The Guardian gods
Chapter 528

Chapter 528: 528

He huddled in the shadows, trying to appear inconspicuous. Just as his hunger began to feel unbearable, another ratman approached. His movements were deliberately casual, as if he were simply passing by, yet he subtly placed a larger bowl, brimming with the greyish paste, directly in front of Boltthrower.

Boltthrower stared at the unexpected bounty, then at the ratman who offered it. Confusion warred with a surge of desperate gratitude. He hesitated, unsure how to react, his mind racing. Then, almost involuntarily, his enhanced senses reached out, probing the energy that clung to this fellow ratman. It was... normal. It mirrored the passive interaction he had observed in others of their kind.

The ratman leaned closer, his whiskers twitching slightly, and whispered, his voice barely audible above the din of the camp, "You shouldn’t do that."

Boltthrower’s heart hammered against his ribs. "Do what?" he managed, his voice a low croak.

"You can see it, can’t you?" the ratman replied, his own eyes, surprisingly steady, meeting Boltthrower’s.

Boltthrower’s eyes widened further, a dawning comprehension mixing with a fresh wave of apprehension. He remained silent, his mind reeling.

The ratman continued, a hint of grim amusement in his tone, "You are lucky those pompous goblins have their noses so high in the air they haven’t bothered to conceal how they react with... mana." He used the unfamiliar word with a subtle emphasis, as if it held a deeper significance.

"Otherwise," the ratman continued, his voice a low murmur, "your... probing... would have had you caught instantly. You can’t perceive how it interacts with me because I consciously refuse to engage with it, a necessary measure to keep us hidden. You must have been the one casting those quick, curious glances at everyone."

The word "everybody" sent a tremor of fear through Boltthrower’s small frame. He had believed himself to be a shadow, unnoticed in the teeming masses of ratmen. To realize he had been so transparent, so easily observed, was a chilling revelation. He had been a beacon, not a shadow.

A wave of self-reproach washed over him. Where had his arrogance stemmed from? Of course, he wouldn’t be the only one experiencing this strange awakening. And naturally, others would have learned the vital lesson of concealment, the same lesson he had tried to follow, to avoid the dreaded label of "tainted" and the swift, lethal judgment of the Empire’s mages.

Swallowing hard, Boltthrower finally found his voice, a hushed whisper, "How... how long?"

The other ratman gave a small, knowing smile. "Long enough. Long enough to see many like you... disappear." A shadow flickered across his face as he spoke the last word. "The Empire is blind, in its own way. They see only the obvious, the blatant displays of... this." He subtly gestured with his head, encompassing the unseen energy. "Those of us who learn to control it, to mask it... we survive."

Boltthrower’s mind raced. Control? Mask it? The implications were staggering. He had only just become aware of this energy, a raw, overwhelming sensation. The idea of manipulating it, of hiding it, seemed impossible. "But... how?" he stammered. "I... I only just noticed it."

"The hunger... the healing..." the other ratman murmured, his gaze understanding. "It starts that way. A change. A... quickening. You are new, yes. But you are not alone." He glanced around again, his movements swift and cautious. "There isn’t time now. But stay aware. Watch. Listen. There are others. We know each other. We have ways..." He trailed off, his eyes flicking towards a group of passing goblin overseers. "Be silent now. Act normal." He gave Boltthrower a final, significant look before melting back into the throng of ratmen, leaving Boltthrower clutching the bowl of paste, his mind buzzing with a mixture of fear and a fragile spark of hope. He wasn’t alone. And perhaps... perhaps survival was possible after all.

Without hesitation, Boltthrower devoured the bowl of paste. A satisfying fullness finally settled in his stomach, the persistent gnawing receding. He could feel the subtle thrum of accelerated healing throughout his body, and his mind felt strangely sharp, the fog of confusion lifting. Heeding the whispered advice, he began the arduous process of consciously denying access to the pervasive energy. It was a struggle, like trying to hold back a powerful tide, but slowly, painstakingly, he gained a measure of control, his energetic signature receding until he felt... normal, like the other ratmen around him.

