The embers of war had yet to fully cool. Across the void and the earth, the wizards’ creations were already efficiently “cleaning” the battlefield.

The new cannon-fodder units, specially designed for the Giant Spirit Realm’s theater, swarmed like ravenous locusts over scattered warship husks, mechanical debris, and the corpses of the realm’s natives.

They were not here to destroy but to feed, gulping down everything in sight.

Metals were smelted and reforged, organic tissues broken down and absorbed, stray energies siphoned dry.

Most astonishing of all, when the mass and energy within these units reached a critical threshold, they split on the spot—one becoming two!

The newborns immediately joined the devouring horde.

Thus, the cannon-fodder units spread like self-replicating gray tides, radiating outward from the battlefield, expanding the front line.

These war machines were devouring the Giant Spirit Realm’s territory and resources at a speed visible to the naked eye.

The retreat of the Giant Spirit Realm’s forces was nothing short of humiliating—bordering on a rout.

Under the wizards’ pinpoint blanket bombardment, their formations had long since shattered.

Countless units, fleeing in blind panic, were felled by friendly fire, runaway energy surges, or frantic collisions, perishing silently on the road home.

Endy considered himself fortunate.

He was the captain of a third-tier warship, commanding a nimble medium assault cruiser.

In that final cataclysmic barrage, he had relied on razor-sharp instinct and a sliver of luck to thread his vessel through the gaps in the energy storm.

In the end, he limped back to the rear defensive line, his ship scarred and his crew rattled but alive.

Severing the neural symbiosis with his vessel, Endy felt his semi-fluid body sag with a profound, draining weakness.

Descending the gangway with his crew, they gazed upon the base’s gloom-laden atmosphere—tent after tent of wounded, the air thick with despair—and could not help but shudder at their narrow escape. Their small ship had miraculously suffered no casualties, though the vessel itself was gravely damaged.

Endy felt his core thrum with a faint heat, a strange exhilaration that refused to fade.

He chalked it up to the adrenaline of survival and thought nothing more of it.

The wounded were too many; the medical corps was overwhelmed.

After a cursory checkup, a medic shoved a tube of bio-gel into his hand—for rapid energy replenishment and minor tissue repair—and waved him off to rest, preserving scarce resources for the gravely injured.

The moment he returned to his cramped quarters, Endy eagerly submerged himself in the nutrient-filled recovery pool.

Fatigue crashed over him like a tidal wave; he was asleep almost instantly.

Over the next few days, Endy noticed the camp’s mood had shifted.

They had suffered a defeat, yes, but morale had held.

Now, a suffocating pall hung over everything, as if some invisible weight pressed down on every soldier’s heart.

Even the senior officers patrolled with barely concealed unease; the rank-and-file seethed in silent resentment.

Two days later, Endy began to feel something was wrong.

The post-battle high had long faded, replaced by a bone-deep, relentless exhaustion.

At first he dismissed it as the natural aftermath of extreme stress, but the fatigue only worsened, interfering with his routine recovery drills and mental-focus meditations.

With no choice, he returned to the medical bay.

“Doctor, I’m exhausted—really exhausted. Not mentally, physically…” Endy described his symptoms to the duty physician.

The doctor cut him off irritably without looking up. “Fatigue again? I’ve heard that excuse from at least a hundred people these past few days! All trying to dodge training and patrols?”

Endy bristled. “I’m not slacking off! Something’s genuinely wrong!”

“Enough!” The doctor waved him away. “Everyone says the same. I’ll run a basic scan. If nothing’s wrong, get out and stop wasting resources!”

After a swift scan, the doctor frowned at the results. “Cellular activity abnormally high… metabolic rate also elevated above baseline.”

“Looks like the battlefield stress hit you hard—persistent fight-or-flight response. Classic psychosomatic symptoms from psychological pressure. Here’s a three-day pass to get off-base and relax. Go clear your head; stop brooding in camp!”

Though being labeled with a “mental issue” rankled, Endy was glad to escape the oppressive camp.

He accepted the electronic pass without protest.

On his way out, he noticed many soldiers shuffling listlessly, their steps heavy.

