The prophet’s henchmen were all zombies with sickly yellow mushrooms bursting out of the orifices on their faces. However, they were in better condition than the typical zombie as their bodies were largely undamaged with only glancing cuts on their hides. Clearly the prophet valued these corpses, and it made sense since they all had considerable auras.

The ogre stood at seven-foot with grey skin and a bloated belly. It dragged a filthy mace through the mud. What was concerning about this ogre were the yellow tattoos covering its skin, reminding Silas of Krumtor. He knew enough about the Order of Tyr to know that yellow was the colour of Foltrus, and that traditionally only Foltrus’s Avatar painted themselves so thoroughly.

Next was the troll-looking humanoid, about Silas’s height and loosely holding a shortsword. Although fungus covered most of its face, Silas could see the hint of a bulbous nose underneath, and a thicket of fiery red hair proudly carpeted its head. He could feel a powerful arcane presence from it, although not nearly as dominating as Xe’Hekon’s had been.

The last of the henchman was the towering lizardman, red scales fitted tightly over its ten-foot frame. It was well-muscled and carried a greatsword as tall as Silas on its back. Out of everyone here, it gave him the greatest sense of danger, although he still believed he could beat it on equal footing.

Which was where the problem lay since they weren’t on equal footing, not even close, as his wounds from fighting Xe’Hekon were drawing at his strength with every second he forced himself to stand tall and unflinching. His armour had burned through in splotches, and his bodysuit wasn’t much better off, leaving him defenceless against critical attacks. As if it couldn’t be worse, his mana had also run dry, meaning he couldn’t use any of his valued abilities if a fight broke out.

Despite this, he still maintained his prided agility, which would hopefully serve him well if he needed to escape. The reason he hadn’t run already was firstly because he needed to recover as much energy as he could, and secondly because he suspected the prophet wasn’t here to kill him. If the Rooted Prophet was as smart and dangerous as everyone claimed he was, then he would have brought the rest of the mycelia here as well to surround Silas, ensuring no escape. Instead, he had only come with a handful of henchmen, suggesting the aim wasn’t to butcher Silas but something else. At least, he hoped.

Fortunately, the prophet stopped a dozen strides away and confirmed his suspicions, followed by the others. The fungal satyr’s face wore a charming grin. “Silas Wycliffe, level 48 Duellist, rank 86 for notable kills.” He raised a finger then. “Oh sorry, that was the outdated version. Let me read you the updated one: Silas Wycliffe, level 51 Duellist, rank 14 for notable kills and rank 67 for level. Isn’t it funny how killing a single E-5 rated organism shoots you up so high?”

Ignoring the human’s lack of reaction, the prophet continued. “It is because there are very few people who dare to solo engage high-level enemies, even fewer who succeed. After all, why take the risk of going alone when you can massively reduce the danger by having a group to support you? All you would get from succeeding would be a higher position in a list with no tangible value, alongside somewhat more experience than otherwise.”

“Is that why you did nothing while I was being beaten? Just so that in case I turned it around, I would get slightly more experience points?” Silas asked, his hoarse voice thick with sarcasm.

“Not entirely, but it did have an influence, yes. The main reason I did not help was because, like Xe’Hekon said, I would simply rather not take him on and risk my assets,” the prophet answered, not at all troubled by his hostile tone. “He has got an imposing mana barrier and frightening artillery attacks, although neither seemed to trouble you too much. The other reason was because I wanted to watch you fight at your limits in live-action. Having done so, I am most impressed and would like to offer you a mutually beneficial dealing, one where we provide each other help in critical areas.”

Silas glanced around at the still zombies and found himself smirking, his lips moving before he considered his words. “I would have thought you would prefer to take my strength another way.”

“If I could, I would,” the prophet said, coolly acknowledging the accusation. “But it just so happens my spot of trouble cannot be solved by zombies. Rather, it needs the work of alive persons.”

The Duellist arched a half doubtful, half curious eyebrow, but the prophet waved his hands dismissively. “Let me first tell you what I can offer you. You have just killed Xe’Hekon, who was the only person holding Talis back from charging out of Ratterinks on a crusade for his lost honour. A week later, reinforcements will arrive and make such an endeavour impossible, so he will be eager to commit to his plans before then.” He pointed at Silas. “Your good fellows came to me with a plan that would work brilliantly, only it requires me to sacrifice most of my creations in the area as bait. Only that will be sufficient to lure him out into a reckless attack. However, I am not keen on losing my assets unless I can receive something of equal value in return.”

“Which is me?” Silas asked, brow lowering into an unamused frown. While he acknowledged he was powerful, he wasn’t delusional enough to believe himself of equal value to a legion of mycelia and zombies. If this was supposed to be a ploy in exploiting his ego, it wasn’t fated for a long run.

