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At midday, within the underground fortress of Bloodstone, the dining hall was filled with the murmurs of soldiers waiting for their meal.
Seated around a large wooden table, Coleman and several of his trusted mid-ranking officers were waiting for their food to be served.
Before this, he had always dined alongside Captain Racallio. However, ever since Forrest had fallen in battle and Bloodstone had been besieged, the captain's temper had grown increasingly volatile.
Take, for instance, the battle three days ago when the Velaryon landed on the island. Racallio had personally instructed Coleman to devise a strategy to capture the dragon alive. But when the ballista chain formation proved ineffective, the captain had unleashed his fury entirely upon Coleman.
The injustice of it gnawed at him. That was a legendary dragon they had been up against!
Coleman's knowledge of dragons was limited to old stories, folktales, and the accounts of seasoned warriors. Who could have predicted that the green-scaled beast would evade their ballista chains so effortlessly?
Since then, Coleman had resolved to avoid unnecessary trouble. If there was a way to stay out of Racallio's sight, he would take it.
"Here we go! Today's special—Red Octopus Stew with Beans!"
A round-bellied cook, his face glistening with sweat and his apron stained with grease, carried over a large pot brimming with thick, fragrant seafood broth.
"Heh, Lord Coleman's favorite dish!" the cook added with a grin, placing the heavy pot on the table with a satisfying thud.
At the sight of his beloved dish, Coleman's mood lightened somewhat. Without hesitation, he reached into the steaming pot, plucking out a thick tentacle as thick as a child's arm. He dipped it into the rich, savory broth before taking a hearty bite.
"Mm! Mmm… 'shgood!" he mumbled between chews, his mouth full of tender, succulent meat infused with the familiar blend of spices.
Yet, after savoring the flavors for a few moments, his brow furrowed ever so slightly.
"Fatty Phil, your cooking's slipping."
He licked his lips, then added, "This stew is saltier than usual."
The cook, Phil, stiffened at the remark. Of all the dishes he prepared, this was Lord Coleman's favorite. If Coleman was displeased, his position as head chef could very well be in jeopardy.
"Ah… Forgive me, my lord," Phil stammered, wiping his hands on his stained apron. "I swear, I cooked it the same way as always! I didn't add even a pinch more salt than usual. Maybe… maybe the lads handling the ingredients made a mistake?"
But Coleman wasn't paying attention to Phil's excuses anymore. He was listening to the banter of the officers around him.
"I have to agree with Lord Coleman," one of them said. "The soups these past two days have been noticeably saltier. I've been drinking twice as much water just to balance it out."
"Not just the food," another chimed in. "Even the drinking water has a faint salty taste to it."
"Nonsense," someone scoffed. "I think the food's been tasting better lately!"
"That's because you've always had a preference for strong flavors!"
"Me? A strong palate? More like you just eat like a bird!"
All the soups had been overly salty? Even the water tasted slightly off?
To be honest, Coleman himself hadn't noticed much of a difference, aside from today's stew.
As for the claim that the drinking water had turned salty—he hadn't sensed it at all. Then again, men like him, who lived with the constant scent of blood and steel, tended to drink more ale than water. Years of heavy drinking had dulled their palates.
The only one who had noticed the change in water was the officer who never drank alcohol.
Wait…
According to reports from the frontlines, the Velaryon fleet and that green-scaled dragon had remained stationed in the natural sea caves on the left side of Bloodstone for the past three days.
Could it be…?
Suddenly, Coleman shot up from his seat.
Phil, mistaking the abrupt movement for anger at his cooking, paled in terror and dropped to his knees.
But Coleman paid him no mind. Without another word, he strode out of the dining hall and into the kitchen.
The kitchen staff, a group of young and inexperienced cooks, turned to stare at him in confusion as he barged in.
Without hesitation, Coleman approached a large cauldron hanging over an open fire. With a single swift kick, he sent it crashing to the ground, spilling its contents across the stone floor.
"You—clean that pot and fill it with fresh water!" he ordered one of the dumbfounded cooks. "And you lot—get that fire burning hotter!"
The kitchen erupted into frantic movement as the young cooks scrambled to obey.
The flames roared higher, casting flickering shadows across the walls, and soon, the pot was brimming with fresh water, bubbling vigorously over the heat.
But Coleman remained still, his gaze fixed intently on the cauldron. His expression was unreadable, his mind racing with unspoken thoughts.
