Skitter Dakk stood at the iron gate of his training grounds and watched his creations move in the darkness. The Fleadogs circled their handlers, teeth bared and ready. The first batch of Rot-Soldiers stood in formation, black veins visible beneath their pale skin. He had spent months in the laboratory breeding these weapons. Now they existed. His army would crush anyone who stood against him, and when the city fell, only his name would be remembered. Dawn was hours away, but his work was already complete. Behind him, the Locust-Guarded Cannon Watchtower rose into the night sky. Dark shapes circled the structure without rest, their wings clicking in the shadows. This was where he trained his warriors, where the screaming from below mixed with the sound of combat drills above. The tower held everything he needed. Rot-Soldiers learned to fight in its halls. Fleadogs learned to kill in its yards. Skitter felt his jaw tighten with satisfaction. The others had doubted him in the beginning. They said his experiments would fail. Now he had proof of his genius standing before him, ready to march. He turned away from the gate and walked toward the greenhouse cube that sat in the open square. The glass structure glowed with a sickly green light. Inside, rows of Black Vein Carrot Rot Moss grew in carefully controlled conditions. The fungus fed his entire operation. Without it, there would be no Rot-Soldiers. The cyborg locust-men stood guard at each corner, their mechanical parts whirring softly. Skitter stopped at the entrance and placed his clawed hand against the glass. The moss pulsed with dark veins that matched those in his soldiers. This was his power. This was his future. By dawn, his army would march, and nothing would stop them. A howl cut through the night air. Skitter turned toward the Black Vein Stinger Kennel where the newest Fleadogs waited in their pens. The insectoid facility held two dozen war hounds, each one bred for combat. He walked to the entrance and looked through the metal bars. Red eyes stared back at him. The Fleadogs snapped at each other, fighting over scraps of meat thrown by the handlers. These creatures knew only hunger and rage. Perfect weapons. Skitter gripped the bars and felt the cold metal against his claws. His army was complete. The Rot-Soldiers would break through enemy lines. The Fleadogs would tear apart anyone who ran. When dawn came, his name would be carved into history with blood and conquest.