"Deputy Commander, if we keep the tower's original monster conversion types, are there any security risks? Any backdoors?" The Black Tower was a product of the Cult of Four. If Orion was going to make it a mobile war fortress for the Stoneheart Horde, he had to be certain it was clean.

The Deputy Commander glanced up at him, and his look seemed to say, Are you questioning my expertise?

"No," he said curtly. "The demonic monster conversion formation contains the mental imprint of the tower's original master. I will erase their imprint and replace it with yours. From now on, every monster converted will be stamped with your mark. There will be no possibility of them being turned against you."

Orion was, for all intents and purposes, magically illiterate. Seeing his confusion, the Deputy Commander gave him a simplified explanation of the process.

"Then I'll choose to remove the Cyclopes," Orion said with a slightly embarrassed smile. He quickly regained his composure and made the call. "We'll keep the Red-Eyed Ghouls and Mist Wraiths."

"Mm," the Deputy Commander grunted, already turning his full attention back to the magical formation.

Orion, meanwhile, was running a cost-benefit analysis in his head. Demonic monsters were, at their core, cannon fodder. The ones that had invaded the Forest of Nature were only special because the Witch had empowered them with her emotional plague. That was the real weapon that had broken the Wood Elf race.

And his Stoneheart Horde was not short on cannon fodder. His undead, sand scorpion, and cave spider armies all filled that role perfectly, and they had synergy. He chose to scrap the Cyclopes because they were resource hogs—too clumsy and stupid to be useful for anything other than absorbing damage on a frontline charge.

The other two, however, offered unique utility his forces lacked. Ghouls had a keen sense of smell, making them excellent trackers.

The Mist Wraiths were even more valuable. Until Demon Makareth's promised Shadow-fiends arrived and his own succubus scouts were more numerous, the Wraiths would be his best option for intelligence gathering and assassination.

Adding his own Skeletal Knights into that mix? For his purposes, the Black Tower's new configuration would be far more effective than the one the Cult of Four had designed.

With the decision made, Orion's role was reduced to that of a gofer, running errands and handing over materials. The real show belonged to the Deputy Commander.

***

Titanion Realm, Stoneheart City.

In the manicured gardens of a lavish manor in the inner city stood a crude, sprawling tent made of stitched beast hides. This was Rendall's residence. He preferred the tent he had lived in for most of his life to the more civilized and luxurious palace.

Inside, his family was gathered. Rendall, Ursa, and Steelblade sat in a circle, while a gaggle of giant younglings chased each other around with wooden swords.

"A toast!" Rendall roared, raising his cup. "When you get to the barracks tomorrow, kill many enemies! Bring more glory to the Tribe!"

Both Rendall and Ursa were on the deployment list. Rendall was shipping out for the campaign to conquer the overseas islands, while Ursa was descending into the Silverwood Realm for the cross-realm invasion.

"Daddy, take care of yourself," Ursa said, downing her drink before refilling her father's and her son's cups. She raised her own again in a toast to Rendall. Her father had volunteered for this campaign; no one could have stopped him. Ursa knew why. He was chasing that sliver of hope, the chance to ascend and become a lord himself. Warden Dirtclaw's success had lit a fire in the hearts of all the old veterans. They had clawed their way up from the battlefield, and they believed that if Dirtclaw could walk that path, so could they.

"Hahaha! You're the one who needs to be careful! Your old man is still stronger than you!" Rendall laughed, clapping Ursa proudly on the shoulder. His daughter was now late-stage Alpha-level, her power nearly rivaling that of the elders.

"Grandfather, Mom, I toast you both," Steelblade said, raising his cup. "May you return victorious, and stronger than ever."

"Heh, you're a good lad," Rendall beamed. "You'll be greater than both of us one day. Keep working hard. Try to catch up to Rolan."

Steelblade nodded solemnly. Surpassing Rolan was his ultimate goal.

"Enough war talk!" Rendall declared. "It's rare we're all together. Let's drink until we can't stand!"

The outer city walls.

On the high ramparts of Stoneheart, two tall, dark figures stood silhouetted against the faint glow of the city below. Onyx and Rockwell were long past the need to stand guard duty, but tonight, they had both been drawn to the wall. Aside from the central castle, it was the highest point in the city—the only place where they could see further, beyond the horizon.

"I remember standing on the sacred mountain of our homeland, looking down at the Black Forest," Onyx's voice was deep and distant, as if echoing across time. "The forest seemed so vast. I used to wonder how long it would take me to conquer it all. At first, I thought ten years. Then it became fifty. Finally, a hundred."

Though magic lamps lit the ramparts, Rockwell could only see a hazy silhouette when he turned to look at Onyx. In that moment, his mentor felt impossibly far away.

"I didn't understand why my estimate kept getting longer," Onyx continued. "But eventually I did. I understood more, I became more rational… and I became more hesitant."

Rockwell couldn't picture a young Onyx. For as long as he could remember, the prophet had been as he was now—either teaching him or meditating alone on a mountaintop.

"Prophet, do you miss the Black Forest?" Rockwell asked, trying to find common ground. "To be honest, I miss it a little, too." He figured that if his mentor was talking about the past, he must be feeling homesick.

"You must work hard, Rockwell," Onyx said, his thoughts elsewhere. "I believe you can lead the obsidian golems to a brilliant future."

"You forget, Prophet. I'm not the lord anymore. Gort is," Rockwell said with a small laugh.

Onyx shook his head, not bothering to argue the point. He knew that regardless of who held the title, the one who truly led the Tribe to glory would always be the strongest.

Just as if Orion were to cede his throne to Pallas tomorrow, everyone would still know that the true king of the Stoneheart Horde was Orion.

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