“Do not be so doubtful,” the prophet said. “What I need are live individuals of great power and ability who have little qualms in working with me, and you just so happen to fit the bill. You see, my troubles originate from one of your race, one which threatens to ruin all life on Idroa. I may be the ratkin’s most wanted person for the time, but that is only because of my numbers advantage. Shortly, you will see your very own Kuraim Jaffer take the throne, and by then there will be no one left who can resist his moving horde.”

It was impossible for Silas not to recognise the name, after all, Kuraim was one of three powerhouses who had dominated the leaderboards since their genesis. Remembering that Kuraim was a Necromancer was enough for Silas to get an idea of why the prophet feared him. “He disables your zombies?”

“He steals them,” the prophet corrected with a hiss. “Which is why I need talented alive fighters to take care of him.”

“And why would I do your bidding? Sounds like it would just replace one overlord with another.”

“Well, apart from the terms I have already offered, you will soon come to learn that Kuraim doesn’t hold your kind any higher than any other. He has gleefully slaughtered human villages to raise them again under his hand. Shortly put, he is a blight on Idroa who will ruin the planet for the rest of us. As for me, while I cannot deny that I desire land aplenty for my creations, I can also maintain healthy relations and boundaries with other factions.” The prophet paused. “Think about it, this Test of Merit is already technically finished. We have 6 months to reach at least level 100, yet it has been less than 2 months so far and we already have beasts in the mid-70s. Idroa will soon be rid of the ratkin - there is no doubt in that - but afterwards it will be demons like Kuraim who plague us inhabitants.”

“Go get Lucian or Dahlia then. They’d have no trouble sorting him out,” Silas replied. He was starting to get the prophet’s picture, even starting to believe in it to an extent, but he still felt Kuraim’s danger was being overstated. “Or get some other beast. You said there are animals in the mid-70s, so go contact them about this.”

This caused the prophet to smile again. “There are many who have qualms in working with me, and as such I am reduced to scouting for other talents such as yourself.”

“You’re talking like I don’t have any issues working with you.”

“Oh, I am well aware you mistrust me and dislike my creations, but that matters little since you are not idealistic, merely opportunistic. Well, this is your opportunity to wipe out Ratterinks before they fatten up and come knocking on Riverside’s doors. Afterwards, you simply have to aid me in disposing of a demon who you would eventually wish to rid off, anyway. And do not worry, you will not be alone in this endeavour as I have scouted several individuals like yourself.”

Silas thought about the proposition and found little to fault about it. It wasn’t an alliance like with Lyfort where they were leaving themselves vulnerable, nor was it a System-binding contract or such. Rather, it was simply the prophet creating goodwill with him now to call upon a favour later, which he could decide against then anyway if new information came out. Besides, the danger about reinforcements arriving at Ratterinks was very real - he had confirmed it himself - and it was also likely that Talis would fall for their trap if the prophet cooperated. “Fine, fuck it. You have my word as long as you keep to your promises.”

“Splendid,” the prophet said, gesturing to his henchmen to open way for Silas to leave. “Lead the way, good human. I have plans to discuss with your mayor.”

****

Although Silas kept his guard up during his journey back to Riverside, the prophet really didn’t try anything untoward to him during the trip, other than attempting to pick his brain for information, which was a given. The fungal satyr even left his henchman behind, saying he didn’t want to risk their health, although it could have equally been a gesture of trust for Silas.

They caused a considerable level of commotion on their arrival to Riverside a day later, but the constabulary officers were quick to appear and take control of the situation. Silas was driven to the hospital while the prophet was taken to Elise’s office for a chat. The outcome of their meeting must have been good since Dom later told Silas that Elise was grinning from ear to ear afterwards.

Following this, New Derby was contacted in request for its participation in the coming attack. Although initially hesitant, especially since the local ratkin had never bothered them and also because the siege on Lyfort had given them a better idea of how many casualties to expect in similar attacks, Floyd eventually relented on hearing the potential rewards after they won. The artifacts and information hidden in Ratterinks would no doubt prove invaluable if they could get their hands on it. Freeing the potential prisoners was a bonus on top.

Since there were massive concerns about ratkin skin spies sneaking word of the coming attack to Ratterinks and ruining everything, there was a township-wide screening over the following days during which everyone was questioned on trivia question from Earth. Through this, nearly two dozen skin spies were discovered in all levels of society, including one masquerading as a shaeltor who had been caught by Princess Amara.

When Silas went to see these caught ratkin, he was shocked to find out he could tell from a single glance that they weren’t real humans. No matter how realistic their bodysuits were, the grain of their auras were just different from human ones, making it easy to tell who was a spy once you knew what you were looking for. It was after some questioning that he also learnt that they had all been strictly warned to stay out of sight of him, the ratkin leadership knowing from early on how high his perception was. Either way, they had caught most of the spies through this initiative and the few who escaped the net scampered back to Ratterinks with only rumours of high volatility in Riverside.

The war itself was set for three days after Silas arrived at Riverside, and as the day rolled over, the army marched across the plains, trampling the soil into sloppy sludge, the prophet preparing the trap ahead of them.