No matter the reason they had come, Lucian had no intention of speaking with them.
If his opponents had been human, he would have sought to weigh right and wrong, to separate accident from conspiracy. For humans, there were ways to resolve things without blood.
But for the Rotborne creatures, there was only one answer; kill them all.
Once, Lucian had preached peace among the races. But that was for normal races. The Rotborne, who thrived within the Scarlet Rot, were not a people who could coexist. They sought to blanket the Lands Between in corruption, to twist it into their paradise. Terrorists of rot—nothing more.
Unless the day came when they cast off Scarlet Rot itself and lived as ordinary beings of the world, Lucian would never treat them as anything but enemies.
His thoughts lasted only an instant. Already, the Lesser Kindred of Rot [Pests] attacked.
The creatures in the back rows raised their arms, organs within their chests pulsing as they fired strands of silken thread like missiles, homing in on Lucian. Those in the front, wielding crude Pest's Glaive, surged forward, their many tiny limbs carrying them across the ground in a skittering glide.
In moments, Lucian was surrounded. Blades slashed in from every direction, a perfect storm of melee and ranged. Against an ordinary foe, there would have been no escape.
But to Lucian, this wasn't even a warm-up.
His storm surged forth. Threads never reached him—they were torn away, scattered before they even drew near. And because Hilbert's hut was just behind him, Lucian held the gale back to a controlled barrier, ensuring the house was spared.
His Swordspear whirled, steel tracing a seamless lattice that caught and shattered every halberd. The weapons—crafted of shell and bone—were brittle, the lowest of arms. Each one snapped on contact with his blade.
Their weapons broken, the Pests did not falter. They burst silk from their bodies at close range, spraying Lucian in a desperate ambush. But it was useless.
Lucian was master of the storm. Any tangible projectile—especially something as light as silk—was intercepted, twisted, and turned. The wind dragged the threads off-course, sending them lancing into the Pests themselves. Screams rose as holes were punched through their ranks.
Lucian pressed his attack, Swordspear cleaving bodies apart with effortless sweeps. One Pest tried to strike from the flank. Without turning, Lucian swung a fist—its shell cracked like pottery, the corpse flung backward in pieces.
Those in the rear wavered. Seeing their vanguard cut down, they lost their nerve. They began to retreat.
But Lucian would not permit it.
They were far enough from the hut now. There was no risk of damaging Hildegard's shelter.
He swept his weapon in wide arcs. Blades of wind burst outward, cutting down the fleeing Pests as easily as grass. Their ichor splattered across the ground, thick and foul.
When it was done, Lucian returned to his chair as though nothing had happened, calmly waiting for Hildegard to finish packing.
The Lesser Kindred of Rot were weak. At best, equal to common foot soldiers of men. Their shells were softer than iron armor, but they had their silk—a ranged weapon with advantages over arrows. Their mobility was greater too, skittering across the ground with unnerving speed.
One on one, a soldier could win easily. In equal numbers, a trained human unit would still triumph, despite the nuisance of silk. But the danger was not in their strength. It was in their numbers. Their breeding was endless. Should humans ever fight them in earnest, the Pests's swarms would dwarf any army.
Hildegard descended at last, disturbed by the noise. She found the door gone, and corpses strewn across the ground.
"So, they actually came to the door?" She sighed, then gave a wry smile. "My apologies. You've come such a long way, only to be dragged into this."
Lucian shook his head. "A stretch of the limbs, nothing more. They're too weak."
Then he fixed her with a look. "When I first saw you, your hands were covered in some kind of slime. Now that I've seen their bodies, it looked… the same. Tell me. Was it from them?"
Hildegard answered honestly. "You guessed right. I stole some of their eggs and larvae."
Her eyes gleamed with curiosity as she spoke. "They're fascinating creatures, truly. Look closely at their limbs—at first glance, they're like tendrils. But if you study them carefully, they're hands. Tiny, pale human-like hands, with five distinct fingers."
Lucian stepped outside and looked for himself. Just as she said—their bodies bristled with doll-like arms, pale and limp, dangling like obscene tentacles.
He frowned. "Disgusting. And you still dared to touch them?"
The Pests repulsed him. In his mind, they were vermin—cockroaches of Scarlet Rot, thriving wherever corruption spread.
