Chapter 51: A chess game between farmers
The moletatoes felt them long before any human eye did.
Pressure in the soil.
Foreign boots.
Measured steps.
Disciplined.
Not the careless wandering of normal divers.
Not merchants.
Not tourists.
Purpose.
Just like the assassins from last time.
The eavesdropping woodears passed fragments of speech back to camp.
Phong heard enough.
[Mapping.]
[Angles.]
[Line of sight.]
[Mark this ridge.]
[Treant boundary here.]
[Don’t cross.]
[Too risky.]
[We Black Web.]
[Deal with him…]
He did not need to see their faces to know what they were.
They moved like professionals.
Not loud.
Not reckless.
Not stupid.
Phong stood at the edge of the real camp and let out a slow breath.
So it had started.
He sent word through the alliance network at once.
The Greencap civilian farmers pulled back behind Camp Stymphalian’s inner perimeter.
Carrots uprooted.
Tools packed.
Small rabbit caravans slipping quietly under the treant canopy.
The knights vanished into their assigned hiding points.
The treants shifted subtly, limbs adjusting like silent sentries.
Then Phong walked alone to the decoy camp.
Casually.
Like nothing was wrong.
If Olen wanted a picture, he would get one.
He left the real camp sealed behind layers of living defense and relocated for the moment to the plain dirt patch near treant territory.
The decoy farm.
Normal crops.
No obvious mutations.
No bonktatoes in plain sight.
No missile chilies on display.
Just a level 1 farmer working the soil.
He could feel them from far off.
Not through magic.
Through pattern.
They watched from the tree line.
Careful spacing.
Signal dampeners active.
They were cautious.
They did not step into treant territory.
Not even by accident.
When one drifted too close, the trees groaned.
A low, angry creak.
Wood grinding against wood.
The Black Web team pulled back at once.
Good.
Professional.
Even if they were annoyed that Olen had only hired them to map the place, they still did the job properly.
Phong knelt in the dirt and kept planting basil seeds.
He didn’t look up.
Didn’t react.
Let them watch.
Let them record.
Let them map.
He even made sure to retreat visibly at dusk.
Walking back toward the treant line like that was his only shield.
Like his whole survival plan was simple:
Stay near high-level monsters and hope they ignore me.
It was believable.
Too believable.
A level 1 farmer using environmental deterrence to stay alive.
Treants hostile to intruders.
Troll mountain too dangerous.
Lizardman canal too exposed.
The simplest answer was often the most convincing.
And Olen loved simple answers.
The Black Web team spent two days circling the outer ridges.
Marking terrain.
Tracking his visible routine.
Measuring the distance between the decoy farm and the treant zone.
They did not push deeper into the forest.
They did not try to break past the safe radius.
When the treants shifted again in warning, the team fully withdrew.
Through the soil network, Phong felt the retreat like a tide pulling back.
They would report in.
He already knew the report.
[Target is level 1 farmer.]
[Operating near treant territory.]
[Likely relying on high-level mob deterrence.]
[No visible advanced defense structures.]
[Minimal threat.]
He smiled faintly as he watered a row of normal peas.
It was a fair theory.
It made sense.
And it was exactly what he had wanted people to believe when he built the decoy camp months ago.
The real Camp Stymphalian was unreachable by brute force.
To reach it, someone had to:
Cross troll mountain.
Pass through treant territory.
Navigate lizardman waterways.
Avoid the bamboo ant expansion zones.
Survive Greencap cavalry routes.
No ten-man private squad would charge into that blind.
Not without huge numbers.
Not without drawing notice.
The decoy was the only practical battlefield.
And Phong had prepared it well.
Back in his room, Olen now had what he needed.
Terrain.
Angles.
Routine.
Confidence.
All he lacked was timing.
He would wait.
He would not strike while Alexandra Vogel remained on Floor One.
He would wait for Dominic’s team to go down.
Wait until she was busy on Floor Two.
