Global Lords: Building the Strongest Civilization with SSS Rank Talent-Chapter 46: War Pact || The Rotting Druid’s Offer

The crisis was over. The adrenaline had faded, leaving Red with a spiritual migraine.

He floated in the Void, dimming the brightness of the user interface. He conjured a spectral pillow.

"System," Red groaned. "Sleep Mode. Wake me up if there is a aler—"

Buzz.

The obsidian slab vibrated against his hip.

Red stared at it. He let it ring. It buzzed again. And again.

With a growl of frustration, Red snatched the tablet and jammed the [ ACCEPT ] button.

"What?" Red snapped.

The Rotting Druid’s leafy avatar appeared on the screen. The branch-hands were folded in a gesture of mock applause.

"Oh?" The Druid’s raspy voice crackled. "You picked up on the first try? I see you’ve learned some manners, Neighbor."

"Where I come from," Red muttered, rubbing his eyes, "strangers send a text before calling. It’s called etiquette."

The Druid paused. The single leaf on his head twitched.

"’Text’," the Druid repeated slowly. "’Etiquette’. There it is. You finally stopped pretending."

"I’m tired," Red admitted, not bothering to deny it this time. "And you’re annoying. What do you want?"

"I’ve been here fifty years, Rubedo," the Druid said, his tone shifting from mocking to patronizing. "I’ve seen dozens of Summoned come and go. They spawn, they panic, they die. Or they get arrogant, try to conquer the world, and get crushed by a Native Rank 8."

"And you?" Red asked. "You’re still here."

"Because I play safe," the Druid said. "I play slow. And since you survived my little... atmospheric test... I’ve decided to offer you a tutorial."

"I don’t need a guide," Red said flatly. "And I know it isn’t free."

"Nothing is free," the Druid agreed. "But I don’t want payment now. Consider this an investment."

Red stayed silent. He hated admitting it, but he was flying blind. He knew the mechanics of his own UI, but he didn’t know the meta-game. He didn’t know the history.

"You’re Rank 4," Red said suddenly, trying to gauge the Druid. "After fifty years? That seems... low."

The Druid’s avatar stiffened. The branch-hands stopped waving.

"I don’t play for Rank," the Druid snapped defensively. "I play for sustainability. Besides... Rank is broken. I hit rank 4 a few weeks ago. After you... stole my Treants."

"Broken?" Red raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like an excuse for a skill issue."

"It’s RNG!" The Druid shouted, his composure cracking. "It’s pure luck! You spawn in a Swamp with Kobolds? That’s hard mode. Some lucky kid spawns in the Golden City as the Prince of Light and hits Rank 5 in a week because he has a million worshippers by birthright!"

"If you don’t get a good Race," the Druid grumbled, "or if your Signature Ability is trash... you’re stuck grinding. It took me ten years just to unlock Spore Control."

Red absorbed the information.

→ Spawn Location matters.

→ Base Race matters.

→ Abilities are RNG.

"Fine," Red said, cutting off the Druid’s rant. "I don’t have time for your sob story. You said you wanted to make a deal. What is it?"

The Druid regained his composure. He leaned into the screen.

"A War Pact."

"Go on."

"Faith is a fickle resource, Rubedo," the Druid explained, sounding like a bored economics professor. "When you save your people, Faith spikes. You saw it today. They love you. You are their Savior."

"But what happens in a month?" The Druid asked. "Life gets good. Bellies get full. They forget the fear. The Faith trickle slows down. The next generation? They take you for granted. They think the food just appears."

"So?"

"So," the Druid whispered. "We create the danger."

He pulled up a chart on his side of the screen.

"Here is the proposal: Once a month, I send a wave of Spore-Thralls to your border. Nothing lethal. Just scary. You send your lizards to crush them. You win. Your Faith spikes."

"And then?" Red asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Then, the next month, you send a few of your lizards to my forest. My Treants crush them. I win. My Faith spikes."

"We farm each other," the Druid concluded. "Win-trading. We keep our populations terrified and dependent, and we both get rich on DP."

Red looked at the Druid. He looked at the map of Bastion, where his people were currently celebrating their survival.

"You want me to send my followers to die?" Red asked softly. "Intentionally?"

"They are Pawns, Rubedo," the Druid laughed. "They are Code. Do you cry when a unit dies in a strategy game? Of course not. You just build another one."

"Fear is the only currency they understand," the Druid added. "If they aren’t scared of the outside, they stop praying to the inside. Trust me. I’ve done this for decades. If you don’t do this... you will stagnate. You will fade."

’It may be so for him since he originally used to play this game and knew everything about it. He is the true veteran. He sees things differently. It’s not the same for me.’

Red looked at the [ CALL ] screen.

He remembered Gorak’s face when he realized he had eaten his friend. He remembered the Shell-Kin holding the line against the fire. He remembered Iron-Scale’s loyalty.

"You’re wrong," Red said.

The Druid paused. "Excuse me?"

"Fear creates slaves," Red said, his voice cold and absolute. "Slaves break. Slaves rebel."

Red leaned forward, his violet eyes burning with the intensity of the Spiral.

"I don’t want slaves. I want Zealots. And you don’t get Zealots by treating them like code. You get them by making them part of the System. By giving them a share of the profit."

"Sentimental garbage," the Druid scoffed. "You’ll regret it when your DP dries up."

"I’m not interested in your farm," Red stated. "Here is my counter-offer: Stay on your side of the swamp. Do not send a cloud. Do not send a thrall. If you leave me alone, I won’t turn your forest into a parking lot."

"You are making a mistake, Newbie," the Druid warned.

"Maybe," Red reached for the button. "But at least I’m not a fifty-year-old mid-boss farming newbies because he can’t clear the endgame."

Click.

[ CALL ENDED ]

Red sat back in the silence.

"Win-trading," Red shook his head. "Pathetic."

He looked down at his city.

"We don’t need fake wars," Red whispered. "We have enough real ones coming."