Before the first cracks of dawn could even split the horizon, the air around the new wooden gates of the Tree Tribe was thick with a tense, shivering energy. The forest was entirely silent, save for the rhythmic, heavy breathing of the tribal beastmen moving in the dark. Under the strict, hushed orders of Chief Morris, lines of strong males were working in perfect coordination, their faces illuminated only by the faint silver of the moon.
They were carrying bundles of dried spiked horned grass.This particular vegetation was a dreaded thing within the forest. It was a wicked, dark-green grass covered in sharp, needle-like serrated edges, with a thorn at the grass tip that grew only in the deepest, dampest hollows of the woods. Every beastman knew to avoid it. Even a brushing contact with the live plant could leave a beastman's limb paralysed for hours. Dried, it was far more volatile. The males handling it were wearing thick layers of animal hide wrapped tightly around their forearms and hands, yet even through the protective leather, the venomous property of the grass made its presence known.
"Careful," one of the older guards whispered, his voice catching in his throat as his footing slipped on a stray root. "Do not let the tips puncture the hide. If it does, you'll be a sitting duck before the sun even rises."
"What is the point of this?" a younger wolf-beastman grunted, his teeth gritted as a strange, creeping coldness began to seep through his wrapped hands. He could already feel his fingertips going numb, a terrifying sensation for a warrior who relied on his claws and grip. "The Chief wants us to carry thousands of these cursed bundles all the way to the riverbank? How is a pile of paralyzing weeds going to stop an army of living siege engines? The Hippo Tribe will step right over this stuff and crush it into the mud."
"Keep your mouth shut and keep moving," the lead guard hissed back. "This isn't the Chief's idea. It's the female's. Ava's. If she says the grass will save our home, we carry the grass."
No one truly understood the mechanics of the plan, but the memory of Ava's recent miracle: the salt that preserved meat and promised to banish the Great snowy Famine forever was a powerful shield against skepticism. If the Beast God had spoken to her in dreams about the salt, perhaps he had spoken to her about the grass as well.
With gritted teeth and numbing limbs, the males pressed on, transporting the massive harvest toward the wide, rushing river that served as the natural border between their territory and the marshy lowlands of the Hippo Tribe. Somewhere across that dark water, the enemy was already massing.
By the time the sky turned bright, with gentle sunlight, the task was complete. Dozens of massive, tightly packed bundles of dried spiked horn grass were lined systematically along the riverbanks, perfectly positioned where the canyon walls narrowed, creating a natural funnel for the wind.
No sooner had the carrying teams finished arranging the piles than a second group of beastmen stepped forward out of the trees. These males were holding flickering fire torches, the orange flames licking the humid morning air. Each torch-bearer took up a position directly behind a pile of grass, standing frozen like statues, waiting for the command.
From a high, rocky outcrop overlooking the entire river valley, Amon stood with a few elite scouts. His sharp wolf eyes scanned the opposite bank, his ears twitching as he caught the distant, thundering sounds of heavy footsteps and deep, boisterous laughter. The enemy was moving.
Amon raised a carved bone whistle to his lips and blew a sharp, piercing note that mimicked the cry of a night hawk.
Instantly, the torch-bearers dropped their flames into the center of the dried grass piles.
Because the spiked horn grass wasn't completely dried, it didn't ignite with a clean, roaring flame. Instead, the oily, venomous resin within the stalks began to cook and simmer, bursting into a thick, heavy, yellowish-grey smoke. The fire hissed and popped, releasing a dense cloud that smelled suffocatingly sweet, like rotting fruit and burnt paper.
"Retreat! Everyone, fall back now!" some beastmen shouted, covering their noses and mouths with wet cloths as they scrambled up the rocky banks and away from the river.
Only Amon and his scouts remained on the high ridge, safely above the current of the air. The morning wind, blowing directly from the north, caught the heavy, yellowish-grey shroud and stretched it across the water like a thick, ghostly blanket, pushing it straight into the path of the advancing Hippo Tribe.
Across the river, the marshy plains were vibrating with brutal energy. The Hippo Tribe beastmen were already rallying in their hundreds, their massive, heavily muscled forms casting giant shadows in the early light. They were an intimidating sight—broad-shouldered, thick-skinned, and armed with heavy stone clubs and massive sharp Bone-tipped spears that could impale a bear.
At the head of the vanguard stood Chief Darius. He was a mountain of a male, his chest scarred from a hundred battles, his voice a thunderous roar that easily drowned out the rushing noise of the river.
"Move your lazy legs, you worthless wallowers!" Darius bellowed, slamming the butt of his massive Stone-hammer into the dirt, causing the earth to tremble. "The Tree Tribe is weak! They are buffoons sitting on Treasure! Today, we take their salt, we take their lands, and we take their Females!"
