Chapter 33: Battle of the Blighted Gate

The holy army arrived at dawn in three colors: white banners, gold armor, and the gray breath of thousands of men marching through cold mist.

From the crown of the Blighted Gate, Nate Mercer watched them come.

They crested the eastern ridge in disciplined blocks, spearheads glittering like frost. Priests in lacquered pauldrons walked between ranks, swinging censers that poured ribbons of silver smoke over the soldiers. War wagons groaned behind them, their wheels wrapped in prayer-script, their beds loaded with ballistae, siege ladders, and cages of white-feathered ravens trained to scream when they sensed demonic mana.

The ravens were screaming themselves hoarse.

“That feels targeted,” Nate muttered.

Beside him, Vexa of the Iron Fang leaned one elbow on the battlement, black cloak snapping in the wind, tusks polished to a shine. The former demon general had dressed for war in lacquered black plate, every edge etched with old infernal sigils that had begun glowing a deep, obedient crimson the moment Nate stepped onto the wall.

Vexa’s eyes narrowed as the holy army unfurled its largest banner: a sunburst impaling a horned skull.

“Subtle,” he said.

“I’m sensing they didn’t come for the weekend spa package.”

“Their loss. The sulfur baths are excellent for the joints.”

On Nate’s other side, Sister Elowen clasped her hands so tightly her knuckles had gone white. The young saint candidate had exchanged her ceremonial robes for a padded healer’s coat over chainmail, but she still looked like someone had mistakenly placed a cathedral window in the middle of a battlefield. Her pale hair was braided back. Her green eyes followed the approaching army with growing horror.

“That is the Third Radiant Host,” she whispered. “And the banners of the Inquisitorial Synod. They brought sanctifiers.”

“That sounds bad,” Nate said.

“They only deploy sanctifiers when they believe a city is too corrupted to redeem.”

“Okay, upgrading that to extremely bad.” Nate rubbed his face. His palms smelled like oil, smoke, and the bitter coffee substitute the goblins insisted was “bean-adjacent.” “Remind me again why the diplomatic letter didn’t work?”

From somewhere behind them, a dry voice said, “Because you opened with, Dear armed religious neighbors, please stop freaking out about my dungeon resort town.”

Nate turned. Lyrica Thornroot, the dark elf botanist, stepped onto the parapet with an armful of clay jars strapped to her back and a carnivorous vine curled around her shoulders like a scarf. Her silver hair had been pinned up with bone needles. Dirt streaked one cheek. Her red eyes sparkled with the manic joy of a woman who had finally been given permission to field-test experimental agricultural crimes.

“It was approachable,” Nate said.

“It was a confession with bullet points.”

“It had a map.”

“The skull stickers on the map may have undermined its peacekeeping value.”

“Those were tourist attractions!”

A shadow swept over them. The wall shuddered as something massive landed on the tower roof above with a sound like thunder deciding to sit down.

“Your marketing is terrible,” rumbled Seraphina, the dragon who absolutely, definitely, under no legal definition resided in Nate’s fortress despite having occupied the western tower for three weeks and redecorated it with heated stones, tribute pillows, and a sign reading temporary hoard annex.

Her long sapphire head dipped over the battlement. Dawn flashed along her horns. A wisp of smoke curled from one nostril.

“Also, there are too many clerics,” she added. “They smell like polished guilt.”

Below, the Blighted Gate woke around them.

Once, it had been a ruin: a mouth of black stone half-swallowed by thorn forests, its towers cracked, its courtyard choked with ash and bones. Now it was a living fortress-city, stitched together by Nate’s absurd, glitched Divine Settlement skill and the stubborn hands of everyone who had refused to have nowhere else to go. New houses leaned against old demon walls. Copper gutters gleamed over shops run by kobolds, harpies, ogres, and three retired human bandits who made surprisingly delicate pastries. Enchanted lamps burned blue along monster-safe roads. Steam rose from bathhouses. The tavern sign of the Tipsy Mimic creaked in the morning wind, its painted chest lid opening and closing in nervous little bites.

And at every street corner, every wall walk, every rooftop, the residents waited.

Not an army. Not really.

A city.

