The message arrived wrapped in scorched canvas, still warm to the touch.

Kael stood in his forward command tent, the half-rolled battle map of the River Spine before him. The courier knelt low, breath ragged, dirt streaked across her brow.

"Fallowmere, my lord," she gasped. "Virelion struck at dawn—without warning. Civilians trapped. Fires spreading."

For a moment, the tent seemed to shrink.

Fallowmere.

A neutral village. No banners, no soldiers—barely more than a cluster of woodcutters and riverfolk who'd chosen not to take sides. Until now.

Kael's jaw tightened. His hands remained steady.

Great Sage: "Enemy incursion verified. Virelion detachment—approx. 80 infantry supported by light mage cohort. Intent: provocation."

Nyaro let out a low growl from the tent's far corner. Rimuru pulsed dark gold overhead, the flicker of her core matching Kael's own heartbeat.

"They want us to burn them," Kael said quietly. "To prove their story true."

He exhaled, voice sharpening. "We won't give them fire. We'll give them fear."

He turned. "Rimuru. Advance to Fallowmere with an illusion team. Blanket the approach in mist—layer it deep. Make them see what they fear most."

Rimuru's form straightened in the air. "Full projection?"

Kael nodded once. "Make it breathe with them."

Nyaro padded forward, claws flexing.

"Scout team's ready," she said. "We'll clear civilians."

Kael met her gaze. "You have one priority—get them out. Every last one."

She flicked her tail. "And the Virelion line?"

Kael's eyes darkened.

"They'll leave. On their own feet—or not."

Great Sage: "Recommended response window: 17 minutes. Tactical advantage increases if illusion projection precedes civilian extraction by three minutes."

Kael turned to the assembled officers.

"I want a fifty-soldier detachment—fast, clean, flame-linked. No banners. No noise."

A dozen runners vanished from the tent.

Rimuru zipped to the map. "I'll seed the mist ahead. When they see us…" she grinned, "they'll run from shadows."

Kael's voice cut through the tent.

"This isn't retaliation," he said. "This is precision."

He looked once more at the river-marked path leading to Fallowmere.

"Move."

By the time Rimuru reached the outskirts of Fallowmere, the air already stank of burnt wood and panic.

She hovered low, unseen in the morning haze, her core pulsing beneath a shifting cloak of translucent gold. Below her, smoldering beams leaned against charred rooftops. A river ferry burned half-sunken at the bank. Voices called out from alleyways—sharp, desperate.

Ahead, a detachment of Virelion soldiers moved through the square in loose formation, pushing civilians toward a hastily cleared staging point. Their captain barked orders:

"Take the elders first. If they resist, burn the houses."

Rimuru's glow deepened.

Great Sage: "Enemy cohesion: moderate. Formation vulnerable to illusion-based disruption."

"Perfect," Rimuru whispered.

From within her core, she unfurled dozens of slime-thread projectors—tiny filaments seeded with illusion glyphs tuned to Kael's recent field resonance. Each thread pulsed outward, weaving into the creeping fog rolling down from the riverbanks.

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The mist thickened unnaturally. What had been pale gray now swirled with ember-lit shapes—soldiers in flame-marked cloaks, faces shrouded, weapons gleaming. Their footfalls thudded in rhythm. Their shadows stretched and flickered along the ground.

Rimuru calibrated the pulse:

"No static ghosts. Make them breathe."

Across the square, Virelion's forward scouts froze.

"What—?" one hissed.

Through the fog, it looked as if an entire Ember Guard regiment was advancing in perfect formation—rows upon rows of fire-clad warriors moving in disciplined silence. The ground itself seemed to pulse beneath their march.

In reality?

Fifty soldiers still crept along the eastern alleys, unseen.

Kael's words echoed in Rimuru's memory: "Make them think we're shadows. Let them chase ghosts."

One of the Virelion mages fired a blind flare into the mist. The spell fizzled, swallowed by the illusion threads. The shadows advanced undeterred.

Virelion's captain cursed.

"They fielded the Flame Guard?" he spat. "This was supposed to be a warning, not a slaughter!"

His second-in-command whispered urgently. "Sir, the formation—three hundred strong. No gaps."

Rimuru drifted above the square, grinning.

Great Sage: "Psychological impact—optimal. Enemy cohesion degrading."

Below, the first Virelion soldiers began to retreat.

And the real rescue had only just begun.

Kael arrived on the ridge just as Rimuru's mist reached its peak.