The warriors roared in approval, their heavy feet pounding the ground in a rhythmic, terrifying war dance.
"Listen to me!" Darius shouted, his amber eyes gleaming with tyrannical greed. "I promise you this: the male who kills the most of those tree-dwelling cowards, the one who proves his absolute strength today, will be given the first choice of the females we capture! You will take them as your mates, and they will breed strong warriors for our Tribe!"
This promise acted like a jolt of raw lightning through the crowd. In the beastworld, a female was the ultimate prize, and the previous night, a beastman claimed that the tree Tribe possessed some soft, beautiful females. That news had already circulated among the lonely warriors of the Hippo Tribe. The Hippo beastmen became instantly energized, their eyes bloodshot with lust and battle-fury.
"A female of my own?" one massive warrior chuckled, his pace quickening into a heavy jog. "I wonder if there are any true beauties in that village. I'll break twenty of their males just to find out!"
"They'll be begging us for mercy before afternoon!" another laughed, hefting his club over his shoulder.
They raced onward, a stampeding horde of flesh and bone. The collective vibration of their advance could be felt miles away, a terrifying warning to anyone who stood in their path. But as they neared the narrow canyon leading toward the river crossing, the leading edge of the horde suddenly slowed down.
A thick, yellowish-grey cloud of smoke drifted around the bend of the river, filling the canyon walls. It hit their noses instantly.
"What is that smell?" a scout muttered, coughing violently as the sweet, copper-scented smoke filled his lungs. "It smells like a forest fire. Did someone attack the tree tribe before us?"
"Look at the density of that smoke," another warrior grunted, slowing his pace to a walk. "If the village is already burning, what about the beauties? Have they been carried off by another tribe, or are they dead in the dirt?"
Anxiety flitted through the ranks. The thought of losing their prizes made them angry, and many began to run faster, desperate to push through the fog to see what was happening on the other side.
"Keep moving!" Darius roared, his voice echoing through the fog. "Do not let a little smoke slow you down! Push through!"
Chief Darius, however, felt a sudden tightening in his chest. His daughter, Emily, was supposed to be waiting for them, having paved the way for their glorious arrival. Was the village being invaded by an outside force, or was this a desperate trap set by Chief Morris? Could it be that the villagers were using the cover of a massive fire to abandon their lands and flee?
But none of his speculations soon mattered anymore.
The moment the smoke settled deep into the lungs of the charging warriors, the disaster struck. It wasn't a sudden ambush. It was a silent, terrifying erasure of strength.
The leading warriors suddenly staggered. The ferocious momentum that had driven them forward vanished in a split second. One by one, the massive, iron-like muscles of the hippo beastmen turned to water. Their bodies felt impossibly sluggish, as if their blood had been replaced by wet clay.
"What... what is happening to my legs?" a vanguard warrior wheezed. His knees buckled beneath his massive weight, and before he could even raise a hand to steady himself, his body dropped heavily into the dirt.
Behind him, the chain reaction was catastrophic. Tens, then dozens, then hundreds of warriors began to collapse. They didn't fall from wounds; they simply melted onto the earth. The paralysis was absolute. Their minds remained perfectly conscious, their eyes wide with burgeoning horror, but their muscles refused to obey a single command. It was as if the invisible thread connecting their ferocious wills to their physical bodies had been cleanly severed by the smoke.
Within minutes, the terrifying army of Chief Darius was reduced to a field of living statues, helplessly pinned to the ground by their own weight.
A suffocating panic gripped the paralyzed horde. In the brutal world of the beastmen, helplessness was a death sentence.
"Is this... the punishment of the Beast God?" a warrior thought frantically, unable to even move his jaw to speak. Did we anger the heavens by invading this valley?
They had been on their way to slaughter an enemy, to claim wealth and mates, and now they were entirely defenseless. If the Tree Tribe discovered them in this pitiful state, they wouldn't even need warriors to finish them off; their cubs could simply walk among them and cut their throats like sleeping livestock. The sheer humiliation and terror of their position made the proud warriors weep frozen, silent tears into the mud.
The only person who managed to resist the full weight of the poison was Chief Darius himself.
Because of his immense level of cultivation and his exceptionally thick, high-tier beastman body, his lungs had not fully succumbed to the paralytic smoke. Yet, he was far from unharmed. Darius stood in the middle of his fallen army, his breathing ragged and heavy. He could still stand, and he could still force his legs to walk, but his grand, imposing movements were gone. His body felt incredibly heavy, his reflexes blunted, and his vision swam with dark spots. He was no longer the unstoppable warlord who could rival Kael; he was a slowed, impaired giant, standing entirely alone amidst a sea of his own paralyzed men.