...

  Alexander stood beside a long magic board as the voices behind him started socializing. With careful precision, he glid thin metal plates into the slots of the calculator container, adjusting them until the illusions on the board should, in theory, form a coherent 2D map. Once adequately aligned and turned on, the arrangement would reveal detailed topography and symbolic tokens representing troops, resources, and defensive emplacements. But so far, the pieces refused to cooperate.

  On the table behind him lay spread-out stacks of pamphlets detailing every symbol, token, and coded icon for strategic purposes. Each page represented countless factors, from enemy armaments to the peculiar weather patterns around Pure-Steam Island. The island's isolation was notorious—it would be easier to conquer North Korea stealthily than to take that mist- and jungle-shrouded territory. Alexander smirked grimly at the thought. He'd never say it aloud, but the sheer complexity thrilled him as much as it irritated him.

  For such an endeavor, the base of operation was lacking—an improvised solution was what he needed. This cramped chamber had been christened the strategy room only until Klili's patience wore thin, and she demanded her sleeping quarters back—circumstances that showed through all of the Leonandra estate. 'Jesus, I would've been fucked if they brought all of their men,' he mused bitterly, as his people slowly couldn't be bought anymore and regarded other comforts as more significant. Gold and checks were stored or deposited, becoming useless, which gave him another idea. 'This reminds me—'

  Those thoughts were quickly interrupted when a faint, pale morning light filtered through the high, narrow windows, outlining Alexander's silhouette and bringing his mind back when blinded. 'Right, concentrate,' he sighed, earnestly continuing to position the plates while in thought.

  Initially, he wanted to start the military exercises after seeing what everyone brought to the table, but fortunately, Narsiz prevented it. 'Shit is fucked,' Alexander mused self-mockingly, thinking that his understanding of the military was of some use until he almost made an error, as the gold he had, ridiculous amounts, made problems he had regarded with little concern—a corporate mindset, absolutely missing the forest for the trees.

  No soldiers had arrived yet; that was by design. He wouldn't even know where to quarter half of them, and he found some twisted comfort in that ignorance—something Melina, his head maid, responsible for managing his in-estate properties, didn't like and made him this know, repeatedly.

  They were expected to trickle in over the coming weeks—quiet arrivals using civilian manners—there was no need to raise a stir before the official start of their campaign. Patience was a virtue in these matters, and it wasn't meant for the enemy but the population as a whole, which always had negative connotations of compulsory subscription, something often seen in other territories.

  Alexander traced a finger along the incomplete map, his mind turning southwest where the Eros Alliance had their stronghold. The token for Baldur Lavafist's forces hovered in his thoughts. The old bastard had launched a premature siege—far too early. Alexander's brow knitted, a subtle clench of his jaw betraying the frustration beneath his cool exterior.

  'He's desperate,' Alexander mused bitterly, pressing a plate with a bit too much force—a crack echoed. 'Pushing for surrender before we've scouted properly... he is aiming for something else.'

  Alexander knew the politics behind Lavafist's gambit: a show of strength, a cheap favor to soften the enemy's defenses—mostly within. His power was undeniable: a predator and a legendary adventurer. But in politics, no matter how much strength he showed, he was an outsider—a commoner, the son of a common blacksmith.

  'I hope it works, though,' Alexander wondered, unable to deny that Lavafist wanted to weaken certain factions within and was ready to lose unnecessary territory while building relationships. It was apparent—a reflection of his past as an adventurer who tended to be more open-minded than not—a bet with the promise to open the door to his Alliance.

  Yet to Alexander, it felt too risky, showing that Pascal's reputation needed to be saved while Alexander had his own interests, mostly aligned with either side. Lavafist, however, didn't make them surrender; through information, there was quite a stir inside some factions—especially those who favored the First Servant's stance—and all he could do was stop them from raising an internal conflict.

  The illusions on the board flickered as Alexander rearranged the plates yet again, trying to form the perfect representation of terrain and fortifications. Each misalignment magnified his tension. The Pure-Steam Island's leaders had isolationist tendencies that rivaled the most paranoid regimes. Some on the council secretly admired this stance, undercutting collaborations from within. Lavafist likely aimed to snuff out these pests quickly. Alexander knew that if the operation collapsed into chaos, it would only strengthen Lavafist's hand and undercut everyone else's.