Goblin masons wearing boiled leather and helmets too large for their heads crouched behind stone barricades they had built themselves. Minotaur carpenters stood beside swivel-mounted net throwers. Spiderkin seamstresses unspooled reels of glittering silk across alley mouths. Harpy couriers hopped along rooftops with satchels full of smoke pellets. The undead librarian, Mr. Sable, had positioned himself behind a crenelation with a ledger in one skeletal hand and a crossbow in the other, each bolt tagged with a note reading overdue fine.

Nate’s chest tightened until the cold air hurt to breathe.

They were scared. He could see it in the way claws flexed around spear hafts, in the trembling ears of a young beastkin girl peering from behind her mother, in the goblin twins arguing in whispers over which end of the shield faced outward.

But none of them ran.

A translucent panel flickered into being before Nate’s eyes.

DIVINE SETTLEMENT INTERFACE

Territory: Blighted March Central Holding

Status: Under Siege

Hostile Force Detected: 8,742 units

Civic Morale: 82% and rising due to “spite,” “affordable rent,” and “communal breakfast program”

Ancient Fortress Defense Network: Fully awakened

Command Authority: Nate Mercer, Acting Landlord / Unverified Sovereign / Error: Title Conflict

Recommended Action: Repel invaders.

Optional Objective: Minimize tenant casualties.

Optional Objective: Collect overdue stall fees from siege merchants.

Nate blinked hard. “Not now with the stall fees.”

Vexa glanced at him. “The wall speaks again?”

“The wall has priorities.”

Far below, the holy army halted outside arrow range. Their lines folded open with mechanical precision, revealing a carriage plated in white enamel and gold. Its doors opened.

Three figures emerged.

The first was a broad man in shining armor with a mace shaped like a miniature sun. His beard was trimmed into hard angles; his expression looked like he had once tasted a lemon and declared it morally suspect.

“High Marshal Garran,” Elowen breathed.

The second was a woman in layered priestly robes, thin as a knife, her neck wrapped in chains of sanctified silver. Her eyes were pale, almost colorless.

“Mother Caldris,” Elowen said. This time her voice shook.

The third figure wore no armor. Just a traveling cloak over simple white vestments. He had dark hair, an unshaven jaw, and the posture of a man who had spent the entire march arguing with people who outranked him and losing.

Nate knew him.

Kael.

The church knight who had once helped Elowen escape her “holy duty” of being married off like a diplomatic fruit basket. The man who had warned them that the church was coming, then vanished back into enemy lines to buy time with lies, excuses, and probably a lot of extremely dangerous sarcasm.

Kael looked up at the wall.

For one brief second, across the distance, his gaze met Elowen’s.

She took half a step forward. “Kael…”

Mother Caldris lifted a hand. A priest beside her amplified her voice with a crystal staff, and her words rolled across the field, cold and pure as bells.

“Creatures of the Blight. You stand upon defiled ground beneath the shadow of the Demon Lord’s throne. By authority of the Holy Synod and the Compact of Seven Crowns, surrender the saint candidate Elowen, submit your corrupted ruler for judgment, and open your gates for cleansing.”

A murmur rippled through the city below.

Nate leaned toward Vexa. “Do I have an amplified voice option?”

Vexa’s gauntlet tapped the battlement. Black stone unfolded beside Nate like a blooming mechanical flower, revealing a horn carved from obsidian and silver bone.

“Apparently,” Vexa said.

Nate stared. “Was that always there?”

“The fortress has been flirting with you all morning.”

Nate stepped up to the horn. The inside smelled faintly of rain on hot stone and old lightning. He cleared his throat.

His voice boomed over the plain.

“Hi. Nate Mercer here. Acting landlord, reluctant sovereign, and apparently corrupted ruler. We are not surrendering anyone, because people are not lost luggage. Also, we would very much prefer not to fight, so if you could turn around, there are complimentary road snacks at mile marker three.”

Silence.

A goblin somewhere in the courtyard whispered, “Good speech.”

High Marshal Garran’s face darkened. Mother Caldris did not blink.

Kael covered his mouth with one hand.

“You mock holy judgment,” Mother Caldris said.

“A little,” Nate admitted. “But in my defense, you marched an army to my house.”

“This is not a house. It is a nest of abominations.”

A low growl moved through the wall defenders. Vexa’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword. Lyrica’s vine lifted its flower-mouth and hissed.

Nate felt heat rise in his chest.

