A man walked in with a heavy axe on his back. His beard was long and full of beads. He had strange tattoos on his arm.
"You need to see this, Merlin. Something requires your immediate attention," Blackbeard, one of Merlin's more eccentric Lunatics announced, his voice filled with worry . Kenna instantly felt a jolt of nervousness. What could be so urgent as to put a frown on Blackbeard's face?
Merlin raised his brows, but said nothing. He simply picked up his staff, adjusted his pipe, and left with Kenna and Blackbeard following close behind.
*
They followed Blackbeard to the edge of the Store, where Fiddles, the camp's lead farmer, stood over a cart overflowing with harvested pumpkins. The air hung heavy with a sickly, sweet smell that was entirely wrong for fresh produce.
"It's the Rot,"
Merlin explained, his voice low and serious as he used his staff to poke around large pumpkin, inspecting it . It's skin was not merely discolored , but was horrifyingly black and slimy, almost glistening with a black reflection.
"You can tell by the black and slimy texture, the way it seems to weep a viscous fluid."
"But we sprayed the fleet powder on all the plantations, Merlin!"
Fiddles cried, his face masked with despair, producing more pumpkins infested with the same grotesque rot. The entire harvest, brimming on the cart, was infested. It was a disaster.
"The Island is adapting to our countermeasures," Merlin observed, his eyes narrowed. "It's bypassing our drugs and repellents. What about the other crops? The turnips, the greens?"
"Nothing yet, just the pumpkins. The turnips are showing great resistance,"
Fiddles replied, a sliver of hope in his voice. "We torched the vineyards yesterday morning, though, from the parasitic Snake-vines that were crawling on them."
"Well," Merlin continued, his voice grim. "It seems like every crop has its own particular brand of parasite, its own natural enemy on this accursed lands. Burn them, Fiddles. Incinerate the entire pumpkin fields. Both the good and the infested."
Everyone around was stunned into shocked silence. Kenna stared at Merlin as if he had finally lost his mind.
"But Merlin,"
Fiddles stammered, his hope vanishing, replaced by outright disbelief. "That'll affect our yield this season! Torching the fields will destroy both the good crops too!"
"The rot is an infection, Fiddles!"
Merlin barked, his voice suddenly sharp, carrying an anger that made even the battle-hardened Sentinels flinch. " The rot is a phage, if you eat anything infested by it, even if it's just a little, you'll be as good as dead. It corrodes the body tissues from the inside out. Every single crop on the pumpkin fields has the rot spore in them, whether they're showing outward signs of rot or not. That's the insidious nature of the hell we're living in. Burn everything. And mark off that entire portion from the rest of the plantation before it spreads. It's a blight."
Merlin sighed, a heavy exhalation. Everyone watched as he took out a match and rekindled his pipe , the flame a small point of defiance against the encroaching darkness. He puffed out a plume of smoke. "The island wants to starve us out, Fiddles. And it's doing it fast. We won't let it have its way. I'll see to that myself. What about the Western terrains? Any signs of the blight there?"
"All good, Merlin,"
Fiddles said, regaining some composure. "Thanks to the remnants of the natural zombie fungus deposits there, that place is a Red Zone to rots and parasites. Shouldn't we just apply the cultivation of that fungus around here too, Merlin? It'll save us the stress of planting and torching every other week."
"We can't cultivate the zombie fungus, Fiddles, you should know that," Merlin replied, shaking his head. "It has an obstinate mind of its own, and it rejects all forms of engineering and directed growth. We keep to the old, brutal ways until we have a better solution. We'll be using the piece of land at the mountainsides. It seems rot-free, and nothing treads there much. Get me a sample of the rot pumpkin to my lab. I'll see to it later."
Merlin left the vegetable stall, the smell of burning vegetation already beginning to fill the air. He strode with Kenna down to the Lunatics' pits, and rounded up a handful of his most trusted Lunatics . Merlin held a mysterious expression on his face ,that which they haven't seen in a while. The weight of encroaching darkness was heavily weighing him down from the inside .
"Kenna,"
he began, turning to her, "go ahead to Asgard and fetch the little one, we don't have much time .You'll need this to bring her here safely."
A young boy, one of Merlin's junior apprentices, carried a tray laden with an assortment of gleaming gadgets.
"Psionic helmets," Merlin continued, indicating the polished obsidian headgear. "To cancel out brain waves and any psionic energy the island might be projecting. Silver-treated vests, treated gloves, and boots. This specialized gear would guarantee Aisha's safety from unseen forces or any psychic attacks. She'll be literally invisible to the island's more subtle perceptions." He paused. "And bring Axle along too. He should have fully recovered by now. Tell him Merlin wants to see him in person. Only the big man can truly guarantee the little girl's safety if something decides to become physically apparent."
"Of course," Kenna said, picking up a helmet and testing its weight. "I'll be on my way now."
"And do be careful, Kenna," Merlin added, his voice serious. "It seems the island can read intents. Have the countermeasures for yourself too. I'm moving out with the boys. Our scout spotted something of considerable interest at the marked paths, specifically the ones close to Hollow Ridge. I'll go check it out with them."
"And be back in one piece, Merlin!"
