froze, ancestral terror surging like lightning through their minds.

Daytime Swamp lay deathly silent, not even a bubble’s gurgle. As if all sound and life were devoured by a black hole of muck, the fetid rot carried on the wind, lingering at their noses.

Little Bit went quiet, scooting closer to Heli: “Radiated Creatures? Those scary mutants?”

Gu Xianqing tilted her chin: “I don’t know what the grown-ups told you, but yes. That’s them.”

“Aren’t we walking to our deaths?” someone asked.

“No. After you shoot them with guns, quickly shoot the Tier Four Bone Eaters I’ll lure in.”

Gasps rippled: “Radiated Creatures aren’t enough? Bone Eaters too? We’re doomed.”

Gu Xianqing stayed relaxed: “Relax—I’ve got you. Not a finger lost.”

Yan Qiong nodded calmly beside her, confirming it wasn’t bravado.

“We won’t be their targets. We’re just the bridge-builders.” Gu Xianqing smiled mildly, innocently. She stood tall in the sunlight, her fiery red garb scorching hot—like the wasteland’s lord.

Little Bit stared, awestruck. Heli did too.

Gu Xianqing clapped her palms sharply, snapping everyone back from the wilds.

“Digest it, friends.” Her voice was soft, yet like the gale before a tsunami. “Get ready—the show’s about to start.”