The Guardian gods-Chapter 559

"Since the beginning of this war," Arachnae explained, "the Empire’s forces have never dared to spend a full night on ground we have truly claimed. They push, they fall back, they fortify in their clean-dug trenches. But the ’Angel’s’ elite, they now sleep on the very ground we have sown with despair and madness."

"They have built their fortresses on our territory," the Succubus Lord purred, a chilling smile spreading across her lips. "They believe themselves safe. But their very sanctuary is a weapon against them."

"Precisely," Arachnae affirmed. "The corruption of the land subtly, inexorably, preys upon their minds. It gnaws at their resolve, whispers doubts, magnifies fears. It turns comrade against comrade, blurs the line between reality and nightmare. They won’t anticipate this, for it is not a direct attack, but a lingering malaise. And it is already at work."

Arachnae’s idea resonated with a sinister elegance that appealed to the more cunning demons. While the Tunneling Beasts would create physical chaos, this subtle, mental assault would erode the enemy’s cohesion from within.

"My proposal," Arachnae stated, its voice gaining a chilling confidence, "is to amplify this natural effect. We will focus our innate psychic essence, infuse the ground around their new ’fortresses’ with a more concentrated psychic poison. We will seed their dreams with terror, twist their thoughts to paranoia. It will weaken their resolve, slow their reactions, and make them question their leader, their comrades, even their own sanity, long before our main assault."

The Pit Fiend, initially skeptical of anything that wasn’t a direct charge, now nodded slowly. "A war of attrition, then. Not of bodies, but of minds. While the Low tier demons strike their rear, this... this mental erosion will soften their core."

"It requires no great movement, no massive energy expenditure right now," Arachnae emphasized. "Just a focused, continuous permeation of the adjacent land. It is a siege, not of walls, but of the very will."

The demons came to agreement to immediately act on this, this tactic was soemthing that would be continously applied as long as the elite army of the army made their home on the corrrupted lands, they would slowly wear them out.

The other demons exchanged glances. This was a form of warfare they understood, one that played to their inherent strengths of manipulation and corruption. It could be enacted immediately, subtly, without drawing undue attention or risking their own forces.

As night fell over the hastily erected fortresses, a chilling, almost imperceptible shift began to ripple through Kaelen’s forces. The moon, partially obscured by the lingering, acrid haze of the corrupted lands, cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. It started subtly, a pervasive sense of unease that settled in the pit of the stomach, an instinctive shiver that had nothing to do with the cool night air.

For the ratfolk, nestled within their cramped quarters, they were in a deep sleep resting their body and mind, it was at this time that their nightmares began.

They were suddenly drawn into a dream land, and this weren’t the usual terrors of battle, but insidious, whispering horrors. Visions of comrades turning into grotesque demons, of their own fur sloughing off to reveal skeletal forms, of the very ground beneath them dissolving into an endless, suffocating void.

Sleep no longer offered no solace; it became a conduit for terror. Soon, the whimpers turned to startled cries, then desperate shouts. But they were stuck unable to even open their eyes.

The next to be affected were the Guards, as they went on a rampart, reporting about seeing phantom figures flitting in their peripheral vision, hearing voices carried on the wind that promised betrayal and gruesome fates.

Among the ogres, they were trained and more disciplined than the Ratfolk so they were not asleep, but they weren’t safe either from the psychic attack, the effects manifested differently.

Their immense physical fortitude offered little shield against the psychic assault. A deep-seated paranoia began to fester. Minor disagreements escalated into snarling accusations. Suspicion bloomed where camaraderie had been.

A long-buried grievance, a point of contention often swept under the rug, was brought to the forefront of their minds: the Empire’s current treatment of their king, Kaelen. Some ogres held firm to the belief that the Empire’s actions were justified, while others, equally strong-willed, defended Kaelen’s unique perspective and actions. What had been a small, easily glanced-over debate in the past became a focal point of their escalating paranoia. The psychic attack amplified these internal divisions, twisting reasoned arguments into vehement accusations and simmering resentments. It started as heated words, quickly escalated to aggressive gestures, and soon, the small debate that had once been dismissed as trivial now bled into physical confrontations, threatening to tear apart the very fabric of their formidable unity.