Phil and the officers who had followed him into the kitchen stood in uneasy silence, unsure of what he was trying to prove.
The kitchen was cramped with more than a dozen people, yet the only sound that filled the space was the relentless bubbling of the boiling water.
Time dragged on.
The water in the cauldron boiled furiously, steam rising in thick clouds. But Coleman did not move. He simply watched.
Then—at last—the water began to evaporate.
Slowly, it boiled down until not a single drop remained.
"Bring that pot to me!" Coleman commanded, his voice sharp and urgent.
Two kitchen hands hurried forward, carefully lifting the cauldron and placing it before him.
Coleman wasted no time. He leaned in and examined the bottom of the now-dry pot.
A thin layer of fine, pale yellowish-white grains coated the metal surface.
His expression darkened.
Ignoring the heat, he swiftly ran his fingers across the residue, scooping up a small amount before placing it in his mouth.
The moment the granules touched his tongue, his heart sank.
Salt.
It was salt.
As the unmistakable briny taste spread across his tongue, Coleman's face, already shadowed with unease, darkened even further, turning as black as a storm-heavy sky.
His worst fears had come true—
The underground freshwater supply of Bloodstone had been contaminated.
For a brief moment, he could only feel admiration for the mastermind behind this strategy.
The sheer ingenuity of such a move—something no one could have foreseen. The unknown method they had used to channel seawater into the underground reservoirs. The audacity to sacrifice an island of such strategic importance, knowing full well the condemnation that would surely follow.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Coleman had always prided himself on his ability to strategize, yet now, facing such a ruthless and calculated maneuver, he found himself completely devoid of confidence in continuing this battle.
There was no victory to be had here.
Still—his duty remained. And that, he could not ignore.
Without wasting another moment, he turned on his heel and rushed toward Captain Racallio's quarters.
Upon arrival, he laid everything bare—the confirmed contamination of the island's water supply, the dire consequences it would bring, and the only viable path forward.
"…The remaining freshwater reserves on Bloodstone will last for a little while longer. If we surrender now and offer up the island, we will not only survive—we may even secure positions of importance.
But if we wait until the very end, when all is lost, our men may yet be spared, but we will not be so fortunate. They will make an example of us."
He let that hang in the air before delivering his final plea.
"Captain, your thirteen wives and twenty-one children are still waiting for you back in Tyrosh. Do you truly wish to abandon them?"
Racallio swayed slightly where he sat, as if burdened by the weight of his thoughts. Then, he shook his head and answered, his voice heavy with emotion.
"It is for their sake that I cannot surrender so easily," Racallio murmured. "Let's wait a little longer. The Archon will not abandon us. Perhaps even now, the High Council has dispatched the main fleet to reinforce Bloodstone."
"Captain!" Coleman's voice sharpened, his patience wearing thin.
"If there were truly reinforcements coming, they would have arrived by now. The High Council? You, of all people, should know exactly how divided those thirty-three governors are."
"They are like a carriage pulled by thirty-three horses, each one trying to drag it in a different direction! Yes, the fleet may come. But by the time they arrive, we'll have long since been picked clean by the fish and shrimp!"
Faced with Coleman's unrelenting argument, Racallio let out a deep, weary sigh.
Then, waving a hand in dismissal, he muttered, "Enough… Let me think this through."
Coleman stood in silence for a moment, staring at the man before him.
Then, with a slow shake of his head, he turned and left the room.
As he stepped beyond the doorway, he paused.
Turning back, he cast one last glance at the heavy wooden door, watching as it slowly swung shut behind him.
Unlike Racallio, he had no family waiting for him in Tyrosh.
Unlike Racallio, he did not place blind faith in a rescue that would never come.
And unlike Racallio—he had no intention of sitting around and waiting to die.
---
That very afternoon, within the underground fortress, a tense and unsettling silence settled among the officers closest to Coleman.
Gone was their usual camaraderie—the lighthearted banter replaced by grim, unspoken understanding.
The truth had been laid bare before them.
And so, when night fell, the storm finally broke.
The rebellion began at the command fortress.
Like wildfire, it spread, igniting like a plague among the other underground strongholds.
All at once—
Bloodstone was consumed by chaos.
Flames roared skyward, turning the night into a canvas of searing orange and crimson.
Screams and the clash of steel filled the darkness, echoing across the island as brother turned against brother—as the final fate of Bloodstone was sealed in blood and fire.
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[Chapter End's]
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