Druids are easy to kill, once you know how.
The captain slept soundly in his tent, ready to be roused at a moment's notice—a habit ingrained during his cadet days. In his dreams, he revisited the lessons learned at the Erian Military Academy: their tactics, their knowledge of the Druids.
Among the academy's textbooks was one volume cataloging all manner of alien species. This encyclopedia classified them by type, detailing identification methods, countermeasures, and historical victories. Every future officer committed its contents to memory—not solely for exams, for leisure reading was scarce at the academy.
The captain read of the alien species' terrifying, unpredictable power, feeling profound sorrow for humanity's past sacrifices and ultimate victory. From this book, he learned the most crucial lesson: even the mightiest foe is not invincible if you know the right countermeasures. Just as his father had taught him: use worms for fishing, guns for hunting wolves.
The Druids were a textbook example. These nature cultists were fanatical environmentalists, making "Wither Gas" the perfect countermeasure. In both major historical conflicts against them, nearly all Druids exposed to the gas instinctively tried to shield nearby plants—a foolish act that turned them into sitting ducks. And this time, they faced classic Druids: survivors recalled raging forests, walking trees, driven animals, overgrown woodlands... it was textbook, like a military academy drill.
So once everything was prepared, all that remained was to wait.
The effective infection period of the "Wilting Gas" was five days, but its residual effects lasted far longer. Under these conditions, the druids would exhibit only two reactions: one, charge out to fight them desperately, trying to stop them from releasing more gas; two, hide in the forest, seeking ways to save the withering woods. The former was tantamount to walking into a trap. The latter? They could simply launch a full assault after five days. By then, the druids, half-dead in the woods, would be easy prey.
Many lower-ranking soldiers were filled with dread. Having heard of their comrades' fate weeks prior, they viewed the Angars Forest before them as a den of dragons and tigers. The officers, however, remained as composed as the captain, some even visibly excited. After all, it had been over a century since the last Druid encounter documented in the training manuals. These incredible cultists had nearly become the stuff of legend. Encyclopedias grew increasingly obsolete, their teachings mostly reduced to dragon-slaying techniques—legends best heard and forgotten. Humans were the sole masters of the earth, a fact that filled them with pride, yet sometimes made the hot-blooded youth sigh that heroes had no place to wield their skills.
They spoke of an era centuries past when heroes could vanquish goblins with a single step outside their door, fantasizing what epics they might have written there. How different it was now, where half the textbooks read like utopian fiction, and a group digging through the earth found only a few alien spawn that could do nothing but cry.
For all of them, this was their first real encounter with a Druid, their first taste of "Wither Gas." Weapons effective against the alien race commanded terrifying prices, scarce and controlled by the higher-ups. To deploy these precious weapons just to give greenhorns a glimpse? Even the Erian Military Academy couldn't afford such luxury. Officers craned their necks, watching the withering color spread before them in the morning light. They gasped, each convinced they'd gained a tale worth telling for years to come.
This marked the first deployment of "Wilting Gas" in Erian in nearly a century. Like the Druid files, it had been shelved and forgotten. Among the officers, only the Captain seemed troubled. He'd heard whispers that this weapon was a relic from the century before last. Though all alien armaments were properly sealed, over a hundred years had passed—long enough to cast doubt on its reliability.
Standing on the opposite side of the trench, watching the withering spread, he began to tremble like a commoner facing an approaching tornado.
Thankfully, that trench proved as useful as the books described.
The Druids didn't emerge immediately; it seemed they'd chosen the second path. This was fortunate for the humans—not only would they expend less effort to win this battle, but they might also reap a windfall. The Wither Gas would contaminate the land, creating a wasteland unusable for years. Yet with the druids' tricks, if luck held, they might salvage patches of the wasteland for use the following year.
The next day passed without incident, yet the soldiers remained on high alert. The captain began to take comfort in their unnecessary tension, their watchful eyes missing no trace of movement. After all, the Druids were known to transform into many forms. When the third day passed without incident, his second-in-command grew suspicious, wondering what trick the Druids were playing.
"Sir, does the 'Wilting Gas' infect Druids too?" he asked.
"Yes, we simply need to wait." " the captain replied.
"If they charge us within five days, won't they spread the infection to our men?"
"Wilting Gas infects animals but spreads only through plants," the captain recited textbook knowledge to reassure his anxious second-in-command.
"But what if the druids manipulate plants?" the lieutenant pressed uneasily. They have the power to control plants—walking trees, for instance... If they make trees cross the trenches, won't we be exposed to danger?"
"That's impossible," the captain stated firmly. "They are Druids."