Wait until the farmer stood alone.
Phong planted the last basil seed and rose to his feet.
The wind rustled softly.
The treants murmured in approval.
Far off, a troll horn sounded once.
A signal.
Allies in position.
He returned to Camp Stymphalian under the canopy’s shadow.
Calm.
Olen believed he was hunting.
But from Phong’s point of view, the board had been shaped long before Olen ever touched a piece.
Now it was only a matter of patience.
And patience was something Phong had learned the hard way.
Alex did not calm down.
She accepted cuddles.
Accepted hair brushing.
Accepted kisses pressed to her knuckles like offerings.
But under all of that, there was steel.
When Phong told her the Black Web had mapped his routine, something inside her shifted.
The first assassination attempt had pissed her off.
This was poking a hornet nest.
He had come for Phong again.
Not with rumors.
Not emotionally.
With hired killers.
With professionals.
Twice.
Alexandra Vogel did not forget things like that.
Phong had promised not to interfere in what came next.
He kept that promise.
He saw the look in her eyes.
It was not recklessness.
Not blind rage.
It was fury sharpened into calculation.
And she was most dangerous when calm.
The media cycle kept roaring.
Clips from the dinner flooded every feed.
[She Gave Him a Chance. Still Said No.]
[Olen’s Patience Tested?]
His media team worked overtime.
Reframing.
Editing angles.
Pushing stories about maturity.
About dignified rejection.
About “continuing admiration from afar.”
But optics only bend reality for so long.
Even supporters started going quiet.
Some fan accounts slowed down.
Some turned defensive.
Papa and Mama Vogel noticed one small change.
A few regulars stopped coming to the bakery.
Papa Vogel shrugged.
“Less drama near the bread.”
Mama Vogel snorted.
“Sure. It’s not like you’re running for Congress and need public approval.”
“Only if there is baking chief deputy.”
They closed early one evening as the first cold wind of approaching winter swept through the streets.
Halloween decorations began appearing in shop windows.
Tension rose on the surface.
Below ground, a different kind of preparation had already begun.
Séline and Camille returned first.
They did not come through the gate like nervous newcomers anymore.
They cut through lizardman territory with quiet confidence.
Recognized by the vanguard.
Escorted with respect.
They had earned that during the siege.
Camp Stymphalian welcomed them like kin returning home.
When Séline stepped into the central clearing, she saw Alex waiting.
Arms crossed.
Expression steady.
“Ah,” Séline said lightly. “That look again.”
Camille leaned against a tree.
“We are about to do something dangerous, aren’t we?”
Alex nodded once.
“Yes.”
They gathered under the lime-oak.
Phong sat nearby but stayed silent.
He had promised not to interfere.
This was hers.
Alex laid it out cleanly.
“Someone posted a Salamander blood quest. They turned down every team that approached.”
Dominic nodded.
“We figured they wanted us specifically.”
“He wants us in Floor Two.”
“So he can move on Floor One,” Camille finished.
Alex’s eyes sharpened.
“Correct.”
Séline asked, “So we do not go?”
“We do,” Alex said.
Silence.
Then she continued.
“But not all of us.”
Her gaze shifted to Séline.
“You’ll take my place.”
Séline blinked once.
Then smiled slowly.
“Oh.”
Camille let out a low whistle.
“That’s clever.”
Alex explained.
Dominic would publicly accept the quest.
The team would assemble visibly at the gate.
Hoods up.
Standard formation.
She would appear to walk in the middle.
Except it would not be her.
It would be Séline.
Same height.
Close enough in build.
Anyone watching from a distance would not risk getting closer.
If they did, they might blow the whole operation.
And if Dominic’s full team suddenly turned back to Phong’s side, that would ruin Olen’s plan.
So whoever Olen used as eyes near the Floor Two entrance would likely do one thing only:
Count bodies.
Confirm numbers.
No one expected their plan to be known.
Why would they?
They knew nothing about the moletato network.