A flicker of doubt crossed his mind, but he quickly rationalized it: We just suffered a crushing defeat. Low spirits and lethargy are normal.

As a third-tier captain, he could have requisitioned dedicated transport, but Endy had his own ritual.

As he had done on countless leaves, he walked to the public airship terminal near the camp and quietly boarded a civilian shuttle bound for a nearby city.

Inside, ordinary citizens sensed the lingering battlefield aura clinging to him—the barely contained energy fluctuations and faint killing intent—and cast glances of awe or envy.

Basking in those looks, Endy’s heart, weighed down by defeat and inexplicable fatigue, found silent solace.

In the army of titans, he was a nobody. To these civilians, he was a figure to revere.

The sensation of being looked up to was addictive.

This peculiar “relaxation method” never failed to lift his spirits.

When the airship reached the terminal, Endy disembarked with reluctance and boarded another random shuttle to nowhere in particular, prolonging his aimless journey.

He did not notice that, in the hours after his departure, the passengers on his first airship began, one by one, to feel inexplicably drained, drowsy, and weak.

The three-day pass vanished in a blink.

When Endy returned to camp, he froze at the sight before him—multiple checkpoints at the entrance, energy shields at full power, patrol squads tripled, the air thick with murderous tension!

Could it be… the wizards have pushed through?!

His core clenched. Flashing his credentials, he hurried back to his quarters.

His deputy, who had been waiting anxiously inside, visibly relaxed at the sight of him.

“Captain! You’re back at last!”

“What’s happening? Lockdown? Are the enemy attacking?” Endy demanded.

The deputy’s face was pale with terror. He shook his head. “Not an attack… it’s a plague! A strange disease has broken out in camp!”

Endy exhaled in relief. Anything but those terrifying wizards.

The deputy’s voice trembled. “The symptoms are horrific, Captain! You haven’t seen it—their bodies… they twist! They uncontrollably fuse with whatever they touch, turning into… into indescribable monstrosities!”

“Some stripped away their mechanical symbionts, but soon their flesh began fusing with clothes, bedding, even dust in the air. Their bodies warped into grotesque knots… not even a complete corpse left!”

Endy’s scalp prickled; a chill rose from the depths of his core. He instinctively touched his still-weakened body.

Back in his quarters, unease gnawed at him, but he forced himself into a fitful sleep.

In the days that followed, the situation in camp did not improve—it deteriorated catastrophically!

At first, only a few reported severe fatigue; the medics paid little heed.

Soon, however, the afflicted multiplied, symptoms grew ever stranger, and medicine proved all but useless.

High command initially ordered all patients quarantined, but as the infected swelled, they could no longer muster enough healthy troops to maintain order.

Endy, now frail, was roused by frantic pounding on his door. He opened it weakly to find his deputy, eyes wild with fear.

“What is it?”

“Captain, we have to run!” the deputy pleaded, voice breaking. “The quarantine zone is out of control—total breakdown! People are desperately fleeing…”

“What?!” Endy’s three eyes widened in shock.

He hauled himself from the nutrient pool and staggered outside the dormitory building, only to behold a scene of utter ruin and horror.

Soldiers lay dead by the roadside, bodies twisted into impossible shapes; officers who had barricaded themselves in rooms yet suffered hideous mutations; and fully maddened, warped abominations that attacked anything that moved…

Only the occasional survivor crept through the shadows, worming their way toward escape.

Endy stared, transfixed by the hellscape.

Suddenly, a severed, mangled limb blown by the wind landed at his feet. He jolted, snapping awake.

“Quick! Round up the rest of the crew!”

“There’s no one left—I checked. We’re the only ones still in the dorms!” The deputy’s voice cracked with sobs.

“What?!” Endy’s body rippled violently in shock.

Yet the veteran in him swiftly regained composure. “Then we leave—now!”

Grabbing almost nothing, the two crept toward the camp gate.

“…Captain?”

Just as they neared the exit, a voice called out.

They turned to see a figure fused with the ground beside the gate, its body grotesquely contorted.

Endy swallowed his nausea and looked closer—it was one of his own crewmen.

“You…”

He instinctively reached to help, but the deputy yanked him back. “Captain, it’s highly contagious…”

Endy froze mid-step.