"Ssyla!" one of the guards exclaimed, relief and shock mixing in his voice. "By the First Scale, we thought you were dead! The scouting party—"

"They're all dead," Ssyla said quietly, pain flashing across her face. "I'm the only one who survived. And I brought help." She gestured to Satou and his companions. "These warriors saved my life and have agreed to aid our tribe."

The guards looked skeptical, their eyes taking in the mixed group—a demon, two goblins, an orc, a young elf, and a mysterious cloaked figure. Not exactly a traditional rescue force.

"Help?" one guard said doubtfully. "No offense to you, stranger, but our tribe is facing eight hundred corrupted serpent warriors led by a mad king wielding dark magic. What can six people possibly do against that?"

Satou's response was simple. He let a fraction of his aura leak out—just enough to give these guards a taste of what he was capable of.

The temperature dropped immediately. Shadows seemed to deepen and twist around Satou's form. The very air grew heavy with power that pressed down on the guards like a physical weight. Both lizard-folk warriors took involuntary steps backward, their instincts screaming danger.

Then Satou reined it back in, his aura compressing back to normal levels. "I think we'll manage," he said mildly.

The guards exchanged glances, then one nodded sharply. "Right. I'll... I'll take you to Chief Krrax immediately. Please, follow me."

They entered the caverns, and the full scope of the lizard-folk's desperate situation became immediately apparent.

The caves were crowded with refugees—families huddled together, children crying softly, warriors bearing wounds that had been hastily bandaged but not properly treated. The air was thick with the smell of blood, sweat, fear, and despair.

Everywhere Satou looked, he saw evidence of a people on the edge of extinction. There weren't enough medical supplies—wounded warriors lay on makeshift bedrolls, some with infected wounds that were clearly getting worse. There wasn't enough food—he could see rationing in effect, with each family getting a small handful of dried meat and roots. There wasn't enough space—people were packed into chambers meant for storage or religious ceremonies, sleeping on cold stone with minimal blankets.

Freda gasped audibly at the conditions, her compassionate nature immediately overwhelmed with sympathy. Even Shadow, usually so detached, seemed to pause slightly longer at the sight of suffering children.

They were led deeper into the cave system, passing through multiple chambers until they reached what was clearly a command center. A large cavern had been converted into a war room, with crude maps drawn on the walls, weapon racks along the sides, and a central table covered in strategic markers.

Standing at that table was a lizard-folk who was clearly the leader.

Chief Krrax was massive—easily seven feet tall with broad shoulders and a build that spoke of decades of warrior training. His scales were a deep emerald green, darker than most of his tribe, with battle scars visible across his arms and face. One of his eyes was clouded white, the result of an old injury. He wore ceremonial armor that had been patched and repaired multiple times, and a greatsword hung at his back that was easily as tall as a human.

But what struck Satou most was the weight in the chief's remaining good eye. The look of a leader who'd watched his people die, who'd made impossible decisions, who carried the crushing burden of responsibility for every life lost under his watch.

When Krrax looked up at the approaching group, his expression was one of weary resignation rather than hope.

"Ssyla," he said, his voice deep and rough like gravel. "You survived. That's... good." The words were sincere but hollow, as if he'd lost the ability to truly feel relief at anything.

"I brought help, Chief," Ssyla said, her voice carrying desperate hope. "This is Lord Satou and his companions. They saved me from a serpent execution party and have agreed to aid our tribe."

Krrax's single good eye examined Satou and his group with the analytical gaze of an experienced warrior. Satou could see him cataloging details—the quality of their equipment, their postures, the way they carried themselves, the subtle signs of power and combat experience.

After a long moment, the chief sighed. "I appreciate the gesture, strangers. Truly. But unless you've brought an army hidden in your pockets, I'm afraid there's nothing you can do here. This isn't a battle that can be won. This is just... delaying the inevitable."

The defeat in his voice was palpable, and it clearly affected the other lizard-folk in the command chamber. Several warriors looked away, unable to meet their chief's eyes. Others simply stared at the maps with dead expressions.

"Tell me the situation," Satou said, his voice firm and commanding in a way that made Krrax's head snap back up. "Give me numbers, positions, capabilities. Everything."

Krrax studied him for another moment, then seemed to make a decision. Perhaps it was Satou's confidence. Perhaps it was just a dying man's willingness to grasp at any straw, no matter how thin.

"Three hundred and twelve survivors," Krrax began, his voice taking on the cadence of a military briefing. "Of those, one hundred and seventeen are warriors capable of combat. The rest are elders, children, or civilians without combat training. We have maybe two weeks of food left at current rationing levels. Medical supplies ran out four days ago—we're relying on natural healing and prayer at this point."

He gestured at the crude map on the wall. "The serpent folk have us completely surrounded. They've established eight permanent camps in a ring around these cliffs, with overlapping patrol routes that make breakthrough attempts suicide. We've tried three times to fight our way out. Lost fifteen warriors each time, gained nothing."

"And their numbers?" Satou prompted.

"Approximately eight hundred serpent warriors, all enhanced by whatever dark magic King Vexor is using. They don't feel pain, don't feel fear, don't retreat, don't negotiate. They attack our position every six hours like clockwork—not enough to overrun us, but enough to wear us down, kill a few more warriors each time, make us use resources we can't replace."

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