The psychic assault spared no one, not even the mages, individuals whose minds were their greatest weapons and tools. Rattan found himself entangled in the same insidious web of mental disarray. The familiar, comforting hum of his magi-tech systems—a symphony of arcane energies and intricate mechanisms—began to war with a new, discordant buzzing static within his mind.

His attempts at meditation, usually a sanctuary of clarity and focus, were now fractured and chaotic. Impossible geometries spun wildly behind his closed eyelids, twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes. A chilling sensation crept over him, the horrifying realization that his own brilliant designs, his carefully crafted spells and enchantments, were turning against him, morphing into instruments of torture within his mind’s eye. He saw his energy conduits becoming chains, his protective wards transforming into crushing walls.

Rattan awoke with a throbbing headache that resonated deep behind his eyes, accompanied by a persistent, high-pitched ringing in his ears. He initially dismissed it as mere fatigue, an expected toll from the day’s exertions and the constant mental strain of his work. Yet, a cold, creeping dread began to take hold—a feeling that something was profoundly wrong, something far beyond the physical toll of battle or the weariness of magical practice.

The higher-ups, insulated by their authority and perhaps possessing a greater resilience to such mental intrusions, noticed the attack. However, it hardly posed a problem for them initially. They lay in their tents, eyes closed in what should have been peaceful rest, their minds only subtly aware of a pervasive, unsettling pressure. But their tranquility was short-lived.

Their rest was abruptly shattered by the growing cacophony outside: the piercing screams of the ratfolk, the frantic shouts and increasingly agitated reports from the guards, and the ominous sounds of the ogres reaching the brink of drawing their formidable weapons. The psychic attack, though not directly crippling them, had successfully created a chaotic storm that demanded their immediate attention. The true threat wasn’t to their own minds, but to the cohesion and discipline of their entire force, now teetering on the edge of internal collapse.

Kaelen emerged from his tent, Gorok at his side, his gaze sweeping over the escalating chaos. The whimpers from the ratfolk warrens, the frantic shouts of the guards, and the ominous rumblings from the ogre encampment painted a grim picture. He grasped the situation with a single, sharp glance. "Gorok," he commanded, his voice cutting through the rising din, "lead the fifth-tier mages. Produce a counter-spell against this attack and locate its source. Quickly."

Gorok nodded, already turning to leave, but paused. "My lord," he stated, his voice grim, "I believe the source is the very land we’re standing on." With that chilling pronouncement, he was gone, leaving Kaelen to a moment of stunned silence.

A single brow raised in a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding, Kaelen knelt, pressing his palm against the corrupted earth. He extended his senses, delving into the unseen currents beneath the surface. Instantly, he was met with a wave of malevolent energy, a surge of pure, psychic venom that recoiled from his touch.

He withdrew his hand, a deep frown creasing his brow. Without a word, he pulled his arm back. His gaze shifted beyond their newly won territory, deep into the demon-held lands.

Leaving was not an option. To abandon the ground they had fought so hard to secure would be to hand a strategic victory to the demons, entirely counter to their original plan. This wasn’t just a battle; it was a test of endurance, a forced hardening. Kaelen knew then that they couldn’t just weather this storm—they needed to toughen it out and increase their attack output, pushing deeper and faster to minimize their exposure to this blighted land.

Gorok, having swiftly gathered the fifth-tier mages, directed their combined efforts. A complex, shimmering spell began to weave itself into existence, expanding rapidly until it enveloped the entire expanse of the recently captured territory. As the spell settled, its effects were immediate and profound. A palpable wave of clarity washed over the army, and sanity, like a returning tide, flowed back into their minds. The ratfolk, who moments before had been trapped in their waking nightmares, gasped as their eyes snapped open.

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