Roal bowed his head respectfully. "Under normal circumstances, you would be entirely correct. Our God took absolute control of the logistical chain to ensure your safe passage."

’They are coordinating at the divine level,’ Iron-Scale thought, looking toward the distant mesas. ’They know their survival depends entirely on our success against Aethelgard. Is this the reason why they are treating us with such hospitality? Perhaps, the Spiral gave an ultimatum to their gods.’

"Ignisar, the Sand God, mapped a highly specific marching route for your forces," Roal explained. The guide spoke with immense reverence for the Rank 22 deity, who manifested as a shifting silhouette of crimson sand wrapped in tattered golden silks with burning embers for eyes. "He coordinated directly with Nyxara, the Obsidian Empress. She is carved from polished obsidian and weeps dark venom to slay our enemies, yet she commands vast subterranean aquifers to sustain our allies."

Roal pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and handed it to Iron-Scale. The map detailed a precise network of hidden fortresses and underground supply caches scattered across the desert.

"The gods designated exact locations for the army to halt, rest, and resupply," Roal continued. "You do not need to worry about starvation or dehydration. The deities pooled the remaining wealth of the Third Continent to feed your troops from their hidden reserves."

The guide stepped closer, his expression turning incredibly serious.

"You must maintain absolute adherence to this itinerary," Roal warned. "The food is perishable, and the subterranean water reserves are timed to flood the hidden basins only during specific hours to avoid detection by Aethelgard scouts. If the army falls behind schedule, the logistical chain will collapse."

Iron-Scale unrolled the parchment and committed the route to memory. He understood the stakes perfectly. Delaying the march meant starving their own soldiers in a hostile desert.

"General Krax!" Iron-Scale called out to the towering Orc commander. "Increase the marching pace by twenty percent. We do not stop until we reach the fortress gates."

The grueling march continued across the scorching dunes. As the sun dipped toward the western horizon, casting long orange shadows over the Sea of Glass, the Vanguard and the allied army maintained their accelerated pace.

Iron-Scale led the column alongside Roal. The guide brought them to a halt before a colossal cliff face of red sandstone. To the untrained eye, it looked like an impassable dead end.

"We are exactly on schedule," Iron-Scale noted, rolling up the parchment map.

Roal placed his palm against the sun-baked rock. A complex array of glowing golden runes spread across the cliff face. The stone groaned loudly as a massive section of the wall folded inward, revealing a cavernous tunnel illuminated by radiant crystals.

Gulag stepped closer to marvel at the scale of the engineering. ’Moving this much stone requires absolute mastery over the earth. Nyxara truly built a sanctuary.’

The army marched into the tunnel. The temperature dropped immediately, providing instant relief from the desert heat. They walked for several minutes before the passage opened into a sprawling subterranean cavern.

A breathtaking city of carved obsidian and pale sandstone stretched out below them. Bioluminescent fungi and glowing crystals cast a cool sapphire light over thousands of stone buildings. Massive aqueducts carried dark, purified water from underground springs directly into vast central plazas.

"Welcome to Sun-Cleft," Roal announced, gesturing to the metropolis. "The first hidden bastion of our surviving people."

Krax scanned the immense layout with absolute awe. He adjusted his grip on his greataxe. "This changes our strategic positioning entirely. We have a fully fortified staging ground right under the enemy’s nose."

Syra observed the lines of local desert warriors and logistical staff waiting in the grand plaza. They had already set up miles of long stone tables loaded with roasted desert game, exotic fruits, and massive iron vats of fresh water.

"The logistical coordination is flawless," Syra commented. Her scales reflected the blue crystal light. "Ignisar and Nyxara kept their word. The meal is entirely prepared for our exact numbers."

Iron-Scale turned to the Orc general. "Order the troops to break formation and begin the meal rotation. We rest here tonight and resume the march at dawn."

The ruler’s chamber in Sun-Cleft resided at the very peak of the subterranean cavern, overlooking the glowing sapphire plaza. High Priest Varek, a gaunt man draped in the tattered golden silks of Ignisar, waited for the Vanguard commanders around a massive table carved from solid obsidian.

Iron-Scale walked into the room alongside Gulag, Syra, and General Krax. They bypassed formal pleasantries, immediately turning their attention to the vast parchment map spread across the stone surface.

"The meal is proceeding flawlessly," Varek reported, tracing a finger along the drawn dunes. "Nyxara’s aquifers are providing fresh water to your vassal troops, and Ignisar’s blessing conceals this city from Aethelgard’s sight. We must discuss the path ahead."

Iron-Scale leaned over the map. "Roal mentioned hidden outposts and subterranean kill zones. We need exact coordinates for every Fourth Continent base between here and the eastern borders."

Varek let out a weary sigh, gesturing to a collection of scattered markers on the parchment. "The Fourth Continent operates mobile fortresses in the deep dunes. They build ’Ghost Forts’ armored outposts tethered to the backs of massive, domesticated sand-worms. The bases constantly travel beneath the sand."

Krax slammed a fist against the table, rattling a small collection of crystalline artifacts. "Moving fortresses? That explains how they conduct an endless guerrilla war. Our army cannot easily siege a target that burrows under the sand during combat."

"We will simply crush the earth around their beasts and bury them permanently," Gulag countered, her amber core flaring to life within her chest.

Before Iron-Scale could finalize a combat strategy, one of the crystalline artifacts on the table suddenly erupted with blinding white light. The smooth crystal, confiscated from a dead Aethelgard scout, hovered a few inches above the obsidian surface.

The light expanded, projecting a three-dimensional illusion of a young human male wearing gleaming golden armor and an arrogant smirk.

It was Chris Pitt, one of the Earthling Heralds currently devastating the Third Continent.

"...!"