180: Creating A Plan 180: Creating A Plan It wasn’t just corruption; it was a slow, calculated bleeding of the city’s lifeblood, leaving behind only an empty shell ripe for collapse.
Ben’s expression darkened as he processed the full extent of the betrayal.
Malvek hadn’t rely failed the city, he had gutted it, profited from its decay, and abandoned it the mont it no longer served his interests.
Ben let the report fall onto the table with a dull thud.
‘Just what was on Kharvek’s mind, keeping a reagent like this around?
Was this so kind of trade?’ There was only one possibility.
The Malvek family had probably been the ones offering the relic to the old city lord.
To make sure, he’d need to dig through the old archives, checking for anything about Kharvek’s combat capabilities, or better yet, maybe Zarnak knew sothing.
‘I can ask him about the difference in the city before and after Malvek ca in…’ Ben noted it down in his mind, marking Malvek as a howork assignnt for later.
The more information he gathered, the better.
He couldn’t just brute-force his way through this.
He needed to be subtle now, to play the political ga carefully.
He closed his eyes, reaching out and connecting to the hive mind.
‘Eight, Nine, share your findings.’ ‘Yes, Master,’ they replied in unison.
A flood of information poured into Ben’s mind.
It was different from simply reading a book, this ti, it was as if he stood right where Eight and Nine were, feeling their presence as they moved unseen through the city’s shadows, eavesdropping on citizens and soaking up every scrap of rumor and gossip.
Ben found himself standing, or rather, being, at a smoky tavern tucked between two crooked alleys.
Through Eight’s eyes, he watched the crowd.
Rough-looking Shavralk laborers hunched over battered stone tables, their scales dulled with dust from the mines.
Plates of scorched at and hard, black bread were shoved between mugs of cheap ale, the kind that left a sting long after swallowing.
The food was barely passable, the conversation even less so.
“They expect us to eat this burned crap and call it a feast?” one Shavralk grumbled, jabbing a clawed finger into the rock-hard loaf.
“Used to be you’d get real stew, thick with at and roots.
Now it’s ashes and rot!” “Be glad you can afford even this,” another snapped.
“Half the farrs ran off.
Only the desperate stayed behind.
City council’s too busy stuffing their pockets to care.” The talk soured further.
Old resentnts festered just beneath the surface, and it didn’t take much to bring them boiling up.
Through Nine’s perspective, Ben drifted to another corner of the city, this ti a gathering square near the cracked basalt fountain.
A group of Draknir were arguing heatedly, their scaled tails lashing in frustration.
“If the magma channels break down any more, this place will be unlivable!” barked one.
“You feel it, don’t you?
The ground’s cooling!” “And what do the nobles do?” another spat on the ground.
“They fled.
Took the best engineers with them.
Left us with rusted pumps and cracked stones.” Ben absorbed it all, feeling the city’s heartbeat through every complaint, every bitter laugh, every half-drowned hope.
Even the children weren’t spared, he caught glimpses of young humans and Dwarrow chasing rats in the alleys, laughing not out of joy, but out of grim necessity.
One child pulled a half-burned mushroom from a trash heap and held it aloft like a prize.
The culture of Krahal-Zir revealed itself in these broken monts: a people hardened by scarcity, bound together by old grudges and fading pride.
als were no longer about savoring but surviving.
Work wasn’t about building a future, but delaying collapse.
Even festivities, once grand celebrations of molten forges and volcanic harvests, had dwindled into sour, bitter drinking contests under cracked banners.
But beneath all the dissatisfaction and despair, Ben sensed sothing else too, anger.
The kind of anger that, if kindled properly, could turn into a force that will benefit the city growth.
Ben sank deeper into the flow of shared senses.
In a cramped smithy, a Dwarrow blacksmith hamred at a dull, cracked blade.
His apprentice, a wiry human boy with soot-streaked cheeks, muttered under his breath.
“Master, why bother?
No one’s buying.
No soldiers left to arm.
Just gangs and scavengers.” The blacksmith grunted, sparks spitting from the anvil.
“We hamr because we must, boy.
When the real fight cos, and it will, those who held onto their craft will be the ones standing.” Outside, a rchant’s stall sagged under the weight of wilted vegetables and stale bread.
A heated argunt broke out between a woman and the rchant, their voices sharp enough to slice stone.
“You call this food?
I wouldn’t feed it to a rat!” “You want better?
Then go find it yourself!
Maybe steal it outta Gravenhold’s fat storehouses, eh?” The rchant spat to the side.
“Don’t whine to when it’s your own lords who sold you out.” The crowd gathered quickly, dirty faces, hungry eyes.
Their grumbling was low, dangerous, the way an avalanche began with the faintest tremor.
In the corner of the square, a half-drunk bard played a cracked lute, his voice raspy as he sang a tune twisted with bitterness.
“Oh, Krahal-Zir, proud and free, Now sold for silver, ash, and plea, Your lords have fled, your forges cold, But your blood runs hotter than gold…” Ben listened carefully.
‘This is both good and bad, if can just gain their trust.
First I will need to put solution on their al problem.’ In the shadowed edges of the marketplace, Ben caught another conversation, this one between two cloaked figures.
“Gravenhold’s been sending ‘advisors.’ Watchdogs, more like.
They say it’s for ‘security.’ What they an is to keep us quiet.” “And the soldier?” “They’re useless.
We’re on our own now.” Ben leaned back in his chair, pulling his consciousness fully out of the hive mind.
His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest, thoughtful.
‘So they have people here… Eight, Nine capture them all.’
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