  'I deeply, deeply despise politics,' Alexander mused, understanding the irony, forcing a calm fa?ade as he eyed the shifting illusions on the board. He had to gather resources, finalize a strategy, and ensure everyone knew their role. They needed to coordinate—divide the territory, arrange long-term governance, and maintain stability. Otherwise, an opportunity like this wouldn't occur as quickly. Though outwardly, the layers of responsibility pressed down, he kept a slouch and a half-smirk as if all this were some elaborate board game. Inwardly, he had to suppress his maddening expression, wanting nothing more than to carpet-bomb the damn territory and be done with it.

  Politics and military conflicts were never easy, and his ability not to start a war with Pascal alone spoke of fortune beyond imagination—mostly, it was his Grandmother, as many didn't want to get on her bad side, understanding her relative excentric past and predisposition for outbursts.

  'So,' he tapped his chin, trying to soften his stance even more while providing aid and support to Lavafist and Pascal, his stance still overwhelmingly focused on diplomacy. 'I should focus on—'

  A soft, hesitant voice broke his focus. "Ehm, Alex? May I have a moment with you?" Isabella of the Feather-Paw household stood behind him, her posture stiff, a forced smile hovering over her expression. Her long and glistering blond jackal ears flicked nervously.

  Alexander glanced over his shoulder and jerked his thumb toward another room. "Need privacy?" The strategy room—really just Klili's disheveled bedroom—was crowded with people who would be part of this venture. Half pretended not to listen, but Alexander could practically feel their ears pivoting toward any hint of gossip. Isabella nodded, and they slipped into what was technically Klili's closet but now served as a makeshift office. Alexander couldn't help but grin at the absurdity.

  He snapped his fingers inside. A soft hum signaled a soundproof barrier and the appearance of a light sphere. The air turned oddly still. He knew they couldn't stay too long inside or risk suffocation. Isabella's nose wrinkled as she eyed the cramped space, her tail twitching.

  "I expected something... more sophisticated," she admitted, her voice low and uncertain.

  Alexander leaned casually against a wall, arms folded. "It's what we've got. Klili's got a taste for hoarding old dresses and novelty umbrellas, not exactly high-tech war rooms. Anyway, what's on your mind?" He raised his brows. "If it's about accommodations, join the queue. I've already got a dozen would-be assassins fantasizing about pillow-induced suffocation. I wouldn't want to deprive them of that honor."

  Isabella's tense expression softened slightly. "You have quite the dark sense of humor," she said, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "I expected someone a bit more... empathetic."

  His grin was lopsided. "Oh, I'm all sunshine and rainbows on the inside. Truly. Just ask the unicorns grazing in my nooks." The sarcasm fizzled, and he straightened a bit, golden eyes sharpening. "But enough banter. I've got restless teens outside, ready to spill blood or love. What do you need, Isabella?"

  Was Alexander unmannered? Yes, but he knew how to observe proper etiquette when necessary; when alone, there was no need for it. Etiquette was primarily required in group settings to avoid embarrassing others or escalating situations. Consequently, his straightforward and harsh manner of speaking was typical, and Isabella didn't take it personally.

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  She took a breath, her shoulders lifted, and her eyes downcast. "I have a problem," she began, voice near a whisper. "Yet I still want to be part of this campaign."

  Alexander cocked his head. "You ran away," he said flatly, not bothering to dress it up. "From your cozy home to join this madness. Brave or foolish, can't say I'd advise it. But why? Planning to kill a few fire-djinn isolationists to prove some puppyish point?"

  Isabella's eyes widened, shock flickering in their emerald depths. "You knew?"

  There was no surprise, as Alexander had Quill work overtime and threatened to confine him in a permanent chastity belt if he didn't perform his duties—and it worked wonders. The information he gathered primarily indicated that the Feather-Paw territory was in chaos following the daughter's flight, leaving him with few conclusions to draw.

  A faint, mischievous gleam danced in his gaze. "Your parents are—how should I put it—less than thrilled. But I'm no nanny. You made a choice. I'm interested in what you'll bring to the table."

  Her voice grew tight. "I ran because I believe I can help. I can save lives, not just take them. I fear if I return, they'll confine me in Outer Circle for who knows how long." She met his gaze directly now, face earnest. "Tell me the truth, Alexander. Am I making a mistake?"

