Chapter 85: Infiltrating The Swampy Base!

Region 32…

Cumba City…

The gates of Cumba didn't just creak open—they groaned, like ancient bones protesting the return of men. Rust flaked off in brittle sheets as Josh and his generals passed through, horses snorting with unease, hooves clicking like slow drums of a funeral march.

The stench hit them first.

Not death—old death. The kind that had settled, fermented, and spread roots into the soil. Like something had died not days ago, but weeks ago, and had continued dying ever since. Even the wind refused to pass through the city—it crawled.

Horses moved at a steady pace, hooves thudding on cracked cobblestones, the silence so thick it felt like they were marching through the pages of a forgotten book.

Josh sat tall on his midnight-black steed, his eyes—sharp as flint—sweeping the surroundings. His Kingly Awareness hummed softly in his veins, a sixth sense pricking at the edges of his mind for anything that felt off… unnatural. And in Cumba City, everything felt unnatural.

Once a vibrant part of Region 32, Cumba now looked like a painting that had been scrubbed of its colours. Dust-covered windows stared out like blinded eyes, and the streets whispered with the echoes of lives that no longer walked them.

They passed through the first district.

Empty.

Second.

A shivering beggar blinked at them from under a cart, her mouth sewn shut with twine. She disappeared when they blinked.

Third.

A lantern swung from a noose made of braided human hair.

Fourth.

Josh felt it again—that creeping, skin-peeling sensation. The kind of dread you couldn't shake off even if you were dipped in holy water.

By the eighth district, they'd only seen five people. One was gnawing on her own arm. Two stared at a wall muttering lullabies. And two were simply… wrong. No eyes. No mouths. Just skin.

"This is no ghost town," Josh muttered. "This is a graveyard too stubborn to die."

He spat to the side. The spit hissed when it touched the ground. Acidic.

The streets bled silence. And silence, Josh had learned, was never empty. It was a container for something else—something waiting.

The number of people they had seen could be counted on one hand, and even then, most were shriveled shadows of themselves—old men with haunted gazes, women with trembling lips, and not a single child in sight.

Josh's jaw clenched.

"Not for long," he murmured, voice low and dangerous. The words weren't a wish. They were a prophecy.

He would end the tyranny of the Golden Toad—Xerm.

Lola, riding close by, glanced around with growing fury. Her hand hovered near her curved dagger.

"This toad must have used them all as potions," she hissed. Her voice was thin with disgust.

As they approached the Ruma District, something shifted. The stifling emptiness began to dissipate, and they noticed it—movement. Peeking shadows. Distant murmurs. A child's wail carried faintly on the wind, then abruptly cut off.

Josh's instincts flared.

"Stop."

He raised a fist, and his generals obeyed immediately, halting before the arched entrance to the district. Vines crawled around the stone, as though nature itself tried to hold them back.

Josh dismounted, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. The time for a direct charge was past. They were close to the hornet's nest now, and if they rattled it the wrong way, they'd lose more than their element of surprise. They'd lose innocent lives.

The air was thick with moisture and something fouler—like rotten algae mixed with the faint tang of blood. The swamp that surrounded Cumba had begun to seep into the very air. Josh could taste it, like bitter sap at the back of his throat.

He turned to his warriors—his family.

They gathered around in a tight semi-circle. Battle-worn faces. Eyes that had seen too much yet still burned with fierce loyalty. Each of them bore marks of past campaigns—scars, tattoos, strange amulets. But their bond ran deeper than blood.

Josh's voice was calm but firm, like steel sheathed in velvet.

**"We're at the edge of the Ruma District. This is the core of the Golden Toad's dominion. Our main mission remains unchanged—we collect the toadstools that will boost our mages' magical capabilities."

The mention of toadstools drew a few reluctant chuckles. Joab let out a snort. Arroid raised an eyebrow. But the stone-faced glare from Josh quickly sobered them.

"Laugh when we're alive and safe," he added without smiling, though a flicker of humour danced in his eyes.

"We are in enemy territory now. They know the lay of the land. The fog, the air, even the insects may be on their side. Don't trust the ground you walk on, or the shadows you pass."

He let his gaze sweep across them one by one.

Lola, the assassin maid, a ghost in the dark with a blade that never missed its mark.

Conrad Stan, his unshakable right hand, a warrior with muscles carved from years of war.

Ralia Amia, the empath assassin—deadly, graceful, able to feel intentions before they were formed. Her emotions could shape yours—she didn't fight, she manipulated the reason you wanted to fight.

Adino, the Swift Dagger—so fast his enemies rarely saw their own deaths. He once stabbed a man thirteen times before the scream caught up.

Shammah, the Axe Specialist, broad-shouldered and thunderous, his weapon practically an extension of his soul.

Joab, the mighty warrior, a walking fortress- who couldn't die easily. Not figuratively. Literally. He had been stabbed, burned, and thrown into a volcano. He just kept coming back.

Limro, the spear genius, who could split a coin in flight. Legend says, he once pinned three wyverns to a cliff with a single throw.

Arroid, the arrow head—sharp-eyed, calm, always calculating. He is so precise, they said he could shoot a thought out of your head.

Baggon, poison specialist and silent death bringer, often the last face his targets saw., a real arrow freak, with venom in his sweat. Even mosquitoes died after biting him.

Eliphaz, sword maniac, ever eager to test his blade on something that bleeds. He believed that every enemy was a "blade interview."

Lino, master of sword and spear, fluid like water, lethal like fire, whose weapon choreography was considered divine dance.

Miko Orin, throwing knives expert—his blades whispered before they killed.blades His blades once spelt out "SORRY" across a corpse's chest.

Naze, the blind shot archer and sword fighter—though he'd lost his eyes, his other senses turned him into a legend. He doesn't need to see you to kill you. He needed to hear your doubts.

These were not just warriors. They were a brotherhood forged in war, bonded by survival. Josh didn't just lead them—he lived with them. They were part of his Kingly Interface now, integrated by their unwavering loyalty and shared bloodshed.

He looked at them, his gaze lingering.

He couldn't lose a single one.

"There may be prisoners—men, women, even children—being held by Xerm. If we charge in, they die. If we're sloppy, they die. But if we infiltrate, we save them and claim the toadstools."

The air tightened with tension. A distant croak echoed through the swamp. The kind of sound that didn't belong to any normal creature.

A crow flew overhead, and then... stopped mid-air, hanging as if frozen in time before falling like a brick.

A warning. Or an omen.

Josh didn't mind that as he continued to tell them about the infiltrating plans.