For followers of the Druid cult, nature itself is their god. They would never manipulate plants to approach Wilting Gas. If they could do that, they wouldn't have qualified to become Druids in the first place. Not a Druid, not a tree-manipulator.
The night had been eerily quiet; the sentry had spotted no enemies. The dawn, however, was deafening. Soldiers screamed in the first light, rousing the captain from his tent. His feet touched the ground, and he heard a dry rustling sound.
Withered weeds crumbled beneath his feet.
His hair stood on end as engravings depicting the effects of the Wither Gas flashed through his mind. He scrambled a few steps, mounted his horse, and felt a fleeting, self-deceptive sense of relief that his feet no longer touched the ground. He scanned the horizon, seeing nothing but a sea of withered yellow.
The captain made his decision in seconds. He resolved to abandon the elusive druids in the forest, to leave the cause of the withering uninvestigated, and to leave immediately. He bellowed orders for the soldiers to break camp, leading the swiftest cavalry toward the town. Less than ten kilometers from the city, they saw the edge of the withered grass. He ordered everyone to dismount and dig trenches, digging and burning with all their might. They barely managed to complete the isolation zone before the withering reached them.
"Sir, you're disobeying orders!" a young man under his command frowned and challenged.
The dismounted troops had gathered here. Whispers spread everywhere due to the withering and the captain's unexplained retreat order. The young man who voiced the question had just graduated from military academy—a greenhorn who spoke for many.
"I will take responsibility," the captain replied curtly.
Headquarters had ordered them to hold Angars Forest at all costs and eliminate the druids within. But circumstances had changed. He didn't know if the spread was due to weapon failure or some other breach, but he wouldn't let his men pay the price. In his forties, with a wife and children, and his health declining, he was long past the age of reckless bravado. To the captain, such catastrophic failures belonged squarely on the shoulders of higher command. A few cultists were hardly worth the lives of so many soldiers.
The captain ordered the army to retreat another kilometer, setting up camp several kilometers from Antler Town. He commanded the officers to muster the troops, identify those feeling unwell, and send them back to the town for examination, along with brief situation reports. "Most of them are cowards faking sickness out of fear," grumbled the adjutant in charge of the muster. The captain chuckled, thinking that was just fine.
He recalled the records he'd read: Druids infected by the Wither Gas would wither and die. The texts warned human soldiers to be equally cautious, lest they perish even faster than the Druids. The captain felt no ill effects, and none of the soldiers who'd camped overnight on the withered grass suffered harm. Perhaps the Wither Gas's potency had truly faded over the long ages, now affecting only plants.
That night, the trenches burned brightly. The captain ordered soldiers to fill the trenches with dead branches and leaves, then set them ablaze. The flames burned all night. Under this heavy defense, the Wither did not cross the line.
On the fifth day, the last day the Wither Gas was effective, men began to fall.
At first, only the frail lingered in bed. Comrades or officers kicked them out, dismissing it as laziness. But would lazy soldiers collapse mid-stride? By nightfall, those who couldn't rise early had sunken eyes and gaunt faces, as if starved and sleep-deprived for days.
The weakest and sickest fell first. Before nightfall, the captain ordered a group sent back to Antler Town, but more collapsed after dark. The process continued intermittently, with every stage of the condition visible throughout the camp simultaneously. Late at night, men on horseback, lanterns in hand, returned frantically, babbling incoherently that the army must retreat.
"That thing! Those things, they, they're in the streets!" he screamed hysterically.
The captain couldn't calm the terrified man, but soon it ceased to matter. Among those too late to be sent away, soldiers with sunken cheeks rose straight up. Their faces were parched like dried grass, teeth protruding from hollowed cheeks. These unwell patients emerged and bit into nearby guards.
The raving soldiers were quickly killed, thankfully a minority. The patients were locked in makeshift cells, and by sunrise the garrison had gained several more withered living dead. They bore a striking resemblance to the zombies described in records, except their decay manifested as desiccation, as if human flesh had turned into withered vegetation. The captain and officers struggled to contain the panicking soldiers as the entire force withdrew to Antler Town.
The streets were filled with wandering undead, and every household kept their doors and windows tightly shut, afraid to venture out. It took the army an entire day to clear away the hidden threats lurking in every nook and cranny, accompanied by countless chaotic scenes. Once the dust settled, the captain began drafting his report to higher command, detailing this dreadful mishap. A silver lining emerged on the sixth day: no new patients appeared. Those who should have turned into zombies had already done so, leaving the remaining troops seemingly safe.
As the captain scribbled furiously, the bitten soldier yawned widely, overcome by thirst.
The doctor of Antler Town lay unconscious, having skipped dinner. His daughter nudged him repeatedly, but he stirred not. "Let him sleep," said the doctor's wife. "He encountered monsters and was wounded."