Just as a semblance of calm returned, a piercing ringing bell shattered the night air, echoing across the sprawling camp. A booming voice followed, amplified by some unseen contraption, "Gather and stand in line!"

Boltthrower’s head snapped up, his gaze scanning the inky sky. This was not the usual muster call. Had the demonic onslaught overwhelmed the current fighting force so quickly that a further retreat was necessary? A knot of unease tightened in his gut.

Nevertheless, he rose and moved out into the open, his eyes scanning the faces of the other ratmen as he walked. A silent question lingered in his mind: who else among them carried the same secret? He found his place in the rapidly forming lines, the press of bodies familiar and yet now viewed through a different lens.

Then, a low, resonant hum began to emanate from the large circular platform at the center of the camp. A familiar vibration resonated through Boltthrower’s very bones. He recognized this hum. It was the sound that had brought him and countless others to this bloody battlefield. A grim certainty settled upon him: the Empire was preparing to deploy more of them.

The resonant hum of the massive circular platform abruptly ceased, replaced by a swirling vortex of energy as a colossal portal tore open in the air above. The assembled ratmen craned their necks, their eyes wide with anticipation and apprehension, wondering what horrors or reinforcements would emerge from the shimmering gateway.

Instead of troops, a series of large, metallic containers floated silently out of the portal, numbering in the dozens. They hung suspended in the air for a moment before gently descending to the ground. With a final flicker, the portal winked out of existence.

A mage, levitating imperiously above the platform, addressed the assembled ranks. "The Emperor and the Empire have observed and acknowledge your... efforts in this ongoing conflict. Within these containers lies a gift from the Emperor himself." His tone dripped with condescension, barely concealed beneath a veneer of official pronouncements. "An improved iteration of the protective gear you currently utilize. Designed for enhanced resilience and safety as you continue to serve the Emperor and your... people." With a dismissive flick of his wrist and a disdainful gaze that swept across the assembled ratmen, the mage turned and glided away.

Then, the hulking forms of Ogre knights began to emerge from the surrounding shadows, their massive frames forming a silent, intimidating cordon around the containers. They stood in rigid lines, their immense weapons held loosely but menacingly. No words were spoken, but the unspoken command was palpable: order would be maintained.

With a series of loud metallic clangs, the containers began to automatically open, revealing their contents. Clearly marked, some held stacks of newly forged armor, while others contained an array of weapons. The unspoken procedure was evident: select a suit of armor, then choose a weapon, and move swiftly away to allow others their turn. The ratmen shuffled forward, a silent mass driven by the ingrained obedience of cannon fodder.

Boltthrower’s turn arrived. He reached out, his clawed fingers brushing against a piece of the new armor. It felt strangely weightless in his grasp, yet a faint, almost imperceptible thrumming resonated beneath his touch – the energy, the "mana," he was beginning to recognize.

Wasting no time, he moved to the weapon cache and selected a crude but familiar-feeling weapon, similar to the one he had carried into countless battles. Finding a relatively secluded corner, he quickly divested himself of his old, battle-worn armor, the metal scarred and dented from countless encounters.

He examined the new armor with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Would it even fit his particular build? Hesitantly, he began to put it on. To his astonishment, the plates seemed to shift and mold themselves to his body, adjusting to his size and height with an almost fluid grace.

There were no instructions, no explanations offered by the disdainful mages. The workings of this new equipment were left for the ratmen themselves to decipher.

A hush fell over the camp as the ratmen began to tinker with their new acquisitions. To their collective surprise, the armor felt strangely familiar, almost as if it had been conceived and built by one of their own kind. It adhered to the same principles, the same intuitive understanding of interlocking plates and pressure points that guided their own crude but effective steampunk contraptions. A flicker of something akin to understanding, a shared sense of ingenuity, rippled through the silent ranks.

Far from the chaotic din of the battlefield, within the oppressive stillness of a vast, darkened chamber, a robed figure broke the silence, a taut undercurrent detectable beneath the seemingly neutral tone. "Begin."