Bidalun caught the subtext immediately.

The Conquest Legion wasn't standing alone. They had backers. They had friends in high places.

With that realization, the tension that had been knotting Bidalun's shoulders finally loosened.

Truth be told, Bidalun wasn't losing sleep over the rank-and-file Abyssal armies gathering at the borders. The Foundry Citadel now boasted two full-strength armies, numbering in the millions. If the neighbors wanted to test their mettle against the Citadel's defenses, it would serve as excellent live-fire training for the troops.

It was the Demigods he had feared. But if Orion had a counter for them, the rest was just logistics.

"My Lord," Bidalun said, his mind already shifting to tactical implementation. "I propose we issue a series of bounty contracts immediately. We can use wealth and resources to incentivize the independent organizations, rogue warbands, and chaotic factions within our territory."

"Let them bleed for us. We can bind their interests to the Conquest Legion through profit and limited authority."

Bidalun's logic was cold and pragmatic: Outsourcing death.

By mobilizing the local scum as mercenaries, he could create a buffer zone of cannon fodder to whittle down the enemy's numbers before the regular armies even had to draw their blades.

"Approved," Orion said from the throne. "Make the arrangements."

Mobilizing the private sector through mercenary contracts wasn't a revolutionary idea; it was standard operating procedure in the Abyss. Many Abyssal Lords preferred to handle their dirty work through third parties.

It was also a way to stimulate the local economy.

The Foundry Citadel was going to face endless challenges in the future. Integrating these loose, chaotic elements into a cohesive auxiliary force was a smart long-term play. The cost was negligible—a slice of the spoils and a crumb of authority—but the return on investment was a meat shield that stretched for miles.

Orion had his own philosophy regarding the Abyss. Power consolidated through profit was often more durable than power consolidated through fear alone.

With the order given, the atmosphere in the Foundry Citadel shifted once again toward war. But this was the Abyss. War wasn't an event; it was a Tuesday.

Valkorath Realm. The Primordial Void.

Burying himself deep within the Seed, Orion was completely oblivious to the machinations in the Abyss or the mobilization of the Stoneheart Horde.

He was like a cosmic egg, silently navigating the most difficult phase of existence: the journey from Zero to One.

Orion had successfully transitioned from a dormant seed into a sapling.

It was a sturdy, tenacious thing, rooting itself in the nothingness.

The sapling had sprouted four distinct branches. Each one pulsed with a different fundamental element, the building blocks of his nascent reality. These were the physical manifestations of the laws Orion had mastered—Slaughter, Destruction, Sin, and Bloodline.

Now, they had transmuted, feeding back into the World Tree, becoming the pillars of his new universe.

In bridging the gap from non-existence to existence, Orion's act of creation was fundamentally a success. But the work was far from over.

Now, he had to drive the roots of the World Tree deeper into the chaos, piercing the veil of the far void to siphon the essence of the Primordial Soup.

This was a game of patience and accumulation.

Orion needed the World Tree to expand the physical dimensions of his internal world. He needed to nurture the spark of life, to wake the dormant elements, and to birth the first generation of native entities.

Orion's path to ascension was fundamentally different from Leonidas, Arthas, or Alexander. He wasn't trying to hoard Divine Power to fuel a transformation. He was expanding the vessel itself.

He was a World Creator.

The larger his internal world grew, the more complex the laws it could sustain. When the world reached critical mass, divinity wouldn't just be given to him; it would be generated by him. He would wield the Genesis Power of a Creator God.

Orion had survived the most dangerous phase. Now, he slumbered in the void, accumulating power, preparing to walk a path into the Demigod realm that was far longer—and far wider—than anyone else's.

The World Tree grew. Orion slept. And the future waited.

Titanion Realm. The Northern Bastion of Menethis.

In recent years, the Human Kingdom had seen the rise of two great metropolises. One was the trade hub of Soaring Bird City in the south. The other was the iron fortress of Menethis in the north.

Menethis was a city born of conquest. Built upon territories seized from non-human races, it was a super-fortress, a monolithic military industrial complex.

It was also the fiefdom of Prince Theodore.

This city was the physical manifestation of Theodore's power. Its construction had drained his treasury and exhausted his political favors, leaving him buried in debt.

But the gamble had paid off. The fortress stood impregnable.

Through Menethis, the Kingdom had launched a massive colonization effort into the northern wildlands. Almost overnight, it had become one of the dual hearts of the Kingdom.

Today, the iron gates of Menethis were thrown open to welcome the future of the Alliance of Four.

More than a decade had passed since the last war. Prince Theodore now sported a short, well-groomed beard. The boyishness was gone, replaced by the heavy, grounded gravity of a veteran commander.

As a Prince of the Human Kingdom, for Theodore to ride out and personally welcome guests meant those guests were of equal standing.

In the distance, a dust storm was rising.

The earth began to tremble, a rhythmic, seismic thrumming caused by thousands of heavy hooves impacting the permafrost.

The roar of beasts rolled over the horizon like thunder. Then, they crested the ridge—a black tide of steel and muscle.

Ten thousand Raptor Heavy Cavalry.

Thirty thousand Wolf-Riders from the regular army.

The Stoneheart Horde had arrived. Leading the charge were the First Daughter, Elara, and the Giant Prince, Pallas.

"Your Highnesses! Welcome to the Bastion of Menethis!"

Theodore rode forward, his voice booming over the din of the army.

"Prince Pallas... look at you. Tall, burly, and radiating power. You are the spitting image of your father, the Giant King, in his prime!"

Theodore dismounted and greeted Elara and Pallas with the ceremony befitting heads of state. Although there was an age gap, in terms of political hierarchy, they were peers.

Theodore wasn't just blowing smoke. Pallas, on the cusp of adulthood, bore a striking resemblance to the Orion who had marched south years ago during the first Civil War.

But because Pallas was so young, his aura was raw and unfiltered. The savage, berserker energy unique to the Giants was more pronounced in him. To Theodore, this young giant felt more like the "Giant King" of legend—a force of nature—whereas Orion had become something far more terrifying and unknowable.

"My mother sends her regards," Pallas grinned, clasping Theodore's arm. "She told us that Prince Theodore of the Human Kingdom is a man of wisdom and style, an esteemed patron worthy of respect."

Before they left, Lilith had briefed them thoroughly. Her evaluation of Theodore was glowing; she viewed him as the next great monarch of the Human Kingdom.

For this war, King Harold had stepped back. The stage belonged to Theodore.

With his personal strength peaking at the Legendary rank and his command over the northern theater absolute, Theodore was the linchpin of the human war effort. He was the one holding the reins.

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