  Isabella was a good person, sacrificing her time and talents to save as many as possible. However, her parents supported her until she mentioned his name—a slight difference in opinions occurred. It was not Alexander's place to judge, but he supported her nonetheless for practical reasons. The Feather-Paw rulers despised him because of his dear Grandmother and her compassionate way of living. Ultimately, he needed support for his upcoming trial, and gaining her allegiance was easier.

  He studied her, silence stretching between them. In that quiet, he noted the flickering [Energy] in her posture—defiance warring with doubt. "I'm not my Grandmother. And I'm not your parents. I'm carving my own path," he said finally, voice quieter, more sincere than before. "Whether that path leads to salvation or ruin... well, that's what everyone's here to judge, isn't it?"

  A small laugh escaped Isabella, the tension easing. "You little shit," she said, almost fondly. "I'll just have to observe you and see if my judgment was correct."

  Alexander snorted. "Welcome to the spectator stands. Half the continent's already watching my every move and rolling their eyes." With a wink, he pushed off the wall and reached for the door. "Oh, and if a letter shows up from your parents—do me a favor and ignore it. Barth might be doing me a little favor on that front."

  She stiffened, her pupils shaking, "What?!"

  ...

  Meanwhile, far to the north of Alexander, jagged mountains rose over ashen fields in the Silver-Tail fief. Soot-stained ruins of villages clung to life, patches of scorched earth slowly healing as stubborn wildflowers and fresh grass pushed through the blackened ground. Life reasserted itself despite old traumas. A caravan of twenty ornate carriages rattled along a narrow, winding path well removed from any bustling heart of civilization. They traveled quietly, skirting tiny villages to restock in the shadows of half-rebuilt homesteads.

  Inside the lead carriage, Pomerian Feather-Paw—known among many as the Wretch of Pestilence—sat with perfect posture. The crisp scent of incense clung to his snow-white gloves as he trailed a fingertip over the hilt of his rapier. Silver-blond fur and hair framed a face drawn with tension. He was supposed to command armies, not chase after his only daughter like some common bounty hunter. He cursed inwardly, 'Bella, what have you done?'

  A man of fearsome military reputation, Pomerian wrestled privately with the moral stains on his soul. His power—and the name that accompanied it—had once been earned through mass slaughter. It was a legacy he would inevitably have to pass on—a curse that only brought pain and suffering. Yet, Isabella's brilliance and compassion broke the cycle—like a snow-white flower, unsullied, her idealistic nature and passion for helping, forging peace, and relieving suffering even made his wife jealous—his daughter was a sacrifice to clean their blood.

  And yet, here he was, forging ahead to retrieve her before she fell under the sway of Alexander and became sullied—the boy whose lineage whispered of nightmares and atrocities. 'Alexander,' Pomerian's mind churned. 'That cunning little serpent. If Isabella stays near him, she might be charmed by his clever words, lured into a world of endless conflict,' his finger became firmer as it glided over the grip of his rapier made of demonium.

  'Alexander K. Leonandra,' he repeated his name, the grandson of the manifestation of bloodthirst also known as The Nightmare—filthy and barbaric—nurturing someone with the brilliance of Aetherfang—a shadow of unimaginable proportions was slowly encompassing the land.

  Alexander's name slithered through the corners of Pomerian's mind again, stirring his thoughts into catastrophic imaginations. The boy had cunning and cruelty woven into his very bone, which needed to be expelled or restrained by all means. Pomerian's wife had warned him that the retribution trials would be enough to shackle the youthful temper, but Pomerian suspected it wouldn't be so simple—he was right.

  Isabella became his first victim, a naive girl with the potential to guide their lineage into a blessing, and was seduced by Alexander into a worldview of endless war, 'I will bring you back, no matter the cost.'

  The caravan rumbled onward, the mountains casting jagged shadows. Pomerian's large coyote-like ears twitched, tail flicking anxiously. The exchanges with Marisia were too calm—almost uncaring. She'd insisted that puppies must find their own paths. Pomerian found no comfort in her stoic acceptance. Each click of the carriage wheels tightened the knot in his stomach, his blood freezing at the thought of confronting her—a living weapon.

  They reached a valley where char and soot still lingered, ghostly echoes of old wars. Without warning, the entire caravan lurched to a halt. Pomerian's head snapped, caught a shift in the air, a tickle of foreign [Energy]. Before Pomerian could demand an explanation, a familiar, grating voice boomed over the hush of the ruined landscape.

