The stale air in the wooden longhouse seemed to crack under the weight of dread, until the oldest priest among the lizardmen finally broke the silence.
"Let us first listen to what we know," the elder intoned gravely, his words dispelling a sliver of the oppressive atmosphere within the dim cabin.
Shasuryu Shasha, chieftain of the Green Claw Tribe, remained silent. Even he understood that in times like these, it was better for the respected elder of the Council to speak. The people needed composure—ritual, familiarity—not force.
"everyone, settled in?."
A black-scaled lizardman warrior sitting by the wall raised his head and began to speak, stammering at first but gradually gaining confidence. "Fifty lizardmen from the Little Fang tribe have fled to our lands. Among them: thirty females, fifteen children, and five elderly males."
"Refugees from the Dragon Fang tribe are still arriving. We've yet to complete a proper count."
Excitement crept into his voice—an odd undercurrent in the dire news. But everyone understood. The majority of the refugees were female. Barely any adult male warriors had escaped.
That fact alone was terrifying.
"This isn't normal," rumbled a grizzled hunter. His voice buzzed through the tension like a blade on bone.
Of course it wasn't normal.
Shasuryu Shasha, still cross-legged, shifted. His thigh brushed the weapon at his waist with a faint metallic clack. The chill of it momentarily silenced his rising frustration. That weapon—Frozen Fang, a sacred heirloom of the Green Claw—emitted a faint, icy glow.
"In any attack, the first to fall are the weak—the women, the young. But here..." He raised his voice, spine straightening, tail flexed to support him.
"The warriors should've escaped more easily. But not one did. Not one."
"Are you saying... they showed mercy?" a younger priest asked, hesitant.
Shasuryu Shasha clenched his fists. The word tasted like venom.
If what they heard was true, then the enemy had wiped out both tribes' warriors completely, and only then had they let the non-combatants live. It wasn't mercy.
It was contempt.
Or worse—it was a demonstration.
"A magic chanter. Human. Summoned angels—two at once. Tier three magic confirmed."
The old priest's voice was trembling, even as he tried to appear calm. The strongest spellcasters among the lizardmen had only ever reached tier two.
"The Little Fang warriors claim they destroyed several summoned angels... and still lost. The summons just kept coming."
Another priest leaned forward. "That would imply immense mana reserves. Perhaps even regeneration or an unknown magic item."
As more information emerged, the weight of the unknown began to lessen—if only slightly.
The elder priest nodded. "He's strong, yes, but alone. A powerful third-tier magic caster is dangerous, but not invincible. Now that we know what we're dealing with, we can plan."
But before anyone could speak further, a cold voice interrupted:
"And what if he's stronger than even this intelligence suggests?"
All eyes turned. It was Zaryusu Shasha, the wandering warrior, standing silently until now.
The burly hunter growled, "You don't speak here, traveler!"
"I'm only pointing out a possibility," Zaryusu replied calmly.
"So? Will you run because he might be stronger?"
Zaryusu's tone sharpened. "No. But if he is, then our current strategy might fail. We must plan thoroughly. Alert the Red Eye and Razor Tail Tribes. If we engage, it must be decisive. If he escapes, we'll never get another chance."
The two nearly clashed, until—
"Enough!" the old priest shouted, his voice echoing like a commandment.
Silence fell.
The priest turned to Shasuryu Shasha. "Chief?"
The chieftain nodded solemnly. "Zaryusu is correct. One man or not, this is no ordinary threat. This is not a tribal matter anymore. We must ensure that he dies in the first strike. We'll contact the other tribes."
The lizardmen mobilized.
Runners were sent to the Red Eye and Razor Tail tribes. Warriors were ordered to take shifts guarding the perimeter. Another group was dispatched to the ruins of the Longya tribe to confirm what had happened.
Three great tribes began to converge.
Meanwhile, within the Green Claw tribe, under the tense watch of the gathered warriors, a thin, black-scaled lizardman adjusted the fishing basket on his back and slipped away through the gates, nodding casually at the patrols.
These days were dangerous. Few dared leave the village.
But fish was always needed—and raw, fresh meat was a delicacy too important to forego.
The wetlands' lake shimmered under the sun as he dove in with a splash, vanishing beneath the water.
Moments later, deep beneath the surface, his form began to shrink. The wide frame and thick scales receded, replaced by lean limbs, sharp head-spikes, and webbed claws.
