Synthios turned the final page of his manuscript and read aloud the last discussion point on the King’s council agenda:

  “Lastly on our agenda, we are to discuss the trade deal with the Emerald Conclave. Who wishes to lead the conversation?”

  King Filippo rose from his gold-cobbled armchair.

  “Actually, I have a word or two to say about this matter myself.”

  The entire council turned toward the head of the table where Filippo stood. A ripple of surprise moved across their faces—it was rare for the king to initiate discussion. He usually sat back, only to close the council with a grand speech that often undermined everything debated before.

  “I cannot stand having some of these trade deals in place solely for the sake of peace. We simply do not need these villagers and their wheat or emeralds. Do you men not see our farms stretching from the town of Oakrest all the way to this beautiful capital of Ardanova, in which we stand today? We are the only self-sufficient faction in all of Haidvent.

  The others rely on our mining, our farming, our riches, and our industries. We are the focal point of the world—and I believe it is time we rid ourselves of these deals and stand on our own two feet. Let the world know our strength and might!”

  The speech was met with a few murmurs across the table before Synthios, who had raised the topic, gently chimed in:

  “Your Majesty, while I understand your reasoning for ending the trade deal with the Villagers, I must advise we proceed with caution. Terminating a deal that has existed for over a hundred years—since the signing of the Great Peace Treaty—may be seen as an act of war.

  All factions across Haidvent operate in unison, bound by trade and mutual diplomacy.”

  Filippo scoffed.

  “To the Nether with all that cautionary nonsense. I don’t say we go to war—I simply say we stop wasting our resources on other factions. We have the strength to stand on our own two feet—why can’t the rest of them?”

  “Once again, Your Majesty,” Synthios replied carefully, “while these deals may seem like a facade or hindrance to our people, I must urge that we tread carefully when it comes to inter-faction politics—”

  He was cut short as one of the King's Hands stepped into the chamber, bowing with urgency.

  “Your Highness, Lords of the Council—apologies for the interruption, but the ceremony is about to commence. If you would make your way to the royal balcony, the troops are prepared to begin their march.”

  Today was the Day of Peace, a day during which all faction representatives united in Ardanova to march their armies through the main streets—celebrating one another’s strength, advancements, and a chance for everyone to boast. Filippo sat on his golden throne with his six Lords of the Council seated on either side of him. Synthios, the Lord of Diplomacy, was in his usual seat just to the left of King Filippo.

  The royal balcony overlooked the Street of Peace, located at the heart of Ardanova and nestled between the royal palace and the military barracks. Music played through enchanted disc players and sound boxes, with musicians from Ardanova performing the kingdom’s anthem. The streets below were packed with citizens enjoying food from the markets, which proudly showcased gastronomy from all factions. It was a day of joy and celebration—a day many no longer remembered the true purpose of. Few recalled the war that had once ravaged these lands, or the cost that peace had demanded.

  The music came to a halt, and King Filippo rose to his feet to address the crowd.

  “Thank you all for uniting here today for the 103rd celebration of the Day of Peace! We are gathered to honour the beauty of Haidvent, which we share with one another despite our differences. Let us rejoice in each other’s strength as we witness our armies march with pride and confidence. Your presence here today keeps this tradition alive—so I thank you all.”

  As his speech concluded, the gates opened for the march—led, as tradition demanded, by the army of the Kingdom of Ardanova.

  The Knights entered first, riding in perfect formation atop horses draped in diamond-coated armour. The knights themselves were equally adorned, clad in gleaming diamond plate and wielding diamond swords, each holding a shield bearing the kingdom’s crest—a golden sword and sun.

  Following them came the bowmen, marching in single file with the same precision that earned them the title of finest archers in all of Haidvent.

  The procession was concluded by Ardanova’s axemen—burly soldiers, most hailing from mining or lumberjack backgrounds in the towns of Greystone and Oakrest. They walked with the strength of stone and steel, thick-bearded with deep, weathered stares—eyes that had seen years of honest, punishing labour.

  The crowd roared as the final axeman of Ardanova marched through the gates, hammering his boots into the cobblestone with pride. Their display was as grand as always—efficient, glimmering, and undeniably powerful. The people loved it. Filippo, now seated once more, leaned back with a satisfied smirk.

  Next came the Emerald Conclave. Villagers from Emberglen marched in uneven lines, clad in green and brown tunics. Their emerald-tipped staffs shimmered in the sun—more decoration than weapon. Some pushed carts of bread, vegetables, and sugar cane; others handed emeralds to children.

