The Conquerors Path

Chapter 937: Chapter 935-Shifting Grounds

The room still carried the smoke of Clara’s fight when Tron shoved another folder across the table. His fingers tapped fast.

"Enough healers," he said, grin crooked, but his eyes were darker than before. "Now we talk Borin Keld. The ground-eater. The one who thinks dirt itself bows to him."

I didn’t answer right away. I like watching Tron when he’s itching. He leads intelligence in the academy, but the boy has an addiction — he wants to be the cleverest man breathing. That hunger made him useful, but also dangerous.

"Borin doesn’t fight you," Tron went on, voice eager. "He makes the stage do it. Collapsing floors, spikes rising out of nowhere, sudden quake waves. Half his victories come from people stumbling instead of striking."

"Coward’s way," Mark spat. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword, though we weren’t in any damn battlefield, the quiet, stunned man that barely spoke slowly breaking out of his cocoon, that’s one of the things I wanted to see in Mark, he let himself fall in suffering all this time that he had forgotten to live much, I had many ideas before to make him better, but this one seems to be doing well, touching the family, he finally got more open. "Give me one good charge and I’ll split his fancy rocks right down the middle."

"And what if the floor swallows you before you swing?" I asked softly.

Mark froze, jaw grinding, his pride cut. That’s why I said it. Pride without chains only makes corpses.

Tron smirked, happy I’d thrown him the rope. "See? Borin wins by stage. So we don’t fight him. We fight his stage."

I leaned back. "Better. We make him rebuild the stage until his own men curse his name. Terrain isn’t free. Every collapse, every quake eats resources. Logistics is his artery. Starve that, the body starves."

Emma tilted her head, braids slipping over her shoulder, her big eyes too innocent for the poison coming out of her mouth sometimes. "But... if he can shape land, won’t he just fix it again? And again? Doesn’t that mean it never ends?"

"Endless only if he has infinite energy," I said. "And he doesn’t. The trick is to make him spend more than he earns. That’s how you kill a beast like Borin."

Nyla finally spoke, voice velvet but sharp as glass. "So we bleed him slowly. Make him patch holes until he collapses. I like it." Her fangs glinted when she smiled.

Sana, arms folded, cut in like she is ready to kill. "And who does the bleeding? You think we’ll just stroll into his camps and scatter his workers? No. Subtle hands are needed." Her eyes glinted. "My hands."

Tron snorted. "Assassins can’t stop mountains from moving."

"They can slit the throats of the miners before the mountain is even dug," Sana shot back.

The air grew sharp. I raised a hand. "Enough. Both of you are right. We don’t fight the mountain; we starve it. Tron, you’ll trace the arteries. Sana, your knives will... prune."

Tron’s smirk returned. "Already ahead. His supply lines run through minor points he created on the inside as power—earthmancers ferry enchanted stone, quake-anchors, and bottled tremors. If those materials he needs vanish—"

"—he spends more time protecting his points than shaping arenas," I finished.

Mark slammed his fist into his palm, grinning like a beast. "Good. Then, when he’s distracted, I’ll crush his frontline."

"Not yet," I said, calm but sharp. "This isn’t about the frontline. It’s about his name. We strike only when his men are already whispering curses at him."

Mark growled, not liking it, but stayed quiet.

Lanora’s voice floated next, soft, melodic, but her words carried a beautyto it. "Songs spread faster than swords. If bards start singing of Borin’s stages collapsing under his own, faith drains twice as fast."

Sonia chuckled darkly. "Public opinion, the invisible dagger. I do like the sound of that."

Clara frowned, still calmer after her own case. "But if we spread lies, won’t that cut us too? People lose trust in everyone."

"Not lies," I corrected. "Half-truths. Let an accident happen once — real, undeniable. Then Lanora turns it into theatre, adds weight, a verse, a corpse in the rhyme. The crowd won’t question."

Lanora smiled faintly, fingers drumming a rhythm only she could hear.

Then Nathalia stirred. Everyone thought her nervous, tapping fingers on wood. Only I knew it was her mind grinding through ideas. "If resources are the choke point... I could build replacements."