The river fog had thickened unnaturally, swirling with slow pulses of light that rippled in perfect cadence—an army breathing in the mist. Shadows of flame-cloaked figures lined the narrow streets of Fallowmere, their movements mirrored with eerie precision.

The illusion was flawless.

Below, the real Virelion forces had broken formation. Some clustered around their captain, others scrambled toward the edge of the burning square, weapons half-raised, eyes wild.

But the villagers—they were trapped. Families huddled in alley corners, beneath half-collapsed eaves, or clustered in the root-cellars below the old bakery.

Kael's cloak caught the rising wind as he dismounted on the ridge.

Nyaro landed beside him in a crouch, ears flicking. "Scouts in position. No Virelion mage dares cross the fog. Extraction window is open."

Kael's gaze swept the village. "Then we begin."

He lifted one hand, two fingers extended.

Down below, the first rescue teams moved—not through the main square, but through the side paths and underburned routes, marked in advance by Flame Scouts during the night.

Kael's voice echoed across the linked repeater net:

"No banners. No fires. Get them out."

The Ember Guard moved like ghosts within the mist.

One by one, civilians were drawn from hidden cellars, ferried through concealed paths to the river's southern bank. No soldier shouted. No blade was drawn. The only sounds were the crackle of lingering flame and the soft rush of breathing.

From his perch, Kael watched each movement with razor focus.

Behind him, Rimuru hovered, her core glowing with exertion. "They're panicking. Captain's debating retreat."

Great Sage: "Projection intact. Civilian extraction at 72% complete. Enemy forward cohesion—collapsing."

Nyaro returned from the shadows, her claws slick with ash. "We have their children too. Last family is moving now."

Kael's voice remained steel-clad calm.

"Hold formation. No pursuit."

Rimuru twitched in midair. "But we could—"

Kael's eyes never left the square.

"We don't give them the story they want."

He watched as the Virelion captain shouted one last ragged order—then wheeled his troops away into the mist.

A moment passed.

Kael lowered his hand. "Collapse the illusion."

Rimuru let out a soft sigh and released the final pulse—letting the ghost army fade into fog.

Kael turned toward his extraction lead on the repeater:

"Status."

The reply came sharp: "All civilians safe. No friendly losses. Moving to fallback."

Kael allowed himself a single breath—deep, slow.

They hadn't fired a single shot.

And yet the field was theirs.

Captain Rathven cursed beneath his breath as his horse stumbled over loose stone. The retreating Virelion column wound through the narrowing river path, mist still clawing at their heels.

He looked back once—and saw nothing.

No charge. No pursuit.

Only empty fog where a regiment had stood moments before.

One of his lieutenants rode alongside, armor singed at the edges. "Sir… that wasn't an army. It couldn't have been."

Rathven didn't answer. His grip on the reins was white-knuckled.

He'd seen the way they moved. The cadence. The way their shadows flickered in unison, every step deliberate. Soldiers trained for war—not peasants with pitchforks, not merchant guards.

And their commander—he was certain of it—had been watching.

The Scourge commands flame that walks like men, the thought whispered again and again through his mind.

Another scout galloped forward from the rear. "Fallowmere is empty, sir. They took the civilians without a sound."

Rathven's jaw clenched. "They wanted us to run."

And they had.

He slowed his horse as the column reached the old crossroads, pulling them into a defensive circle. Around him, the soldiers glanced at one another—uncertain, rattled.

He dismounted, drew a breath, and summoned his scribe.

"Report to Virelion High Command. Full priority relay."

The scribe swallowed and nodded, quill already shaking.

Rathven spoke slowly, eyes narrowing toward the north.

"Message: The Scourge has fielded an illusion force capable of full tactical deception. Firewalkers… possibly three hundred strong. Morale impact: extreme. Local resistance advised. Caution urged."

He paused.

Then added one final line.

"The Scourge commands flame that walks like men."

The scribe hesitated, then wrote it exactly as spoken.

Far across the riverbank, hidden beneath the trees, Kael watched through a mirrored scry panel—Rimuru projecting the scene with a grin.

Great Sage: "Psychological advantage acquired. Virelion operational tempo degraded. Patrol hesitation probability increased 41%."

Rimuru spun lazily. "They're going to be so paranoid now."

Kael didn't smile.

"They should be."

He turned from the scry panel as the last of Emberleaf's forces regrouped at the fallback point.

"They started this in noon's shadow," Kael said quietly.

He fastened the last clasp of his cloak.

"…Let them fear the night that follows."

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