Somewhere in the vast lands, far from any sign of civilization, a military-style camp stood in eerie isolation. Its canvas structures were dark green, hardened by dust and sun, flanked by two lines of guards from opposing powers—each lined up in perfect silence.
On the left, men in white robes stood with spears planted upright, their shoulders squared and expressions blank. A simple, elegant necklace hung from each of their necks—a pale gray eye, shut tight, with a single tear trailing from its edge. The symbol of the Church of Marialism.
On the right, men clad in full plate black armor mirrored them in posture. Their armor was polished to such a shine that in the glare of the sun, it barely looked black at all—more like glinting steel soaked in shadow. On the right breastplate of each suit, a small emblem shimmered: a star-shaped badge with the faint outline of a man standing at its center, wielding a massive, twin-bladed sword. It was the unmistakable insignia of the Eternal Emperor—the most feared man in the modern age.
Between the two factions was a path of absolute stillness. Neither side spoke. No boots shifted. No one dared glance sideways.
At the camp entrance, a lone figure stood guard.
He wore a hybrid of red and black armor—heavy around the torso and shoulders, but stripped down past the waist. It gave him a strange, mismatched appearance. He didn't wear a helmet, leaving his youthful face exposed to the open air. His middle-length golden hair swayed with the breeze, and his eyes—an odd shade of translucent blue, almost like aquarium glass—reflected calm boredom more than alertness.
Slung in his right hand was a mid-sized crimson spear, its tip buried lightly in the ground. The crest of the Eternal Empire shimmered on his chest.
He didn't move. Not for anyone.
Inside the tent, the tension was thicker.
A long wooden table dominated the center of the space. Maps and scrolls were scattered across it, weighed down by brass seals and Makra-stamped tokens. Three men stood around it—two on one side, one on the other.
The Woman on the left side of the table stood tall, though the white streaks in her hair and the youthness can still be seen in her facial. her posture firm with practiced grace. Fine white streaks threaded through her otherwise dark hair—not the result of age, but of stress, battle, and the weight of her station. Her face, though still youthful in its contours, carried the sharpness of someone in her thirties who had lived through more than most twice her age.
She wore the traditional robes of the Church—white, trimmed in gold—but unlike the guards outside, her garments were marked with ornate holy runes and her mitre bore the seal of Deputy Arch-Bishop "Sariel", a high rank just below the cardinals.
Behind her loomed a giant.
Easily over eight feet tall, the man's armor gleamed with golden polish. Thick black epaulettes flared from his shoulders, His name "Ronald" sculptured on the right chest of his armor, while his legs were wrapped in interlocking plates of gold, secured with thick leather padding beneath. He held a massive battle axe in one hand, resting the haft casually against his shoulder, though nothing about him seemed "casual."
His eyes locked on the lone man across the table with unblinking hostility.
The man on the right side of the table was a walking contradiction.
He wore no armor. No weapon. Just a plain gray uniform with polished boots, a sash tied neatly around his waist, and a soft-sided holster containing nothing but parchment rolls. On his right arm, stitched clean into the fabric, was a banner—gray, with a single red star at its center. Orbiting the red star were four smaller purple stars.
It was the emblem of a civilian representative of the Eternal Empire—specifically, one attached to a diplomatic university post.
That made no sense.
The red star marked him as a civilian. But the four orbiting purple stars? That meant he wasn't just any student. He was from the Imperial University of Foreign Doctrine—a place notorious for producing the Empire's spymasters, war strategists, and black-ops coordinators.
Why the Empire had sent a student to this meeting, instead of a general or advisor, was a mystery on its own.
And yet, the teenage didn't seem nervous. If anything, he looked vaguely entertained with his smirk
"What do you mean we violated Clause Fifteen of the Peace and Integrity Treaty?!"
The church delegate's voice thundered across the tent—laced with fury, authority, and brittle indignation. It cracked through the air like a whip, but the teenager standing across the table didn't flinch.
The student from the Eternal Empire—dressed in a sharp, civilian gray uniform—moved calmly, methodically. He reached into his satchel and retrieved a rolled scroll, placing it down before him. The parchment unfurled with a soft rustle, its edges flattening beneath his fingers.
"According to the treaty, Article II, Section 4, Subclause 15" the student began, voice composed and unnervingly even, "both the Church—whose influence remains in the South, Central, East, and West—and the Empire, reigning exclusively in the North, are strictly prohibited from interfering with each other's internal affairs. That includes economic pressure, diplomatic manipulation, and military coercion."
He raised his gaze, meeting Sariel's glare without blinking.
"Yet merely a week ago, the city-state of Dovala, located in your Central region, abruptly moved to sever our diplomatic presence and block Imperial trade convoys from entering. Just prior to this shift, a Church delegate was seen meeting privately with the city's leadership."
The student slid a Makra-forged image across the table—flickering gently with captured illusion magic. It froze in the air mid-rotation, displaying a robed Church official shaking hands with Dovala's Grand Magistrate.
"In response to this breach, the Empire will halt all Arkansteel exports to any realm affiliated with the Church. That includes all shipments currently in transit."
He tapped the table once with a gloved finger, steady and precise.
"Arkansteel, as you know, is the primary ore used in the construction of armored suits, weaponized Makra frames, and heavy artillery."
