"You see that?"

Pallas jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the sea of thirty thousand Wolf-Riders, striking a pose that screamed youthful arrogance.

"I have full command over this army," he declared, chest puffed out. "Oh, and don't forget the ten thousand Ogre Berserkers en route."

He leaned in, eyes flashing with challenge. "I'm really looking forward to seeing how you plan to convince me—and my army—to follow your orders."

In front of Orion, Lilith, Elara, or even Kronos, Pallas was a kitten. But here, in front of an 'outsider,' he was a tiger. He was a Bloodline Warrior of the Stoneheart Horde.

Ignoring the fact that Prince Theodore's power level was significantly higher than his own, Pallas let his berserker aura flare, a wave of raw aggression crashing toward the Human Prince.

"It truly is uncanny," Theodore murmured.

He didn't flare his aura back. Instead, he hopped up slightly, reaching to pat Pallas gently on the shoulder.

It was a casual gesture, devoid of malice, yet Pallas's raging aura instantly stagnated, as if it had hit a wall of cotton.

"You have the same pride as Kronos," Theodore said, his voice warm but unyielding. "You both look calm on the surface, but inside, there is a heart that beats with reckless, unbridled fury."

Looking at Pallas, Theodore saw the reflection of his cousin.

Of all Orion's children, Kronos and Pallas were the most physically similar. Because their mothers had carried them before ascending to higher tiers of power, their bloodlines were dominated by the pure, undiluted essence of the Giant race.

"You are born strong. The blood you inherited from the Giant King places you far above your peers."

Theodore's eyes held a flicker of envy, quickly masked. He knew better than anyone that a powerful bloodline was a golden key to the higher realms.

"Your talent eclipses mine. However," Theodore smiled, withdrawing his hand, "I have been working for far longer than you."

"Talent and effort are equal pillars of strength. You possess the former. I possess the latter."

Theodore didn't need to crush Pallas with force. He disarmed him with virtue, with the quiet confidence of a man who had already walked the path Pallas was just starting.

He knew this was a test. The First Daughter and the Giant Prince were here to learn. And Theodore, as the host and commander, was teaching the first lesson.

"For Second Brother's sake, I won't fight you," Pallas huffed, crossing his massive arms.

ROARRRR!

A dragon's cry split the sky above them. A massive black shadow eclipsed the sun.

It was Pallas's rebuttal.

He wasn't relying just on talent or effort. He was relying on a third factor: Assets.

"Heh... the dust is getting thick out here," Theodore chuckled, glancing up at the circling black dragon without a hint of fear. "Let us proceed into the city. Our esteemed guests from the Blood Elves and the Dragon Clans are waiting."

He didn't lecture Pallas further. A wise man knows when to stop.

"City," a clear voice cut through the tension.

It was Elara.

She didn't look at Theodore. She simply reached out and patted Pallas on the head, uttering the single command.

Instantly, Pallas deflated. His aura vanished. He signaled the guards, the Raptor Cavalry, and the Wolf-Riders.

Like a single organism, the entire Stoneheart force snapped to attention and began the march into the Northern Bastion of Menethis, obeying Elara's quiet word as if it were the law of god.

Theodore's pupils contracted.

In that moment, he realized something terrifying: He couldn't sense Elara's aura at all. She was a void in his perception.

"Greetings, Princess Elara," Theodore bowed again, his tone shifting from polite host to respectful peer. He looked at the legendary First Daughter of the Stoneheart Horde with new eyes.

Elara simply nodded.

"Interesting," Theodore whispered to himself, turning to lead the way.

The representatives of the Alliance of Four were assembled. Today would go down as the most glorious day in the history of Menethis.

This war was Theodore's stage. It was his final exam to secure his succession to the throne, and his golden opportunity to build personal alliances with the future leaders of the other great powers.

The Elders of the Alliance had set the stage perfectly. Now, it was up to Theodore to direct the play.

The North. Insectoid Territory.

"Brothers! If we wish to survive on this land... if we want our children to have space to breathe, to never know hunger or cold... we must reclaim what was stolen! We must take back the land and resources that belong to us!"

"We have sworn a blood oath! We are bound by the Pact of Mutual Aid! United, we will push the North-South divide back! We will reclaim the South!"

Lokiviria raised his goblet high, his voice echoing through the hall where a motley collection of Lords had gathered.

He had done it. He had convinced them.

When the war horn blew, these Lords—who usually scurried in the shadows—would flood south. They would swarm the Northern Territory of the Stoneheart Horde.

This was the grand strategy of the Alliance of the Hundred Races: Strike South, then envelop North.

Or rather, this was the strategy of the Clown.

The Clown's goal was simple: Force the Stoneheart Horde to fight on two fronts, weakening their support for the Human Kingdom in the main theater.

Three days later, the war began.

It wasn't just a military campaign; it was a deluge. The Alliance of the Hundred Races didn't just bring their Bloodline Warriors; they drove massive tides of beast herds before them, a living tsunami crashing into the territories of the Alliance of Four.

The Clown's Courtyard.

"Mentor. I'm leaving."

Lokiviria stood before the Clown, ready for his final farewell.

As the figurehead of the Alliance of the Hundred Races, he had to lead from the front. He had to be the spear tip to maintain the trust of the disparate Lords he had rallied.

"Go," the Clown said, not looking up from the wooden block he was carving. "If an Arch Lord appears on the battlefield, I will handle them."

He paused, then finally set down his carving knife. He looked at Lokiviria, his painted smile unmoving, his eyes cold.

"Lokiviria. Remember this. The battlefield is chaos. You must maintain absolute rationality. Absolute calm."

"If you want to achieve greatness, you must be prepared to sacrifice everything. You must have an unyielding will."

"Death is not to be feared," the Clown said, his voice dropping to a strange, hypnotic register. "What is to be feared... is a death that yields no profit."

The air in the courtyard seemed to warp. The Clown was using a secret art, etching his words directly onto Lokiviria's Sea of Consciousness.

Lokiviria stood frozen, his eyes glazed, lost in a trance, cut off from the physical world.

"If you and I are to be sacrificed," the Clown whispered, the words slithering into Lokiviria's mind, "do not let our sacrifice be worthless."

"At the very least... leave a glimmer of hope for those who come after."

"Or... drag them all down with us. Let them taste despair. Let us all step into the embrace of death together."

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