This wasn't a Green Claw lizardman.
This was a cave lizardman, from the deeper marshes upstream—a reclusive and cunning subspecies with distinctive head crests.
A glint of light flickered as the transformed infiltrator raised a ring-adorned hand. The artifact pulsed with dark magic. It had let him disguise himself as a normal lizardman for months, living undetected among them.
"Simple fools..." he whispered venomously. "The lower wetlands should belong to us."
The cave lizardman slithered low, his hoarse breath rasping in the still, damp air. Despite the cruel sneer on his lips, a flicker of expectation burned in his eyes. He glanced around cautiously before slipping deeper into the upper reaches of the Great Wetland.
Unlike the Lower Lake Wetlands, where weak tribes eked out a safer existence, the Upper Wetlands teemed with monstrous creatures and bands of frogmen that he despised even more than his own kind.
Soon, the cave lizardman crossed into known frogman territory. A group was wallowing lazily in the mud—bodies half-submerged, their bulbous eyes half-lidded. One particularly large frogman was sprawled alone, rolling occasionally, as if trying to scratch an invisible itch.
The lizardman knew they'd noticed him—frogmen were always watching—but they only gave him a disinterested glance before turning their gaze back to the muck.
"Disgusting creatures..." he cursed internally. Despite the scorn, he kept his head down and passed through swiftly. He would not test their patience. Not here.
Unlike the conservative and clan-bound lizardmen, frogmen weren't xenophobic. They didn't lash out at passing monsters or beasts without reason. But that wasn't kindness.
It was hunger. Or rather, the lack of it.
They had no concept of kinship or dominance. They simply didn't care—until they did. When hungry, even one of their own might become a meal.
Foolish. All of them—lizardmen, frogmen, and the other so-called swampfolk. They bickered over scraps while smarter bloodlines like his had to hide in shadows and mud, claiming only the forgotten corners of the wetland.
The dense wetland gave way to a rising fog, and the jungle grew twisted with strange vines and pale moss clinging to every surface. Eventually, the cave lizardman arrived at a clearing, half-swallowed by the mist. An abandoned, vine-choked castle loomed ahead—its stone walls crumbling but its presence still oppressive. Three stories tall, buried in ruin, yet defiant.
The lizardman's sneer vanished. Awe crept into his eyes. His posture lowered in reverence as he advanced carefully.
"Hehe… what's this?""A little lizard playing courier?"
A voice drifted behind him, slow and eerie, like slime sliding across skin. There had been no one there a moment ago.
Instinct overwhelmed thought. The cave lizardman dropped to his knees and pressed his snout into the muddy ground.
"M-Master! Something… has happened. With the lizardmen of the Lower Lake."
"Oh?" The voice twisted with amusement. "And here I was hoping for something worth hearing."
With quivering breath, the cave lizardman relayed his report.
"Interesting. Very well. Leave."
Without daring to look up, he turned and scurried away like a rat escaping a predator.
As he vanished into the fog, a faint ripple passed through the broken archway of the ruined castle. A tall, willowy figure stepped into the light. But the shadow that fell behind them… split in two.
"You heard that," came the earlier voice again, now like a whisper crawling up the spine.
From the upper floors of the castle, a different voice replied, cold and indifferent:
"More distractions. My time is too valuable for such trivial news. You'd better ensure your next report contains results."
With a groaning creak, a rotted window shutter swung open on the third floor.
A man in a black robe stood within the darkness—hook-nosed, with sunken cheeks and eyes like dull embers. Human. Or something that had once been human.
It was hard to believe a living man would willingly reside in the cursed depths of the Upper Wetlands. But he did.
The very air seemed to recoil from him. Dust and debris from the window frame were swept aside by the oppressive force of arcane power radiating from his presence.
He said nothing, merely gazed into the endless jungle.
"Angels…? The Theocracy?" he muttered."This better not ruin everything."
Dragon Tooth Tribe — Temporary Base
Minori rolled the bark scroll closed and let out a quiet breath, massaging his temples. His recent efforts to extract magical knowledge from the captured priest-class lizardman were paying off—but slowly.
"Two days have passed," he murmured, leaning back. "I wonder what's stirring out there now…"
Kuro curled beside him snorted as Minori absently stroked its rough head, eyes narrowing in thought.