  A familiar voice boomed through the hush. "Oy! Pompom! Long time no see!" A rough and barking laugh followed by an absurd "Muhahaha!" reverberated among the scorched remnants of the valley.

  Pomerian's ears flattened. 'Bartholomew.' He hadn't seen that brute in decades. The man had been a legendary combatant, equal parts cunning and chaos, once a grudging comrade under The Nightmare—born into the identical status filled with hostility. Now, he stood in the path, halting Pomerian's progress.

  They survived the gruesome training together, and even though Pomerian left five years earlier, Bartholomew should've known and understood the cost of senseless violence. It was seemingly insufficient as he killed his own blood, and now the fool barred his path.

  Pomerian's jaw tightened. 'He must have been bought,' he mused, tugging the carriage door open. 'Alex's gold can make loyal pets of many,' he stepped down from the carriage, rapier clinking faintly. The smell of soot shot up into his nose as his pristine boots landed lightly in the soot, leaving perfect prints.

  He inhaled, catching a hint of acrid smoke. His guards fanned out, anxious and ready. The rapier's scabbard glittered faintly in the dim sunlight. One white-gloved hand held it, the other swiping over his perfectly trimmed and slim mustache. His spotless attire perfectly matched his small, lean body—tensed like a spring.

  Bartholomew loomed ahead: a hulking dog-kin, still dressed in ragged, ill-fitting clothes, muscles rippling beneath. His presence was as subtle as a falling mountain. He grinned as if this were an old drinking reunion. "So many carriages, Pompom. Off to fetch your wayward pup by the scruff of her neck, eh? Let her make her own decisions."

  A monster of his race and Pomerian hated it. He was a work of art, modeled and modified by the Nightmare until he became what one could only call the second strongest in their generation, only eclipsed by a breathing weapon.

  Pomerian's emerald eyes narrowed. "You know why I'm traveling, then," he said, voice taut with suppressed anger. "Then you must know who she's gone to."

  Bartholomew's grin didn't falter. He puffed a foul-looking cigar, smoke curling in red-black wisps. "Everyone knows, Pompom. Ori knows. Peter knows. Brutus and even Cecilia. And you know how she can hold a grudge." The big man gave a humorless chuckle. "Rumors spread fast as plague."

  Pomerian's grip on his rapier tightened. "Let me be clearer, Bartholomew," his jaw tensed. "It's not only to whom but to where."

  Bartholomew rolled his eyes overdramatically. "The whole South likes him," he rolled casually his shoulders, continuing. "The little scuffle is nothing to worry about, but some give and take between the old cookstove, the pancake maker, and the little bastard."

  Pomerian's tail stood still. "Then you know this isn't just some harmless escapade. Alexander's bloodline could birth another Nightmare. Millions could die if he rises unchecked. Is that what you desire?"

  The big man's laughter faded. A subtle shadow passed over Bartholomew's eyes as if recalling distant horrors. "Times change," he rumbled. "You can't stop a storm by stabbing the wind. Alexander might be a monster—or he might be something else entirely. You fear what could come, but war births strange alliances. Sometimes blood-soaked fields grow the finest forests." He shrugged as if this fatalistic poetry could excuse catastrophe.

  Pomerian's lips curled in disdain. "So you condone his potential? I expected more from you." He drew a breath, and a tainted aura unfurled around him, crackling with an ancient potency. Grass withered instantly, and some of his own guards staggered, choking on the sudden stench of decay. The valley felt colder, the wind holding its breath—death itself plagued the land. "You forget yourself, Bartholomew. If you stand in my way, you will be an example to others—don't let your title dictate your ignorance, dear Tail-Eater."

  Bartholomew spat out the last scrap of his cigar, the ember dying instantly. He stiffened, his friendly fa?ade slipping. A ripple of raw power coursed through him. Flesh and bone distorted, muscles bulging in unnatural shapes, [Energy] gathering like stormclouds. "You're a damn fool," he snarled, voice deepening as his form changed, raw and primal—terror.

  Pomerian recognized the transformation: it was Bartholomew's true strength, rarely unleashed. The clash of two titans loomed; their might formed through blood and pain, fueled by rejection—found themselves with contradictory causes.