He thought of the bathhouse aunties who slipped extra dumplings onto his plate because he looked “underfed for a warlord.” He thought of Brindle, the gnoll cooper, teaching human refugees how to repair rain barrels. He thought of the little kobold kids who had painted crude suns over old demon gargoyles because they wanted the fortress to look “less gloomy and more like breakfast.”

He leaned closer to the horn.

“They’re my citizens,” he said, and the words came out quieter than before, but the horn carried them with a weight that made the black stones hum. “If you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you want Elowen, she decides. If you want to inspect the city, we can arrange a supervised tour with pamphlets and probably too many safety waivers. But if you come through that gate with weapons drawn…”

The fortress answered before he finished.

Lines of crimson light raced through the wall beneath his hands. Ancient runes ignited across towers, bridges, and murder holes. Massive gears groaned deep underground. The Blighted Gate’s broken statues straightened, horns grinding free of centuries of moss.

Nate swallowed.

“…you are going to have a really bad customer experience.”

For one heartbeat, no one moved.

Then High Marshal Garran raised his mace.

“Cleanse them.”

The holy army surged forward.

War horns blasted. Drums rolled like a second heartbeat over the plain. The first line advanced behind tower shields painted with prayers. Priests marched among them, chanting, their voices weaving into a sharp white glow that spread over the formation like frost on glass.

Above the gate, Nate’s interface erupted in frantic panels.

SIEGE EVENT INITIATED

Defensive Doctrine?

1. Total Annihilation

2. Incinerating Majesty

3. Soul-Flaying Retaliation

4. Custom Tenant-Safe Nonlethal Response

“Four!” Nate snapped. “Obviously four! Why are the first three even options?”

Legacy settings.

“We are updating the policy manual after this.”

The ground in front of the charging army split open.

Soldiers shouted as black iron stakes erupted from hidden channels—then stopped six inches short of impaling anyone and unfurled padded caps shaped like grinning demon faces. The front rank crashed into them with a collective whump, shields bouncing, men tumbling backward into the mud.

A second line veered around the obstacle and triggered the moss.

It had taken Lyrica two sleepless nights, three assistants, and one alarming argument with a mushroom to cultivate enough slumbermoss beneath the eastern approach. Now green patches burst under armored boots, releasing clouds of sparkling pollen. Soldiers staggered. One sneezed so hard his helmet flew off. Another dropped his spear, sat down, and began telling a confused priest about his childhood pony.

Lyrica clasped her hands under her chin. “Oh, beautiful. Look at the spore distribution.”

“You’re crying,” Nate said.

“It’s science.”

The holy army adapted quickly. Priests raised veils of light, burning pollen from the air. Engineers dragged forward plank bridges. Archers knelt behind shields and loosed volleys at the wall.

“Shields!” Vexa roared.

Monster and human defenders ducked. The first volley clattered against raised mantlets, stone, and shimmering wards. A few arrows slipped through. One struck a minotaur in the shoulder; he grunted, snapped the shaft off, and looked more offended than injured.

Elowen was already moving. She ran along the wall, skirts of her healer’s coat snapping, hands glowing gold as she pressed them to wounds.

“Hold still,” she ordered the minotaur.

“It is barely a scratch, little saint.”

“It is an arrow. Your body is not a storage cupboard.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nate gripped the battlement as the second wave reached the outer kill zone.

Not kill zone, he corrected himself wildly. Very aggressive inconvenience zone.

“Net launchers!” Vexa commanded.

The minotaur carpenters yanked levers. Great wooden arms snapped forward, hurling weighted nets over the advancing soldiers. The nets glimmered with spiderkin silk and settlement enchantments. They landed in shining tangles, pinning whole squads together. Men struggled, cursed, then found themselves being dragged sideways by teams of goblins turning crank wheels behind the wall.

“Please keep arms inside the capture web!” shouted a spiderkin seamstress through a speaking tube. “This net is reusable!”

A siege ladder slammed against the wall.

Vexa moved like a black blade. He drew his sword and cut the ladder’s hooks cleanly away, then kicked the whole thing backward. It toppled in slow, majestic disaster, carrying twelve armored soldiers into a drainage ditch full of enchanted foam.

The foam swallowed them to the neck.

Nate winced. “Is that safe?”

“Mostly,” Vexa said.

