Every story he told, every poem he recited in the Silent Goblet was bought outright, compiled into collections. They were then bound in ornate, deluxe editions and sold at exorbitant prices to the highborn ladies and wives of the great factions.

Lola was one of the many victims of those deluxe editions.

"Orion, that kid of yours... there's some serious power in his bloodline."

The compliment, and the confirmation, came from the Sea-Drake King Neptor himself.

"Lord Neptor, your own young princess is even more remarkable. Her spark is a rarity in all of Stoneheart," Orion replied, the acknowledgement making the Sea-Drake King swell with pride.

Neptor had many children, but few were officially recognized and granted a title. Lola was one of them, her talent so immense she had the potential to one day reach the rank of archlord.

"Don't tell me you two are already thinking of a match," chimed in the White Dragon Frostsire, a sly grin on the old-timer's face as he sipped his wine.

While the dragon clans and the Sea Race had their conflicts, those were with the Reverse Whalerace. Between the dragons and the Sea-Drake race, there was little friction. Frostsire spoke freely, without reservation. Besides, everyone at this table was an archlord, the shot-callers of their respective factions. There was no need for pretense.

Orion simply smiled and raised his glass. Neptor, laughing, mirrored the gesture.

The human kingdom's Saint Noel, seated nearby, and the Moon Elf Isilra beside Orion, also raised their glasses. Every archlord on the continent of Utessar was present. Even the Guardian Tree of the blood elf race had sent Lireesa with a special ceremonial gift.

Neptor's territory bordered the Stoneheart Horde; they were neighbors with a decent relationship. His presence was expected.

"Gentlemen," Orion began, his voice cutting through the quiet ambiance. "Utessar is too small. I have no desire to see us at each other's throats over scraps of resources and territory. The continent has seen enough conflict. It's time for it to heal."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "If we truly seek to grow, the worlds beyond the Utessar are far more vast, filled with greater opportunities."

This was a rare moment. The esteemed patrons who shaped the continent's destiny were all gathered in one place, and they weren't just here for the festivities. They were waiting to gauge Orion's stance. If the rumors were true, if he was truly on the verge of becoming a demigod, his intentions could reshape the balance of power across the entire continent, its influence even reaching into the deep seas.

What Orion had just said was his answer.

"This is my homeland," he declared, raising his glass once more. "I wish for it to know an age of peace."

The other archlords echoed his toast, their faces wreathed in smiles.

"To peace on this continent!"

"To peace!"

Truthfully, even if Orion harbored grander ambitions, this was not the time or place to reveal them. Even if he planned to conquer the continent, the moment was not right. He needed an opportunity, a perfect catalyst that would allow him to claim everything logically and legitimately after his ascension to demigod. For now, placating these faction leaders with a show of goodwill was the only move.

"My lords," Orion continued, pressing his advantage. "Since we are all in agreement on peaceful development, why don't we use this occasion to establish deeper trade relations? And as a show of my sincerity, I am willing to sign a non-aggression pact with all of you, here and now. A pact I will honor, even after I become a demigod."

Orion's words made their eyes light up. They hadn't put much stock in his earlier platitudes. Once he truly became a demigod, their own patrons would handle the negotiations. What they wanted, right now, was access to the unique resources the Stoneheart Horde had acquired from other worlds.

"I agree with Orion's proposal!"

"As do I!"

...

While the leaders discussed the fate of nations, the atmosphere in the colosseum reached a fever pitch.

The massive arena was packed to the rafters with spectators and gamblers from every corner of the land. A cauldron of sound—of roars, jeers, and frantic cheers—boiled over the stands, pierced only by the guttural bellows of the gladiators on the sand below.

"Orc! Raise that axe and take his damn head off!"

"You useless piece of shit! How can you be this weak, you fucking dark creature? All my Blackstone coins are on you! Get up and rip him to shreds!"

"Go for the charge, Orc! End it!"

"Tear him apart!"

In the colosseum, the gamblers were always the loudest. They had bet fortunes on every match. Fortunes were made and lost in a single night. Some men walked out rich; others walked out as slaves, having lost everything, including themselves.

High above the arena, the clown observed. What a shame. The only ones watching are a bunch of nobodies.

The Orc gladiator, the one now raising his battle-axe, was his puppet. He had hoped to get a look at the legendary giant-king, to confirm a few things. But Orion wasn't here. The opportunity was lost.

Of course, the clown could have unleashed his true power to scout his target. But that would just be reckless. It would only tip Orion off, put him on guard. That's the last thing I need.

He decided to abort the probe. The Orc would die, torn apart by the dark creature. A fitting end to this little operation.

And so, as the crowd screamed for blood, the clown made the orc gladiator charge.

A leaping slash, the axe coming down in a brutal arc.

The blow grievously wounded the dark creature, but the Orc was spent, its momentum gone. It became an easy meal.

"You dumb piece of shit! What kind of charge was that?!"

"HAHAHA! YES! I WON!"

"Idiot! Fucking brain-dead Orc!"

"Filthy race! All you know how to do is charge, you worthless pricks!"

The gamblers who lost money spewed every obscenity they could think of. In an instant, the colosseum was split. The winners praised the valiant Orc and the vicious dark creature. The losers hurled insults at the fallen gladiator. In the stands, other orc roared back at the gamblers, turning entire sections into screaming matches.

And all of it was reflected in the wide, manic eyes of Nico.

"Kadir, do you see it?" he yelled over the din, shaking his fist, his eyes shot with blood not from fatigue, but pure, unadulterated excitement. This was a scene he had only ever dared to witness in his wildest dreams. "I guarantee you, after today, the name of our colosseum will be known across the entire continent!"

He spread his arms wide, embracing the chaos. "The massive pots we've paid out will create a new class of rich bastards, and they will be our best advertisement! From now on, anyone who wants to get rich overnight will come crawling to us, begging to throw their Blackstone coins at our feet!"

The event was an undeniable, overwhelming success.

"Nico… you're a goddamn devil," Kadir said, his voice filled with awe. He had expected success, but this… this was madness.

The visceral spectacle of blood and sand was a drug for the senses. The razor-thin line between winning and losing turned rational men into impulsive animals. And to top it all off, Nico had brought in dancers—a dizzying array of women from every race, their bodies moving to a primal rhythm, their revealing outfits adding a thick layer of raw, hormonal energy to the already charged atmosphere.

The screams and roars from the colosseum were so loud, half of Stoneheart could hear them.

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