Nothing about woodears translating whispers from the soil.
They assumed secrecy.
They assumed superiority.
They assumed Phong was blind.
Which meant they would settle for numbers.
Once Dominic’s team entered Floor Two, Olen’s watchers would report back:
[Target Alexandra Vogel confirmed on Floor Two.]
And then he would move.
Alex would stay on Floor One.
Waiting.
Séline’s smile widened.
“So I get to impersonate you.”
Alex nodded.
“Yes.”
Camille crossed her arms.
“And what happens on Floor One?”
Alex’s voice dropped.
“I handle it.”
Dominic studied her for a long moment.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Janet sighed softly.
“He aimed at Phong twice. Nobody gets to mess with my man and walk away clean.”
The air around Alex felt different.
Compressed.
Séline stepped forward.
“You know,” she said lightly, “you are terrifying when furious.”
Alex’s eyes flicked toward her.
“Good.”
Camille added dryly, “I am eager to see the lesson.”
Dominic muttered, “Let’s hope he survives long enough to understand it.”
Alex’s face did not change.
“If he survives, he learns.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Jake asked carefully.
“Then the dungeon does.”
The chill in her voice made even the Troll King shift slightly at the perimeter.
Séline laughed softly.
“I like this side of you.”
“You shouldn’t,” Janet said.
Séline shrugged.
“Perhaps.”
Then she stepped closer to Alex.
“Very well. I will wear your hood.”
“And when he strikes,” she added, eyes gleaming a little, “perhaps he will learn that actions have consequences.”
Camille murmured,
“And maybe he can apply that lesson…”
A beat.
“…in his next life.”
The joke hung in the air like a blade.
Phong watched quietly from where he sat.
He did not interrupt.
Did not offer to stand beside her.
He knew better.
This was not only about revenge.
It was about a boundary.
A message.
Making it absolutely clear that aiming at a level 1 farmer twice had consequences.
The first wind of winter moved through the clearing.
Leaves shifted.
Treants murmured.
Somewhere under the soil, moletatoes passed signals back and forth.
Olen believed he was choosing when to strike.
He believed patience was his privilege.
He did not know that, for the first time, he was stepping into someone else’s trap.
And this time, the lioness was waiting on the same floor.
Olen had many flaws.
Arrogant.
Driven by ego.
A hypocrite.
But stupid?
No.
Never.
He trusted no single report.
So he sent three.
Three separate mapping teams.
Three routes.
Three different time windows.
Black Web data came first.
Then a second private recon group.
Then one more survey team posing as freelance divers.
He compared coordinates.
Cross-checked terrain markers.
Verified treant boundary lines.
Measured the distance from the decoy camp to troll mountain.
Consistency.
Patterns matched.
The level 1 farmer moved in a predictable range.
No advanced fortifications visible.
No rotating defense squads.
No A-class signatures.
Olen nodded slowly.
Then he positioned hired divers at the Floor Two entrance.
Their job was simple.
Count.
Observe.
Confirm.
Dominic’s team assembled in public.
Hoods up.
Standard formation.
They moved through the gate with confidence.
The watchers counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Enough.
One hooded figure in the middle.
Height matched.
Build matched.
The report came back:
“Alexandra Vogel confirmed entering Floor Two.”
Olen exhaled slowly.
Satisfied.
He waited another hour.
Just in case.
Then he began to move.
Signal interceptors were distributed.
High-grade.
Layered.
No outgoing distress.
No livestream.
No flare.
He selected ten men.
Two A-class among them.
Briefed them.
Simple mission.
Quick elimination.
Stage the scene as dungeon casualty.
Leave.
Clean.
Efficient.
He adjusted his jacket.
He would go himself.
He wanted to see it.
Wanted to confirm it.
Wanted to watch the obstacle disappear with his own eyes.
But as he stepped toward the private exit, his father entered the room.
“You’re not going.”
Olen stopped.
“This is necessary.”
“It’s not.”
“He’s a liability.”