I snapped my eyes to her. She froze, tried to cover it with a shrug, but I’d seen it. No one else understood what those words meant, but I did. Nathalia wasn’t just a dwarven princess. She could forge anchors, stabilisers, machines that could rewrite how battlefields breathe.

"Later," I said smoothly. "Keep that thought quiet for now."

She dipped her head, faint, like a secret handshake.

"Logistics trap is clear," I said. "Cut the arteries, make him rebuild till he breaks. Now — next head."

Tron flipped the page. Symbols like spiderwebs sprawled out. "The Sixfold Sigil. Ritualists. They thrive on quotas, on perfect paper chains. They measure power with signatures and circles. We drown them in their own ink."

Emma wrinkled her nose. "Paperwork? That’s your big plan? Paperwork?"

"Don’t underestimate bureaucracy," I said, smirking. "Rituals rely on perfect timing, symmetry, and contracts that all line up. Break one link, the whole chain snaps. We forge edicts, new rules, and demand recalculations. Force them to redo old bindings. They’ll waste weeks fighting over who stamped what."

Sonia’s grin was sharp as broken glass. "Oh, I’ll enjoy this. Nothing makes people uglier than red tape. I can already hear them screaming over seals and stolen signatures."

Nyla’s eyes gleamed. "And once the cracks show, old grudges surface. Ritualists don’t forgive. They’ll turn on each other before they ever blame us."

Sana leaned in, voice cold. "I’ll salt the wound. Quiet letters left where they shouldn’t be. Notes suggesting betrayal. If they suspect their own, the circle splits in two."

"Exactly," I said. "Ritual-market interference. We don’t fight their magic—we make their order suffocate them."

Mark scratched his beard, still frowning. "It sounds clever. But what if they catch the forgery? Won’t they come for our heads?"

Tron laughed softly. "By the time suspicion rises, they’ll be knee-deep in paranoia. They won’t know which enemy is real."

I leaned forward, voice low. "That’s the point. You don’t need to hide the knife forever. Just long enough that when they find it, it’s already in their own back."

The table stilled for a heartbeat. Emma gave a nervous laugh. "You people are terrifying."

"Good," I said.

Tron slapped another page down. "Final one for tonight. Elyra Mott, with her pheromone games. The Verdant Choir with their little forest cult."

Clara’s brows pinched. "Scent manipulation is... invasive. Hard to defend against. It works under the skin."

"Then we poison the air," I said. "We trade harmless herbal kits. Cheap, innocent, but off-scent enough to make Elyra’s readings go wrong. Sell them at discounts to her allies. Watch her radar misfire."

Rina, who had been spinning a knife lazily in her hand, grinned sharply. "So one day she charms a crowd, the next day she stinks of lies. Allies start doubting. That’s a fall worth watching."

"And the Verdant Choir?" Emma asked.

I smirked. "We gift them blooms. Rare, beautiful. But inside, Nathalia’s design—fast-growing vines that sprout big, ugly leaves but bear nothing. When they graft them as weapons and nothing comes, the fanatics laugh at their own leaders."

Nathalia’s eyes flicked to me, faint pride she tried to bury.

Mark snorted. "So flowers and perfumes end them? Pathetic."

"Pathetic," I agreed. "That’s the beauty. Nothing kills prestige faster than mockery. When the public laughs, no blade is needed."

Nyla’s smile was slow, dangerous. "Yes. Let them fear ridicule more than death."

Lanora added softly, "I’ll give the laughter rhythm. Mockery in song cuts deepest."

The table thrummed now, energy sharp, dark, almost eager. They weren’t just hearing plans — they were tasting blood in them.

"Logistics, rituals, biology," I said finally, voice cutting through. "We don’t fight strength with strength. We make their strengths into cages. Remember this. We’re not warriors tonight. We’re surgeons."

And I smiled, because the knives were already sliding into place, the talks of all these seem simple, but there lay heavier things to measure here, the things being the resources needed for this and tricking them all won’t be easy at all, because at the centre of all this lay Girika, slowly but surely correctly guiding everything to what it should be, the plans should come with blinding her too.

’Kicking her ass like that will be sweet as hell.’

I mused, my mind playing with certain tricks as I looked at Elysia and Nihil, the things I said to them to do at that time, will finally be paying off more than they can fully ever know. The stage has been set; more is left to change the whole situation.