Global Lords: Building the Strongest Civilization with SSS Rank Talent-Chapter 63: THE PRICE OF A SOUL

[ UNIT LOST: ROOT-FATHER (ELDER) ]

[ ENEMY COMBAT EFFECTIVENESS: -45% ]

[ STATUS AILMENT: SEVERE TOXICITY / DEMORALIZED ]

Root-Father, alone, had crippled half of the greatest army in the Sector.

Red leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. The shadow over his face darkened.

"You did the calculations," Red whispered to the empty air.

Root-Father had lived for centuries. He had seen everything, from wars to natural disasters. But never in his life had he seen the Troglodytes dig, the Kobolds build, and the Shell-Kin fortify, together in harmony with one goal in mind.

He knew that even if Bastion won a defensive siege against thirteen thousand soldiers, the city would be reduced to rubble. The Bio-Reactor would be smashed, and the Onyx Hall would collapse.

So, the Treant took the logistics into his own hands. He traded one life to eliminate eight thousand.

"You were a pacifist," Red murmured, closing his eyes. "And you just delivered the most devastating first strike of this war."

Red opened his eyes, and the violet glow returned. "Your roots will hold, old friend. I promise you that."

Aurelius hadn’t just killed a unit. He had killed an Elder of Bastion.

"Iron-Scale," Red’s voice crackled.

[ I am here, Lord, ] the Inquisitor responded, sensing the sudden shift in his God’s aura.

"The Golden King just burned the Root-Father," Red stated. "Hold a prayer for him at the temple."

Red sat in the silence of the Void. The red alert notification regarding the Root-Father’s death still hovered in the air.

He had watched the Treant’s life signal vanish. He knew the tactical value of what the Elder had just done—crippling half of the Golden Army. But for the first time since he was summoned to this universe, Red didn’t feel like a CEO looking at a spreadsheet. He felt a heavy, hollow weight in his chest.

Suddenly, a new prompt materialized, glowing with a soft, ethereal silver light.

[ SYSTEM MILESTONE REACHED: FIRST MARTYRDOM ]

[ A devoted follower with maximum Faith has perished in your name. ]

[ WOULD YOU LIKE TO ESTABLISH A DIVINE REALM (AFTERLIFE)? ]

[ COST: 100,000 DP ]

Red stared at the number.

One hundred thousand Divinity Points.

That was an astronomical sum. That was enough DP to buy massive miracles or instantly upgrade his facility tier. It was nearly half of his remaining liquid capital.

However, all that was a one-time thing, while the afterlife was permanent for all his followers.

Red raised his hand and pressed the silver button.

[ DP DEDUCTED: 100,000 ]

[ INITIATING DOMAIN CREATION: THE AFTERLIFE ]

The blackness of the Void split open. Red closed his eyes and thought of peace.

When he opened them, he stepped through the interface. He stood in an endless, rolling meadow. The grass was a vibrant, impossibly bright green. Soft, warm sunlight filtered down from a pastel sky. Fields of colorful wildflowers, bluebells, and goldenrod swayed in a cool, fragrant breeze.

There was no smog, nor ash, nor rot.

And standing in the center of the field, looking down at his own wooden hands, was Root-Father.

The Treant’s spectral form was whole. The horrific burn marks were gone. His severed arm had regrown, covered in fresh, vibrant moss. The deep gashes from the Paladins’ axes had been replaced by blooming vines of white flowers.

Root-Father turned. He saw the figure in the pitch-black suit walking through the meadow.

The ancient Treant immediately lowered himself, dropping to one massive wooden knee, crushing a patch of wildflowers.

"Ka-Lam-Tee," Root-Father’s voice rumbled, no longer sounding like dry, dying timber, but like a strong, deep cello. "I... I have failed the doctrine. I abandoned the Bastion. I surrendered my life to the flame."

Red stopped a few feet away. He looked up at the towering Treant.

"Stand up, Elder," Red said softly.

Root-Father hesitated, then slowly rose to his feet. He looked around at the endless, beautiful green fields. "Is this... an illusion? A trick of the Sun-King before the end?"

"No," Red said, slipping his hands into his suit pockets. "This is yours. You earned it."

Root-Father looked at Red, his glowing green eyes filled with profound confusion. "But I broke the Code of the Spiral. The machine must turn. I... I broke myself."

"You didn’t break the Code, Root-Father," Red corrected him, his voice devoid of its usual corporate edge. It was just a man, speaking to a hero. "You looked at thousands of armored knights, you looked at the walls of Bastion, and you realized the math didn’t add up."

Red stepped closer, looking up at the Treant’s mossy face.

"You knew that even if we won, the swamp would burn. The hatchlings would die. So you made a unilateral executive decision. You traded your single life to take eight thousand enemy pieces off the board."

Red pulled one hand from his pocket and placed it against the Treant’s solid oak trunk.

"You didn’t abandon Bastion. You saved it."

Root-Father’s broad shoulders trembled. A single drop of golden sap, like a tear, rolled down his bark cheek.

"I heard the trees screaming when the Sun-Men burned the perimeter," Root-Father whispered. "I could not let them burn the home you gave us."

"And they won’t," Red promised, his violet eyes flaring with a terrifying, absolute certainty. "Aurelius thinks you were just a weed. He thinks he can burn my people and walk away."

Red took a step back, looking out over the peaceful meadow.

"Rest now, Root-Father. Enjoy the sun without the burn. Watch the grass grow. I have a war to finish."

Root-Father bowed his head deeply. "The roots hold, Ka-Lam-Tee. May your shadow cover the earth."

Red nodded. He turned and walked back toward the shimmering portal that led to the Void.

As he stepped through, the gentle breeze of the meadow faded, replaced by the silent data-stream of his command center.

Red looked down at his map. The Golden King’s hunting parties were wandering into the swamp, looking for food.

Red’s avatar flickered. The shadows around his suit grew denser, darker, pooling around his feet like ink.

The time for passive observation was over.