His father’s gaze was colder than usual.
“You are.”
Silence.
“You are a production-class pioneer,” his father continued.
“Your image is capital.”
“You do not get blood on your own hands in person.”
Olen clenched his jaw.
“I can handle a level 1 farmer.”
“That’s not the point.”
The older man stepped closer.
“You do not take unnecessary risk.”
“You send tools.”
Olen hesitated.
Anger flashed.
Then calculation returned.
His father was right.
Optics mattered.
If something went wrong…
If someone got footage…
If he got hurt…
The cost would be bigger than his pride.
He stepped back.
“Fine.”
Then he handed command to the A-class leader.
“Do it clean.”
He did not know then that being stopped had saved him.
The ten-man squad moved efficiently toward the decoy camp.
Interceptors active.
Internal comms only.
No signal leakage.
They approached at dusk.
Low wind.
Moderate visibility.
Perfect.
They saw him.
Level 1 farmer.
Back turned.
Working the soil.
Alone.
One A-class gave a subtle hand signal.
Advance.
Then the ground trembled.
And from the treeline came cavalry.
Armored rabbits.
Helms gleaming.
Earrings flashing with mana.
Flame-horned wildebeests snorting sparks.
Lightning-hoofed zebras crackling with current.
The Greencap Kingdom did not walk.
They charged.
The Black Web squad reacted at once.
Formation shift.
Defensive spread.
Two A-class stepped forward.
But they had prepared for a farmer.
Not a level 47 cavalry captain leading nomadic war beasts.
The first impact shattered their line.
One interceptor flew into the dirt.
A diver slammed into a tree hard enough to crack bark.
Arrows of compressed mana whistled through the air.
Behind them, the treants groaned and sealed the retreat routes.
Then she stepped out.
White hood lowered.
No disguise now.
Alexandra Vogel.
Not calm.
Not composed.
Not diplomatic.
Rage compressed into something lethal.
Her psychic constructs flared into existence at once.
Five.
No.
Seven.
Two shields.
Rapier.
A vajra.
Two bows.
A dagger.
The A-class leader’s eyes widened.
“She’s supposed to be in Floor Two—”
Too late.
Alex’s voice cut across the chaos.
“Where is he?”
No one answered.
A rabbit knight impaled a diver clean through the chest.
Another got trampled under a flaming horn.
Lightning arced over armor.
Alex advanced.
Precise.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
She broke one A-class in three exchanges.
Shield deflect.
Rapier through the thigh.
Vajra to the temple.
Construct blade through the shoulder.
She moved like someone who had been waiting.
Another diver tried to run.
A rabbit cavalry unit intercepted him.
Crushed.
The Black Web squad collapsed under the combined assault.
It was not a fight.
It was eradication.
Alex seized the surviving A-class by the collar and lifted him with telekinesis.
“Where is Olen?”
The man coughed blood.
“He… he didn’t come…”
Her eyes flashed.
He wasn’t there.
Protected.
Saved by family caution.
Her jaw tightened.
For a second, it looked like she might crush his skull anyway.
Instead she let him drop, then drove a psychic blade through his abdomen in the same motion.
Clean.
Efficient.
Controlled rage.
The battlefield went quiet fast.
The rabbits formed ranks again.
Breathing steady.
Treants returned to stillness.
Signal interceptors lay crushed in the dirt.
Alex stood at the center.
Chest rising slowly.
Constructs still orbiting.
She had wanted him there.
Wanted to look him in the eye.
Wanted him to understand.
Instead she delivered the message to his tools.
No mercy.
No negotiation.
No warning.
The Greencap captain approached quietly.
“He was not among them.”
Alex nodded once.
“I know.”
The wind carried the smell of torn soil.
Far away, Olen waited for confirmation.
He would receive it soon.
Just not the version he expected.
Because what his men found was not a vulnerable farmer.
It was cavalry.
Alliance.
And a Mindblade who had decided enough was enough.