CHAPTER 209: NO MAN’S LAND

The command tent hummed with a different kind of tension—muffled, concentrated, yet just as dangerous. The pungent scent of leather, damp earth, and sweat mingled with the smell of parchment and candle wax illuminating the confined space.

On a crude wooden tripod, a detailed map was pinned, depicting the sinister territory stretching like a festering wound between Martissant’s and Pilaf’s domains. Areas were shaded in red, marked with ominous symbols: deep gorges, forests of black thorns, jagged canyons—and at the center, a single zone labeled simply "Heart?" in hurried script.

Every eye was fixed on that map—or rather, on the man standing before it, still as a statue of jet. Count Derilus Martissant. His dark cloak was thrown back, revealing a light armor as black as his boots, which only accentuated the pallor of his sharp, chiseled face.

The lantern light flickered across his high cheekbones and into his hazel eyes—cold, calculating.

Around him stood the circle of the indispensable and the dangerous. The captains of the regular soldiers, clad in heavier armor, faces weathered, their gazes a mix of unwavering loyalty and animal wariness toward their lord.

Closer still were the mercenary leaders—men and women of varied appearances, some adorned with monstrous trophies, others gleaming with the oil that coated their exotic weapons. Their expressions ranged from feigned boredom to poorly concealed greed.

And then, there were them. The Awakened. The elite. Martissant’s razor-edged weapon. Tonar, massive, leaned against a tent pole, his tree-trunk arms crossed over a chest that seemed carved from oak. His scarred face was a mask of indifference, but his small, piggish eyes burned with a bestial intelligence, scanning the map with brutal focus.

To his right, slimmer but crackling with nervous energy, Zirel. The young man absently toyed with the hilts of his daggers, his slender fingers dancing over the metal like a musician’s over an instrument. His sharp amber eyes darted from map details to faces in the crowd, absorbing everything, calculating. Maggie lingered near the entrance, half-hidden in the shadow of a canvas fold, but her keen gaze never left Martissant.

The silence was thick, heavy with anticipation. Only the crackle of candles and the occasional rustle of parchment under a nervous finger disturbed the quiet.

At last, Martissant raised a gloved hand. The silence became absolute—instant, as if sliced by a blade.

"Pilaf took the bait," he announced, his low, clear voice effortlessly filling the tent. No murmurs of surprise. They had all expected it. "The truce is sealed. Fragile. Temporary. A respite granted by jackals who distrust each other." He pointed a long, slender finger at the map. "We take the southern gorges. He takes the northern ridges."

His finger traced an invisible line between the two zones. "But do not mistake this. It is not a sharing. It is a race. And in such races, the opponent will do anything to make the other stumble."

He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping the assembly, pausing briefly on each group leader, each Awakened. "Pilaf underestimates the Bone Gnawers in the canyons. He believes brute force will suffice. A mistake." A thin, humorless smile touched his lips. "A mistake we will not make. Our strength lies in precision. In knowledge. In silent elimination."

He slapped his palm onto the map, right over a zone marked with interlocking fangs—deep in the southern gorges. "Here. The ’Chasm of Whispers.’ Our scouts have heard... things. Moans that are not the wind. Traces of black crystallization on the walls. This is our primary objective."

His gaze then locked onto the Awakened and the most seasoned mercenary leaders. "Tonar." The colossus shifted slightly, a low grunt escaping him. "You take the heavy team. Breakers, chain-throwers, your shield. You will be the hammer. Crush anything over a meter tall that grinds its teeth. But stay in the main canyon. Do not venture into the side fissures."

Tonar nodded slowly, baring his fang-like teeth in a grin. "Understood."

Martissant’s piercing eyes turned to Zirel. The young man stiffened almost imperceptibly, his fingers freezing on his daggers. "Zirel. You and your team." He indicated a network of narrow fissures and natural tunnels branching like dark veins around the Chasm of Whispers. "These passages are your domain. Map them. Identify the nests. Eliminate isolated sentries. You have free rein to keep any anima gems from the beasts you kill." His voice sharpened. "Watch the flanks. If Pilaf’s scouts stray too close to our gorges... make them disappear."

Zirel flashed a quick, fierce smile, satisfaction glinting in his amber eyes. He gave a slight bow. "Quiet and clean, Count. As always."

"Maggie." Martissant’s voice made her start, even though she’d expected it. Nearly every eye turned toward her in the shadows. "Your analytical talents are unmatched. You will accompany Zirel. Your eyes and your... instincts... in those fissures. Identify and mark the zones on the map—we must know every inch to secure the area."

Maggie nodded, her throat tight. Working with Zirel had already been part of her plan. "Understood, Count Martissant."

He straightened, once again dominating the room. "Captains," he addressed the officers of the regular troops. "Your men will hold the gorge entrances. Fortify positions here, and here." He tapped two strategic passes on the map. "Dig trenches. Plant spikes. No direct engagement with the hordes unless as a last resort. Your role is to lock down access and contain any surge while our spearheads advance. And stay vigilant. Pilaf will honor the truce... until he thinks he can break it to his advantage. Any suspicious movement on the northern ridges—report immediately."

The captains saluted sharply, their armor clanking. "Yes, Count!"

Martissant planted both hands on the tripod, looming over the map like an eagle over prey. His shadow loomed large and menacing against the tent canvas. "The hero’s gems are the key. The power they hold can forge weapons capable of reducing Pilaf to ashes—or grant us the strength to tame these lands."

His icy gaze swept the assembly one last time. "Every hour counts. Every wasted life is a weakness offered to the enemy... or to the monsters. Go. Do your duty. Bring me those crystals. Or do not return."

The final words fell like a tombstone. Without another order, the assembly dispersed, the leaders filing out one by one, faces grave, carrying the weight of their mission—and the unspoken threat.

Only Martissant and his shadow—a silent man in gray armor who had not spoken—remained before the map, studying the chasms and the darkness as the wind began to howl against the canvas, already carrying the distant, unsettling echoes of the southern gorges.

The race had begun.