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No wonder the Zerith and Gray Marauders were so desperate to claim it.

Controlling this grassland meant controlling food, materials, and power for generations.

So this is why they’re willing to go to war...

He understood now.

This wasn’t just territory.

This was the heart of Veynar’s strength... the reason they could sustain such a powerful tribe in the middle of such a dangerous jungle.

And the place where most of warriors were stationed all year around.

Losing this plain would be a death sentence for the Veynar.

And claiming it would make the Coalition unstoppable.

Sol stood there for a few extra seconds, taking it all in. Part of him wanted to simply stand and watch the herds move, to appreciate the raw beauty and vitality of this place.

But he that he couldn’t afford to linger.

He reluctantly continued walking, leading the group of recruits along the edge of the great plain.

Behind him, the young warriors were visibly awestruck. Many of them had never stepped this far out into the outer hunting grounds before.

Their eyes were wide with wonder and nervousness.

"Look at the size of those six-horns..." one young Blooded whispered, voice filled with awe. "I’ve only ever seen their bones before."

Another recruit, barely seventeen, stared at a distant herd of tusk-deer with open mouth. "There’s... so much food here. How can one place have this much life?"

A third warrior, gripping his spear tightly, muttered, "No wonder the Zerith and Marauders want this land so badly. If we lose this... our tribe starves."

Murmurs of agreement rippled quietly through the ranks. These were not seasoned veterans. Most of them had never fought, and if few had, it was only fought in small skirmishes or training bouts. Now they were being led straight toward what could be the largest battle in Veynar history, all while pretending to be weak.

Sol could feel their nervousness.

He didn’t turn around, but his voice carried clearly to every single one of them.

"Keep your heads down and your fear hidden," he said calmly. "The enemy needs to believe we’re desperate. That we’re throwing our last strength into one final, stupid charge. That’s how we win."

The young recruits marched with a mixture of fear and reverence. They kept their heads low shoulders slumped, spears dragging slightly in the grass to maintain the ruse of a defeated, desperate line. Their armor and skin were smeared with charcoal and dirt, making them look like a battered remnant force crawling home after a crushing loss, but their eyes kept drifting toward the magnificent grassland, unable to hide their amazement.

To any watching eyes... especially those of the enemy scouts hidden in the distant treelines... they appeared pathetic. A broken, exhausted group of young Veynar warriors limping through the open field, easy prey for a decisive strike.

Sol walked in silence at the front, his expression calm but his mind racing.

He understood the stakes now more than ever. This grassland wasn’t just territory... it was the lifeblood of the Veynar. And the enemy wanted it badly enough to create alliances and risk everything.

A cold, determined light flashed in his eyes.

There’s no way he is gonna let them have this paradise.

In the far distance, hidden among the treelines on the opposite side of the valley, Sol’s sharp senses caught faint movements... enemy scouts watching them.

So there really were few rats who escaped the purge.

Good.

Let them watch.

Let them report back to their leaders that the Veynar were desperate enough to send their youngest and weakest out in the open.

Anyway, the trap was slowly closing.

After another hour of marching, one of the bolder recruits finally worked up the courage to speak directly to Sol.

"Lord Sol... are we really going to fight them head-on?" the boy asked nervously. "We’re... we’re not even full Fang yet. Most of us have never faced a real Layer 2 warrior."

Sol glanced back at him, his expression calm but firm.

"You won’t be fighting them alone," he said. "You’re the bait. The blade comes later. Stay alive long enough for the trap to spring, and you’ll all become legends."

The young warrior swallowed hard, but there was a spark of determination in his eyes now.

Sol turned his gaze forward again, toward the distant horizon where the enemy forces were surely gathering.

The real battle was coming.

And when it did, he would be ready... with three hundred young Veynar warriors playing their part perfectly, and a much larger force waiting in the shadows to deliver the killing blow.

He continued leading the three hundred green-painted young warriors forward, reluctantly walking through the edge of this paradise, knowing that every step brought them closer to the decisive battle ahead.

The grassland continued rolling endlessly around them, beautiful and indifferent, as if waiting to see which side would claim its riches in blood.

...

But as they continued their march across the great expanse, the vibrant life of the grassland began to slowly change.

At first, it was subtle.

The bright, lush green of the wild-grass gradually lost its vitality, fading into a sickly, pale yellow.

The once-flexible blades became stiff and brittle, snapping under the weight of their boots like dried kindling.

The rich, earthy scent of the plains started to fade, replaced by something drier, dustier, almost acrid.

The golden sunlight that had made everything shimmer now felt harsh and unforgiving, beating down on a land that was clearly dying.

The recruits began to murmur uneasily.

"What happened here?" one young warrior whispered, looking around with wide eyes. "It was so full of life just a mile back..."

Another recruit kicked at a patch of ash-grey grass, watching it crumble into fine powder. "It feels wrong... like the land itself is cursed."

Sol’s expression remained calm, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. The transition was too abrupt to be natural. Something had clearly disrupted the delicate balance of this ecosystem.

The reason became brutally clear as they crossed a massive, dying riverbed.