Kenna called out, as she started to move away. "I don't want to lose my upper hand in our weekly intellectual sparring matches!"
Merlin just gave a curt nod, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. As the smoke from the burning pumpkin fields began to billow against the darkening sky, casting long, dancing shadows, Merlin turned his gaze towards the impenetrable depths of the jungle, towards Hollow Ridge and the whispers of the marked paths. The island seemed to be observing him with an eagles eyes, and he could feel the piercing gaze.
*The Valkyrie's Path*
Kenna plunged into the pulsing heart of the Island with grace of an ancient warrior goddess whose name was whispered with a mix of reverence and terror; a fearless lone silhouette of steel and resolve . To her, fear was a discarded relic of a past life. She didn't just walk through the jungle; she cut through it, her presence a jarring note of defiance in the island's chaotic symphony.
She winded past the misty, monoliths of the Troll's Gateway, where the air grew cold enough to crack bone. As she crossed the Fall, the path ahead was a choked artery of vines and thorns, but she moved with a predatory grace. Kenna had seen horrors that would turn a seasoned Sentinel's hair white; she had stared into the abyss so many times that the abyss now looked away first.
The residing monsters seemed to sense the sheer weight of her spirit. They lurked in the obsidian shadows, their many-faceted eyes tracking her, yet they remained paralyzed. The Valkyrie's battle proficiency was a legend etched in blood, rivaled only by the cold intellect of Merlin or the mountain-toppling strength of Axle. Her body was a map of survival; every scar on her sun-bronzed skin was a testament to a beast slain, a trial endured, or a death cheated.
As daylight died, the island began to breathe. It wasn't just the wind; it was the ground itself, a rhythmic beating of a sentient land that hated its guests. The moon was a ghost, obscured by thick, bloated clouds that strangled the sky. Kenna was only a few miles from the stronghold of Asgard, but the night was no time for travel. The new security countermeasures were lethal: Sentry War-Bees .These specie were engineered different. They were night drones, programmed to respond to the slightest negative vibration, human or mutant . One wrong footfall, and she'd be a pincushion of neurotoxic stingers.
She chose a colossal tree with sprawling, gnarled branches that reached out like the hands of a titan. Perching high above the forest floor, she settled into the crook of a massive limb. Below her, the jungle was a cacophony of madness. Loud cicadas screamed , and the screeching of Devil-Owls tore through the air.
Kenna closed her eyes, her hand resting habitually on the hilt of her blade. She snoozed off momentarily.
Something moved. Just a few minutes Kenna dozed off, a presence was felt.
It scaled the tree with the silence of a drifting mist. This was a creature emboldened by the dark, a Forest Goblin. It was a spindly, wretched thing, driven by a desperate hunger for fresh meat and succulent hides. Its breath smelled of sulfur and rot. Each step was a masterpiece of calculation, its long, needle-thin fingers gripping the bark with terrifying strength.
It reached the branch where the Valkyrie lay silent. The Goblin's eyes shimmered with a feverish light, its jagged teeth bared in a silent snarl of triumph. It raised its powerful, wire-thin arms, its claws poised to rip through Kenna's throat in one fluid motion.
Slash! Slash!
The silence was shattered not by a scream, but by the clean, metallic hiss of cold steel meeting flesh.
The Goblin's head thumped onto the branch, its expression frozen in a mask of sudden, lethal confusion, before tumbling into the dark. Its body followed, crashing through the foliage with a wet, sickening thud of crushing bones and ruptured organs.
Two accurate, blindingly fast swings. That was all it took.
Kenna opened her eyes—not with a start, but with a slow, terrifying clarity. She peered down into the abyss below. Multiple pairs of shimmering eyes stared back at her, then darted to the headless corpse on the jungle floor. These were not the eyes of hunters; they were the eyes of the hunted. The predators of the night shrieked in genuine terror and scattered, melting back into the shadows to escape the Valkyrie's aura of absolute violence.
Kenna sighed, a sound of mild annoyance rather than relief.
" Nightwalkers? Seriously?Am I getting soft?" she whispered to the darkness. "To think a scavenger thought I was an easy meal..."
She sheathed her blade with a sharp clack and closed her eyes again. The lesson had been delivered. The message ripple-effected through the undergrowth: Do not wake the sleeping Valkyrie if you value your head.
The jungle went dead quiet. Even the Devil-Owls ceased their screaming. The island itself seemed to hold its breath.
Before the lazy, pale moon could even think of descending to the horizon, Kenna was up. She dropped from the branch with a silent landing and moved toward a nearby spring. The water was crystalline, reflecting the pre-dawn light. A family of gazelles—normal, beautiful, unmutated creatures—drank from the pool. They didn't bolt. They sensed no malice in her, only a terrifyingly calm power.
"What a relief,"
she murmured, splashing cold water on her face. "To see something that isn't clawing towards my face ."
She produced a watch from her vest and checked:Past six. The War-Bees would be cycling down their perimeter patrols for the morning shift, so it should be safe to enter. She stretched, her muscles rippling like coiled springs, and began the uphill march toward the gates of Asgard.
As she reached the crest of the hill, the stronghold came into view, smokes rising from the Sentinel's camp hanging on the cliffs.