Hildegard only smiled. "To kill an enemy, you must understand it. For someone like you, with such overwhelming strength, knowledge hardly matters—force alone is enough. But for someone like me, a maker of tools, every material is precious. Every weakness matters."
She licked her lips, eyes bright with zeal. "During the Shattering, Perfumers were invaluable. Their aromatics filled giant arrows, which the Colossi then loosed—poison clouds that broke whole armies. If I can, I'd like to craft weapons just as effective. If not, then at least I'll learn what these vermin fear most."
Her tone darkened. "They are devoted to Scarlet Rot. Fanatical. Where they thrive, no other life can endure. They force all beings to submit to Rot, killing any that refuse. I've fought them many times already, though my home's location has stayed hidden—until now."
Hildegard propped her chin on one hand, thoughtful. "Strange, though. Why today? Why did they come straight here? Perhaps they have some link with their larvae. A kind of resonance? Fascinating… I wonder how they communicate…"
Her thoughts wandered aloud, lost in speculation.
Lucian listened, half-convinced she was trying to invent an insecticide. But against the Rotborne—beings inseparable from the Scarlet Rot itself—ordinary poisons seemed laughably useless.
He cut her off. "Enough. Are you packed?"
She blinked, then nodded. "Almost. Just a little more."
She vanished upstairs, then returned with two massive bundles, dragging them down the stairs.
Lucian raised a brow. "That much? You don't expect Torrent to carry all this. He won't."
Hildegard tilted her head, curious at the name. "Torrent? So that's the horse's name. A good one. But don't worry. I have my own way."
She stepped outside, pulling a bone flute from her pocket. With a sharp blow, its note echoed across the barren plains.
Soon, a shadow thundered closer—a Monstrous Dog. Its fur gleamed strangely clean, with little sign of Rot. Only one eye was missing, the right side of its face torn and scarred. A saddle was strapped to its back.
The beast knelt obediently before Hildegard. She stroked its head fondly.
"Monstrous Dog and Monstrous Crows are native to Caelid. They adapted to Scarlet Rot faster than most. The Rotborne use them as beasts of burden. But I found this one injured. After treatment, I managed to tame it easily enough. Its Rot sickness is stubborn, but I've managed to hold it at bay."
Lucian nodded. Indeed, the creatures were not Rot-born mutations. He had seen them in distant, snowy mountains as well. Perhaps they had once been companions of giants.
Hildegard strapped the bundles to the hound, cradled Jar Bairn in one arm, and mounted up. Lucian climbed onto Torrent.
He gestured at the hut. "What of your house? There are still things inside."
Hildegard shook her head, smiling faintly. "Don't worry. I left those Pests a gift."
She chuckled at the thought, then quickly stifled it.
Lucian only shrugged. If she didn't care, then neither would he. "Then let's go. I'll lead. I know Caelid better than most."
Hildegard rode ahead on her hound. Torrent followed easily.
Meanwhile, the Lesser Kindred of Rot returned.
They found their kin butchered, corpses piled before the ruined door. Though they were insectoid, their minds were keen, their society complex. They gathered the fallen carefully, intending to carry them home. Then they followed the pheromones left behind, climbing to the hut's second floor.
There, they found the remains of their unhatched eggs and larvae. Their stolen young. They embraced them tenderly—
—only to trigger the trap.
The bodies were wired to Spark Aromatics. The instant air touched them, the concoctions ignited. The first explosions triggered more, lighting every jar Hildegard had left behind.
Flame, smoke, poison—the room became a hell of alchemy. Hilbert had taken little with her. What remained was her life's hoard, abandoned without regret.
The house became a roiling fireball.
Even far down the road, Lucian and Hildegard heard the blast.
"Ha! It worked!" Hildegard exclaimed, eyes glittering as she turned. "Look! Isn't it beautiful?"
Lucian normally lived by the rule that a true man never looked back at explosions. But curiosity won.
He turned. The hut blazed, colors writhing in green and violet flames, smoke staining the sky like painted fireworks.
"…It really does look like fireworks," he muttered.
"Fireworks?" Hildegard tilted her head.
Lucian caught himself. "…Something from my homeland. Powder bursts in the sky, painting colors for all to see. Not meant to harm. Only to be admired."
Hildegard's eyes widened with wonder. "Not for war… but for joy? I like that. If I ever have the chance, I'll make one. Your 'firework.'"