  “Look at them,” Filippo muttered to Synthios without taking his eyes off the procession. “A marching market stand. This is what we’ve been trading for centuries? Carrots and cowards?”

  Synthios gave a neutral nod, choosing silence over escalation.

  Behind them marched the Hollowed Realm, soldiers of the spectral realm. Skeletons in dark armour moved in eerie unison, bones clinking like wind chimes. A faint fog followed them from Soul Lanterns. At their centre marched a Wither Skeleton commander beneath a banner of a cracked skull cradled by ghostly hands.

  Next came the Rothborne Clan, the warriors of decay.Zombies in rusted iron clanked forward, their green skin mottled and eyes hollow. Their march was rough, drums thundering on old shields. Hammers swung, axes dragged against stone. The smell of rot drifted through the air; a boy gagged.

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  Filippo wrinkled his nose.

  “Filthy beasts. I don’t care how much discipline they’ve learned. A beast with manners is still a beast.”

  Then came the Cindercraw Pact, slithering into view from the street’s far end. Creepers crawled in eerie sync beside robed handlers. Their jagged armor, forged from magma-quenched alloys, pulsed with volatile runes. A massive banner—an obsidian triangle split by green lightning—led the way. A low hiss swept the street like wind before a storm.

  The Enderwatchers followed, stepping through brief, flickering portals that blinked into existence just before the gates. Endermen stepped through flickering portals, silent and tall in dark-dyed armor. Their robed commanders floated above ground, white eyes glowing. They wielded weapons of chorus fruit and Ender Pearls, humming with teleportation magic. Their banner: a vertical, watchful eye.

  Filippo leaned forward, intrigued but tense.

  “Always watching,” he muttered. “The day they speak is the day I draw my sword.”

  Finally, the gates trembled. The crowd grew still as the Netherbone Cast made their entrance.

  First came Nether Pigs in golden armour, tusks sparking as they snarled. Piglins in crimson plate rode them, shrieking in an ancient tongue. Behind them drifted Blazes, spinning like burning embers.

  Then came silence.

  Three Ghasts soared overhead, each mounted by a Nether Pig in obsidian saddles. The crowd gasped. Even King Filippo leaned forward. Tamed Ghasts had never been seen—until now. Their cries echoed like funeral bells..

  Filippo turned sharply toward Synthios.

  “Is that your peace, Lord of Diplomacy?” he hissed. “Is that what we’ve allowed to fester under the guise of friendship? A beast show in our skies?”

  Synthios’ heart sank. The people of Ardanova had come for celebration. But the look in the King’s eyes spoke of war.

  As the ceremony ended and each faction gathered around their leaders, King Filippo rose from his throne. He offered the crowd a half-hearted wave of appreciation before turning sharply to the Council of Lords.

  “Back to the chamber,” he ordered.

  The grand doors shut behind them. Before any of the Lords could sit, Filippo erupted:

  “That was an abomination! Who do those brutes draped in fire and filth think they are—bringing such creature sinto my kingdom?”

  He slammed his fist onto the table.

  “Ghasts are banished to the Nether. They do not roam free in the Overworld. This defies every accord made in peacetime. What’s the code, Taidg?”

  He turned to the blond-haired Lord of Legislation. Taidg, who had stayed quiet until now, straightened in his seat.

  “Ah, yes. ‘No faction is to make military, industrial, or agricultural advancements without disclosure to all others during their annual summits. Any such development must pass by majority vote,’” he recited, word-perfect thanks to his photographic memory.

  Filippo nodded, his jaw clenched.

  “Exactly. Those flying beasts are a clear violation. They must be punished.”

  “What course of action do you suggest, Your Majesty?” Synthios asked carefully, already wary of the answer.

  Filippo didn’t hesitate.

  “They do not belong in this world. They must die.”

  The room fell into stunned silence.

  Cristoffel, Lord of the Military, stood with a clink of armour.

  “Your Majesty, you could not have worded it better. Give the command, and my men will strike. They are nothing more than glorified beasts—dressed in gold and screams.”

  “We must be cautious!” Synthios stood as well, voice firm.

  “Enough of your cautionary tales, Synthios!” Cristoffel barked.

  “Caution did not build this kingdom. Strength did. We must act, or we risk losing the respect of the other factions. That march was a mockery of us all.”

  “This is foolishness,” Synthios shot back.

  “If we strike first, we destroy a century of peace. Did you not see the joy among the people? This can be resolved through diplomacy.”

  “I no longer wish to parley with those pigs,” Filippo spat.

