The moletatoes felt them long before any human eye did.
Pressure in the soil.
Foreign boots.
Measured steps.
Disciplined.
Not the careless wandering of normal divers.
Not merchants.
Not tourists.
Purpose.
The eavesdropping woodears passed fragments of speech back to camp.
Phong heard enough.
[Mapping.]
[Angles.]
[Line of sight.]
[Mark this ridge.]
[Treant boundary here.]
[Don't cross.]
[Too risky.]
[We Black Web.]
[Deal with him…]
He did not need to see their faces to know what they were.
They moved like professionals.
Not loud.
Not reckless.
Not stupid.
Phong stood at the edge of the real camp and let out a slow breath.
So it had started.
He sent word through the alliance network at once.
The Greencap civilian farmers pulled back behind Camp Stymphalian's inner perimeter.
Carrots uprooted.
Tools packed.
Small rabbit caravans slipping quietly under the treant canopy.
The knights vanished into their assigned hiding points.
The treants shifted subtly, limbs adjusting like silent sentries.
Then Phong walked alone to the decoy camp.
Casually.
Like nothing was wrong.
If Olen wanted a picture, he would get one.
He left the real camp sealed behind layers of living defense and relocated for the moment to the plain dirt patch near treant territory.
The decoy farm.
Normal crops.
No obvious mutations.
No bonktatoes in plain sight.
No missile chilies on display.
Just a level 1 farmer working the soil.
He could feel them from far off.
Not through magic.
Through pattern.
They watched from the tree line.
Careful spacing.
Signal dampeners active.
They were cautious.
They did not step into treant territory.
Not even by accident.
When one drifted too close, the trees groaned.
A low, angry creak.
Wood grinding against wood.
The Black Web team pulled back at once.
Good.
Professional.
Even if they were annoyed that Olen had only hired them to map the place, they still did the job properly.
Phong knelt in the dirt and kept planting basil seeds.
He didn't look up.
Didn't react.
Let them watch.
Let them record.
Let them map.
He even made sure to retreat visibly at dusk.
Walking back toward the treant line like that was his only shield.
Like his whole survival plan was simple:
Stay near high-level monsters and hope they ignore me.
It was believable.
Too believable.
A level 1 farmer using environmental deterrence to stay alive.
Treants hostile to intruders.
Troll mountain too dangerous.
Lizardman canal too exposed.
The simplest answer was often the most convincing.
And Olen loved simple answers.
The Black Web team spent two days circling the outer ridges.
Marking terrain.
Tracking his visible routine.
Measuring the distance between the decoy farm and the treant zone.
They did not push deeper into the forest.
They did not try to break past the safe radius.
When the treants shifted again in warning, the team fully withdrew.
Through the soil network, Phong felt the retreat like a tide pulling back.
They would report in.
He already knew the report.
[Target is level 1 farmer.]
[Operating near treant territory.]
[Likely relying on high-level mob deterrence.]
[No visible advanced defense structures.]
[Minimal threat.]
He smiled faintly as he watered a row of normal peas.
It was a fair theory.
It made sense.
And it was exactly what he had wanted people to believe when he built the decoy camp months ago.
The real Camp Stymphalian was unreachable by brute force.
To reach it, someone had to:
Cross troll mountain.
Pass through treant territory.
Navigate lizardman waterways.
Avoid the bamboo ant expansion zones.
Survive Greencap cavalry routes.
No ten-man private squad would charge into that blind.
Not without huge numbers.
Not without drawing notice.
The decoy was the only practical battlefield.
And Phong had prepared it well.
Back in his room, Olen now had what he needed.
Terrain.
Angles.
Routine.
Confidence.
All he lacked was timing.
He would wait.
He would not strike while Alexandra Vogel remained on Floor One.
He would wait for Dominic's team to go down.
Wait until she was busy on Floor Two.
Wait until the farmer stood alone.
Phong planted the last basil seed and rose to his feet.
The wind rustled softly.
The treants murmured in approval.
Far off, a troll horn sounded once.
A signal.
Allies in position.
He returned to Camp Stymphalian under the canopy's shadow.
Calm.
Olen believed he was hunting.
But from Phong's point of view, the board had been shaped long before Olen ever touched a piece.
Now it was only a matter of patience.
And patience was something Phong had learned the hard way.
---
Alex did not calm down.
She accepted cuddles.
Accepted hair brushing.
Accepted kisses pressed to her knuckles like offerings.
But under all of that, there was steel.
When Phong told her the Black Web had mapped his routine, something inside her shifted.
The first assassination attempt had pissed her off.
This was poking a hornet nest.
He had come for Phong again.
Not with rumors.
Not emotionally.
With hired killers.
With professionals.
Twice.
Alexandra Vogel did not forget things like that.
Phong had promised not to interfere in what came next.
He kept that promise.
He saw the look in her eyes.
It was not recklessness.
Not blind rage.
It was fury sharpened into calculation.
And she was most dangerous when calm.
The media cycle kept roaring.
Clips from the dinner flooded every feed.
[She Gave Him a Chance. Still Said No.]
[Olen's Patience Tested?]
His media team worked overtime.
Reframing.
Editing angles.
Pushing stories about maturity.
About dignified rejection.
About "continuing admiration from afar."
But optics only bend reality for so long.
Even supporters started going quiet.
Some fan accounts slowed down.
Some turned defensive.
Papa and Mama Vogel noticed one small change.
A few regulars stopped coming to the bakery.
Papa Vogel shrugged.
"Less drama near the bread."
Mama Vogel snorted.
"Sure. It's not like you're running for Congress and need public approval."
"Only if there is baking chief deputy."
They closed early one evening as the first cold wind of approaching winter swept through the streets.
Halloween decorations began appearing in shop windows.
Tension rose on the surface.
Below ground, a different kind of preparation had already begun.