They struck without warning.
Twelve cities—once proud centers of life and trade—crumbled beneath plague and perversion.
Not by sword or siege.
But by infection.
The Dirty Dozen
Each city fell differently, a twisted signature left by the rot cult's new elite strike unit—The Dirty Dozen:
Greasegut, the alchemist who replaced blood with used cooking oil.
Toesucker, a lich that spreads athlete's foot like wildfire.
The Smearer, who turns murals into disease vectors.
Grimella the Bath Witch, who cursed all water to trap filth instead of washing it away.
And eight more, each filthier, crueler, and more virulent than the last.
Twelve Cities Lost
The elven capital, Elarindor, fell when blessed fruit was laced with hidden spores. The High Tree wilted in days, its bark weeping pus. The elves fled, coughing spores, cradling infected children.
The dwarven mining colony of Hammerdeep collapsed when cave fungus overtook its aqueducts—possessing miners and turning them into shuffling sludge-carriers.
The demon trade port of Kar'Zaruun erupted in chaos when "blessed bathhouses" reversed their purpose—cleansing spells now infecting instead.
"The enemy isn't conquering," Kazuki said grimly.
"They're converting cities into contagions."
The Clean Divide
Kazuki didn't have an army—but he had purpose.
He called upon his Knights of Hygiene, his sanitation engineers, and every ally he'd scrubbed hope into.
"We split forces," he ordered. "Three fronts. We'll take back what they've soiled."
Each group was diverse:
Elrin led a team to the elven ruins, joined by wood nymphs and centaur triage medics.
K'taal marched to Kar'Zaruun with her infernal soap monks and vinegar-flinging imps.
Grum Steelfoam carved into Hammerdeep with sonic polishers and a dwarven mop brigade.
Resistance… at First
Not all welcomed them.
Some elves snarled at Kazuki's name. "A human saint? You mock our grief."
Dwarves blocked tunnels, fearing "foreign suds" might finish what the mold started.
Even the demons balked—until K'taal purified an entire plague zone with her "Four-Arm Cleanse," ending a rotstorm in seconds.
But when the children healed, when blackened lungs turned pink again, and when citizens stepped barefoot onto truly clean stone for the first time in weeks…
They bowed.
Even the proudest elf whispered, "Saint Kazuki… bless our water."
The Turning Tide
In a coordinated push, Kazuki's teams reclaimed four of the twelve.
Soap bombs rained from the skies.
Bleach runes cracked corrupted walls.
Holy pressure washers roared like thunder.
In Elarindor, Elrin shattered the corrupted Heartseed Tree—and planted a new sapling, purified by Kazuki's hands.
In Hammerdeep, Grum's self-cleaning gate held firm as the infected miners were cured and given back their hammers—with gloves this time.
And in Kar'Zaruun, a bathhouse burned bright with sacred soapfire, K'taal standing amid the flames, hissing:
"Your filth is no match for discipline."
The Enemy Takes Notice
Far in the rotlands, the Dirty Dozen watched in silence.
One of them—Oozefather—growled, "He undoes decay itself."
Another whispered, "Saint or not… he must scrubbed out."