Lokiviria bowed low, his reverence for his mentor genuine and deep.

"Come in."

When Lokiviria stepped into the chamber, the first thing that hit him was the smell. The room was teeming with crawling things. The Clown sat at a round table, the surface cluttered with dissected corpses—some of them distinctly insectoid.

"You are here because you are confused?"

The Clown didn't look up. He already knew exactly what Lokiviria wanted to ask. He had been listening to the entire war council.

"Yes, Mentor. This disciple has many doubts."

Lokiviria performed the formal disciple's salute. This was his palace, his kingdom, but in front of the Clown, he was a student again. He didn't dare show arrogance.

He had come not just for himself, but on behalf of the other Lords. They were desperate to know the Clown's opinion on their grand plan.

"Speak."

The Clown set down his scalpel and gestured for Lokiviria to sit.

"Mentor, after conferring with the other Lords, I've realized the Stoneheart Horde controls a vast territory here in the North."

Lokiviria's voice was bitter. "They hold the entire northwest region. My mobilization... compared to them, it feels like a joke."

He had seen it himself. Standing on the edge of the Centaur lands, he had gazed upon the Stoneheart domain. The scale of their faction was beyond his imagination. Trying to unite the disparate northern tribes felt futile when faced with such a monolith.

"The coalition agrees," Lokiviria continued, finding his voice. "We want to take the Stoneheart territories in the North first. We believe we need a stable rear guard before we can truly rise. If we conquer their northern holdings, everyone gets a slice of land. We can consolidate."

As he spoke, Lokiviria grew animated. He could see it—the victory, the expulsion of his hated enemy, the Tribe.

"And then?"

The Clown's response was flat. It dripped with undisguised contempt.

"And then?" Lokiviria blinked, the wind taken out of his sails.

"And then you're finished," the Clown interrupted. "Your future is gone. Your life ends. Your people are exterminated. Your territory is carved up like a roast pig."

The words were ice-cold, slicing through Lokiviria's fantasies.

Lokiviria sat frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"You don't believe me? Let me map it out for you."

The Clown picked up a fresh beetle and his scalpel, focusing intently on the carving. His voice remained calm, almost conversational.

"Let's say I help you stall the Giant King of the Stoneheart Horde. Do you really think your ragtag Alliance of the Hundred Races can actually conquer their northern territories? If you fail, it's over. The Alliance shatters. If you fail, the Stoneheart Horde will likely counter-attack and swallow the entire North. Do not underestimate an Arch Lord faction. Their reserves are deeper than you can comprehend."

The Clown frowned and tossed the beetle aside. It had died mid-surgery. A failed experiment.

He picked up another one, his movements even more delicate.

"But let's say you get lucky. Let's say you actually win. How much land do you think you'll get? With that many hungry mouths to feed, the Stoneheart territory isn't enough. Even if you take the lion's share, it's barely enough to sustain one Lord."

He made a precise incision. "The other Lords get their scraps. Their immediate survival crisis is solved. They get comfortable. And then," the Clown looked up, his painted smile not reaching his eyes, "the Stoneheart Horde, fueled by rage and humiliation, will return with their full might. A total war of annihilation."

"By then, I will be gone."

He paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the room.

"Lokiviria, how do you plan to stop the wrath of a near-demigod all by yourself?"

Snap.

The beetle in the Clown's hand crunched. Another failure.

Drip.

Sweat hit the floor.

Lokiviria was trembling. The sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes.

"Knowing the nature of your 'allies'," the Clown continued, "they will bind you hand and foot. They will drag you to the Stoneheart Horde as a peace offering, hoping to extinguish the Giant King's anger with your blood."

"In that scenario, you die. No matter what."

It wasn't a threat. It was a projection based on cold logic. The Clown knew these creatures. He knew how fear worked.

"Lokiviria, understand this: You do not hold many cards. You must play them to win, not to dig your own grave."

Lokiviria was terrified. The vision the Clown painted was too real. He saw himself bound, his chest cut open, his Lord's Stone ripped out by the Giant King. He saw his mother, whom he had hidden away for safety, being dragged out by traitorous allies and offered up as a gift.

"Mentor... save me!"

His voice was hoarse, desperate. He felt like he was drowning, and the Clown was the only driftwood in sight.

The Clown fell silent, engrossed in his carving.

The silence stretched, agonizingly long. Just as Lokiviria began to lose hope, the Clown spoke, his tone languid.

"Lokiviria, you must understand why these Lords follow you. They follow you because they are starving. Like you, they lack living space. Until your great work is done, you cannot let them be full. You cannot let them relax."

"If they get their land, your Alliance of the Hundred Races becomes an empty shell."

The Clown saw the board clearly.

Once those Lords got a taste of territory, would they still want to march South against the terrifying Arch Lord factions?

No. They would dig in. They would become cowards again. Unless they wanted to die.

"Mentor... you mean attacking the Stoneheart lands in the North contradicts our original goal?"

"Correct."

Lokiviria wasn't stupid. He was talented; he just needed guidance.

He realized the strategic blunder. Their goal was to push the North-South border southward. Attacking the Stoneheart holdings in the North was just... shuffling pieces around in the North. It was civil war, not expansion.

"That is one part of it," the Clown said, a flicker of genuine pleasure on his face.

Whether it was because his student had finally grasped the concept, or because the beetle in his hand had survived the first cut, remained unclear.

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