"Our enemies are massing on the horizon. The Beast Tide was merely a probe—a way to test our defenses and drain our stamina."

Prince Theodore sheathed his sword.

CLACK.

The sound was sharp, decisive. He turned to a Royal Guard, taking a tattered, blood-soaked war banner from the soldier's grip.

He hoisted the heavy standard high. The colorful fabric, heavy with gore, flapped sluggishly in the morning breeze.

"The Civil War hasn't even begun in earnest!" Theodore roared, his voice projecting across the ramparts.

"The smoke has yet to clear, and this devastation before us is only the opening move. Our enemies are watching from the shadows, hoping we will collapse right here on these walls. But they are destined for disappointment because we are invincible!"

His voice boomed over the Northern Bastion of Menethis. This fortress was his creation, his territory, the foundation of his legacy. He would not allow a defeat here.

"We must send a message to those who dare invade our territory! We will not bend! We will not break! Darkness may fall, but dawn is inevitable!"

"Let our sacrifice and our resolve be carved into the history of this continent! Let the bards sing of this day for generations to come!"

It was a post-battle summary disguised as a pre-battle rally.

The main force of the Alliance of the Hundred Races was close—two days out, maximum. The siege last night had left the defenders exhausted. Soldiers leaned against the cold stone of the battlements, their faces masks of numbness and hatred. Their armor was rent, their bodies caked in drying blood. They needed a reason to keep standing.

"Blah, blah, blah. Who is he trying to kid?"

Elara's voice, dripping with disdain, cut through the inspiring rhetoric. It was quiet enough that only Pallas could hear it.

Pallas blinked, turning his massive head to look at his big sister in confusion.

"What are you looking at?" Elara scoffed. "Take notes, kid. This is Politics 101. It's the art of the hustle."

Her words hit Pallas like a physical blow.

Hustle?

A string of question marks seemed to float above the giant's head, but clarity soon followed. Pallas was a Giant, yes, but he also carried the blood of a Succubus. He wasn't stupid; he just preferred not to use his brain if he didn't have to. He immediately grasped the subtext.

Elara was smart enough to keep her commentary on a private channel. She wasn't going to publicly slap Prince Theodore in the face. She didn't care about his feelings, but as the Eldest Daughter of the Stoneheart Horde, she understood the obligations that came with her status.

"Sis, what's the play?" Pallas asked.

Pallas was intelligent, but fundamentally lazy. Why analyze a complex geopolitical situation when Elara could just give him the walkthrough?

"We do exactly what we need to do," Elara said, holding up three fingers. "We don't run. We don't flinch. And we don't flex."

"Don't flex?"

"This war belongs to the Alliance of Four, but the venue is the Human Kingdom," Elara explained, her tone pragmatic. "We are the supporting cast, Pallas. Not the main characters. We do our job, we help them hold the line, but we don't try to steal the spotlight."

"Got it," Pallas nodded, stifling a yawn. "In that case, I'm going to crash. I need a nap."

If he didn't have to worry about administration or grand strategy, he was going to clock out. The siege had been his first real defensive battle, and it had drained him mentally and physically.

"Hold your horses. You can sleep after the loot distribution," Elara said.

This time, she didn't lower her voice. She wanted Theodore to hear.

The Northern Bastion of Menethis had just survived a massive Beast Tide. The field outside was carpeted in high-value carcasses. Even for the wealthy Stoneheart Horde, that much raw material—hides, cores, bones—was a fortune.

Pallas might not care about the gold, but the Bloodline Warriors under his command needed those resources to upgrade their gear and cultivation. Elara wasn't about to let the Human Kingdom sweep all the profit under the rug just because they were "allies."

Pallas's eyes lit up. It wasn't greed; it was the thought of returning home with gifts. He imagined the smiles on the faces of the tribal elders who had always doted on him. It was time he paid them back.

"Your Highness..." Pallas started, turning to Theodore, who had just finished his speech.

"The battle is over," Theodore cut in smoothly, anticipating the request. "Per protocol, the spoils of war will be cataloged and distributed immediately. I will personally oversee the allocation for you and the Stoneheart Horde."

Theodore hadn't missed the exchange. In fact, he welcomed it. Distributing loot was the fastest way to restore morale. As the Commander-in-Chief, he needed his army happy and paid before the main enemy force arrived. He viewed Elara's comment not as a threat, but as a helpful reminder.

"Heh, sounds good. I'll await your good news, Your Highness," Pallas grinned. "I'm going to catch some Z's. Wake me up when the invaders get here so I can kill some more."

With that, Pallas signaled his personal guard and lumbered off the wall, his gait relaxed and heavy.

Theodore watched the retreating figure of the Giant Prince and shook his head. Pallas was easier to handle than he had expected.

"Just like Kronos," Theodore mused. "They all like to hide their violence behind a mask of harmless indifference."

He looked at the retreating giant. "But the world forgets... you are Giants. You are the royalty of the Stoneheart Horde. There is no such thing as a gentle Giant."

In the eyes of the Stoneheart Horde elders, the calm temperaments of Caelus, Pallas, and Kronos were an evolution—a sign that Orion's bloodline was unique. But to outsiders like Theodore, it came off as a terrifying form of restraint. It was the quiet before the storm.

Valkorath Realm. The Primordial Void.

Far away from the politics of the bastions and the Abyss, Orion had entered a state of profound metaphysical transformation.

He was floating in the absolute nothingness of the Primordial Void.

Orion had compressed his entire existence—his power, his will, his essence—into a singular point: a Bloodline Seed.

Bathed in the chaotic, unformed energies of the void, the seed began to pulse. It was being washed, refined, and tempered by the very stuff of creation.

Then, it cracked open.

It didn't just grow; it erupted. The seed germinated into a magnificent, cosmic World Tree. And within its branches, a new singularity formed.

A small world was born.

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