  “My ancestors did not build this kingdom to see it overrun by beasts. Haidvent belongs to us.”

  Synthios stepped forward, his voice rising.

  “Do I need to remind you what happened the last time humans tried to claim Haidvent?”

  Filippo glared at him, seething.

  “I don’t need you to remind me of my great-grandfather’s death—butchered by the so-called god and his cursed dragons.”

  A voice, brittle with age, cut through the rising storm.

  “Gentlemen,” said Lord Maelor, the oldest among them, seated quietly at the far end of the table, “need I remind you of the prophecy?”

  All eyes turned to him as he leaned forward.

  “In the age when the Equilibrium shall falter in the land of Haidvent, the world itself shall be woven anew. Behold, Notch the Creator, shall arise once more—not as the steadfast Guardian of old, but reborn as Herobrine, the Reclaimer. In his return, mercy shall not adorn his path, but rather his wrath shall descend with a vengeance tenfold the might of his former reckoning. Beware, for it shall not be dragons alone that sweep the land, but tempests to rend the heavens asunder, beasts yet unborn to walk the earth, and the fiery judgment upon all creation."

  The chamber fell still.

  “So, Lord Maelor, what do you propose we do? Seeing as you love to recite old prophecies and ancient wisdom,”asked King Filippo, voice thick with sarcasm.

  “I merely warn you not to repeat history—a history, which left most of our ancestors dead. Perhaps Lord Synthios’ diplomatic approach would serve us better.”

  “Right then, Lord Synthios, let’s hear that big brain of yours. What do you suggest?”

  “A meeting. With the heads of the Netherborne Cast. Let them explain their intentions before we leap at their throats.”

  Filippo gave a dismissive wave. “Very well, Synthios. Arrange your meeting.”

  An hour passed. After tense negotiations with Netherborne envoys, the Lords regrouped—this time joined by Empress Ethmila herself. She stood tall, cloaked in dark leather, a golden staff in hand, her expression unreadable. Flanking her were two Piglin bodyguards, clad in netherite, tusks polished, eyes watching every move. Around King Filippo stood his six Lords and ten personal knights—seasoned warriors from the days before peace.

  “So, King Filippo,” Ethmila said with a smirk, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your hospitality? It's rare for a Netherborne to enjoy such grandiose cobblestone decor.”

  Filippo didn’t smile. He locked eyes with her, his stare icy.

  “The ghasts.”

  “What about them?”

  “They do not belong in the Overworld.”

  “Oh, come now. They’re simple creatures. I was merely giving them a tour of your lovely kingdom. Even they grow tired of lava and ash.”

  “They breathe fire. They are not ‘simple.’ Their presence alone violates the treaty signed after the Great War. You risk punishment by the God himself.”

  Ethmila laughed lightly. “Ah yes, that dusty old parchment. I remember your father signing it—right after your great-grandfather was decapitated. We don’t abide by paper promises, Filippo. We want more than just a piece of the pie.”

  “Do not mock the prophecy,” Lord Maelor snapped.

  “Well, well. Lord Maelor. Still alive, I see. I'm impressed.”

  Filippo stood, rage bubbling beneath his skin. He pointed a trembling finger at her.

  “Enough with the games. Remove the ghasts from my land or I will have you and your beasts slaughtered. You do not belong in the Overworld. I will see you banished.”

  A heavy silence fell. Then Ethmila chuckled.

  “There he is. The angry king. That’s what the other factions call you, you know. The little angry king. Pathetic.”She stepped forward, voice like venom. “You humans still believe the world is yours. Have you learned nothing from your ancestors? Remind me, Filippo—what became of your grandfather? I believe I remember him... weeping... just before the blade fell.”

  Filippo’s fury exploded. His veins bulged, fists clenched. He ripped back his ruby cloak, drew his diamond-crafted sword—and in a single movement, plunged it into the Empress’s chest.

  She gasped. Her guards reached for their golden swords.

  Chaos.

  Filippo’s knights roared, blades drawn. Steel clashed against netherite. Blood sprayed across the chamber's green carpeted cobblestone. Screams echoed. The Piglins fought back, but they were outnumbered—and gutted where they stood.

  The Lords, stunned, had retreated to the corner—except Lord Cristoffel, who fought with bloodthirsty glee.

  And then, silence.

  Filippo, bloodied, turned to face the corner where the Lords cowered. In one hand, his sword. In the other—the severed head of Ethmila.

  He stared straight at Synthios.

  “Fuck diplomacy.”