“Define mostly.”

“They will emerge moisturized.”

Another horn sounded from the holy army’s rear. The war wagons rolled forward.

Holy ballistae unfolded like praying insects. Their bolts were long spears of white wood capped with crystal heads, each one glowing with compressed sunlight. The priests around them began chanting. The air tasted suddenly metallic, like chewing tinfoil.

Elowen froze. “Sanctifier bolts.”

“Can we foam those?” Nate asked.

“Those are designed to pierce demonic wards and burn cursed stone down to bedrock.”

“So… no?”

The first bolt launched.

It screamed across the field, trailing fire so bright Nate’s eyes watered. It struck the outer wall with a thunderclap. White flame blossomed outward, crawling over black stone like hungry roots.

The wall screamed.

Not metaphorically. The ancient fortress let out a deep, furious sound that rattled Nate’s teeth and sent birds exploding from the dead trees beyond the road.

A chunk of parapet cracked. Two goblins tumbled. Seraphina’s tail snapped down, catching them mid-fall and depositing them onto the walkway in a heap.

“You are welcome,” the dragon said. “Do not tell anyone I was helpful.”

The goblins nodded frantically.

More sanctifier bolts loaded.

Nate’s interface flashed red.

WARNING

Sanctified Siege Ordnance detected.

Damage to Primary Gate Integrity: 7%

Recommended Countermeasure: Abyssal Reprisal Cannon.

Casualty Projection: Excessive.

“No cannons that sound like final bosses,” Nate said. “Give me nonlethal.”

Nonlethal countermeasure against sanctified siege ordnance unavailable.

Suggestion: Create one?

“That is not a suggestion, that is homework!”

Another bolt fired.

This time Seraphina met it in the air.

The dragon launched from the tower with one beat of her vast wings, dropping over the battlefield like a falling piece of night sky. She opened her jaws and breathed—not flame, but a roaring cone of blue-white frost. The sanctifier bolt vanished inside it. For one breathless second, fire and ice wrestled midair. Then the bolt cracked, spiraled downward, and detonated in the mud, throwing steam and clods of dirt over three very surprised priests.

Seraphina banked hard as arrows rose toward her in glittering swarms.

“I am not involved!” she bellowed, incinerating a siege wagon’s wheels with a neat line of blue flame. “This is merely airspace enforcement!”

The city cheered.

Not triumphantly. Not yet.

But loud enough that the sound rolled over the wall and struck the advancing army like a thrown stone.

Nate felt it in his ribs.

People who had arrived at his gate starving, hunted, cursed, or carrying everything they owned in a single bag were cheering at a dragon who claimed she didn’t live here while defending the home she had chosen despite herself.

A horn sounded from the left flank.

“Sappers!” Vexa barked.

Near the base of the wall, a cluster of holy soldiers under shimmering shields rushed toward the old drainage culvert. They carried satchels packed with radiant charges. If they reached the foundation—

“On it!” Lyrica shouted.

She hurled one of her clay jars. It struck the ground ahead of the sappers and shattered.

Nothing happened.

Nate looked at her.

She held up one finger. “Wait.”

The mud bulged.

A pumpkin the size of a carriage exploded out of the earth.

It was orange. It was veined with violet light. It had too many teeth.

The sappers stopped.

The pumpkin opened its mouth and emitted a cheerful, horrifying squeal before rolling directly into them. Men scattered. One climbed onto another’s shoulders. The pumpkin pursued with agricultural enthusiasm, gobbling satchels, shields, and one unfortunate boot.

“It only eats equipment,” Lyrica said proudly.

The pumpkin belched a sanctified charge into the air, where it exploded in a harmless burst of glittering sparks.

“Mostly equipment,” she amended.

“Lyrica.”

“He will get the boot back.”

The battle crashed against the Blighted Gate in waves.

Holy soldiers reached the wall and were met by boiling kettles of sticky sap that glued their boots to the ground. Priests raised purification hymns and had their verses interrupted by harpy couriers dropping stink bombs that smelled like old socks, wet dog, and tax season. A squad of elite knights breached the western postern only to find themselves inside a freshly renovated waiting room with comfortable chairs, calming music, and a sign that read Thank you for visiting Blighted Gate Defensive Services. Please take a number.

The door locked behind them.

They took numbers.