Then, with a smooth motion, he turned the map spread before them—pointing toward the darkened, unmarked region above Arkanthaal.
"We are also reassessing our foreign policy. This includes our approach to expansion into the ungoverned northern region of the Unknown World… and our tolerance for instability from our neighbors in the Central territories."
The silence stretched.
"That's absurd!" the bishop finally snapped, her voice gravelly with fury. "All you have is a record of a low-ranking Church official meeting with a local dignitary? There is no formal documentation, no sanctioned accord—this entire accusation is conjecture!"
Her hand slammed against the table.
"And you call this a proportional response?! Cutting Arkansteel to the entire Central quadrant over a minor incident?!"
She scoffed. "If the Empire truly intends to press this, then perhaps we should respond in kind. We'll cut our export of Noxium Cores—
—dungeon-born resources critical for powering your Makra infrastructure. Last I checked, you don't even have the dungeon ecosystems required to acquire them yourselves because you erase all other races that aren't human, are you?"
The Empire student didn't react.
He raised his forefinger, then he spoke:
"Warning: The Empire will not tolerate any preposterous retaliation from the Church—or its affiliates. Any such action will be treated as a direct provocation of war."
The air in the tent thinned with the word war. The golden trim on Sariel's robes shimmered faintly as she stiffened, a reflex betraying the ripple of tension beneath her exterior.
The student took a breath and raised his middle finger, signaling a change in tone.
"Your previous display of insolence, High Bishop Sariel, only reinforces the Church's hostility toward the Eternal Empire. Toward our Emperor. And, by extension, toward the human citizens who live under his grace—both within and beyond our borders."
He stepped closer to the map, fingers tracing the paper with clinical precision.
"Therefore, effective immediately, the Empire will deploy a regiment of Imperial soldiers to the city-state of Dovala to secure and safeguard all Imperial sympathizers. This action is temporary, contingent upon the Church's demonstration of goodwill and proof of safety for pro-Empire human populations in the region."
He paused, letting his words settle like a judge's verdict.
"Should any resistance arise—whether state-sanctioned or not—we will consider it a covert act of aggression. And should that happen, Eternal Soldiers will be dispatched in full force. Executions of hostile forces will be carried out without hesitation and viewed as justified under Imperial law."
He turned his gaze back to Sariel. Calm. Calculated. Smiling.
"That concludes our message today. In case our more... sizable friends here had trouble keeping up, let me summarize:"
He held up one finger.
"One: Arkansteel exports to all Church-affiliated realms are hereby suspended."
A second.
"Two: Our soldiers will enter Dovala immediately. Should violence erupt, Eternal troops will replace them."
Then he added, almost like an afterthought:
"And as for Imperial expansion into the unclaimed northern regions beyond Arkanthaal—it will proceed. Any interference or retaliation from the Church or its allies will be considered an act of war."
Silence returned.
Sariel's hands trembled at her sides, fists clenched tight enough to whiten her knuckles. Her gaze dropped momentarily, lips drawn thin. A low hum of restrained Makra power radiated from her like the tremble before a storm.
"If you have nothing further," the student began, his smirk widening as he clasped his hands in mock reverence, "then may the Red Doctrines forgive your ignorance, may the Eternal bless our noble departure, and glory to our inevitable Empero—"
He never finished the word.
A hand like a steel trap crashed down onto his shoulder.
Ronald's massive left arm stretched across the table in a flash, clamping down with enough force to make the wood groan beneath the shift of weight. His thick fingers dug into the fabric and flesh with bone-grinding pressure.
"You've gone quite too far, boy!!" the giant roared, his voice booming through the tent like a war drum.
In the same motion, Ronald's right arm lifted the colossal axe from the ground. The polished blade arced high into the air—casting a long, gleaming shadow across the young envoy's face.
The student winced. His breath hitched. His knees bent slightly under the weight of that grip—but his eyes stayed locked on Ronald's. Pale now. Strained. Yet still...
Smirking.
"Stop, Ronald!" Sariel's voice cracked through the space like a whip.
She stepped forward, hands clenched tightly at her sides. Her face was twisted with restraint, the lines at her jaw visibly tensed.
"If you swing that axe," she snapped, "you'll be banished from Marialism's embrace forever. Do you hear me?! Forever!"
She hissed the word like a curse.
"You'll be cast out from every church in the realm. You'll have nowhere to return. No shrine, no name. And worse—you'll see this institution weakened, shattered… all because of your own blind rage."
Ronald didn't move at first.
His axe remained raised. His grip on the envoy's shoulder didn't loosen. His eyes, filled with fury, locked onto Sariel's.
"But Your High—"
"There will be no 'but' in this one, Ronald!" she barked, her voice cutting sharp through the air.
Ronald's fingers finally twitched.
Reluctantly—like a mountain being pulled from its roots—he released the boy's shoulder. The axe lowered a heartbeat later, the steel groaning faintly under its own weight as it came back to rest.
The Empire's teenager, now finally released from the crushing grip of the armored giant, exhaled slowly. He straightened his back, adjusted his collar with a flick of his wrist, his expression still pale yet tilted his head as if mildly amused.
"Sir Ronald," he began, voice smooth but dripping with sarcasm. "The ninth-generation inductee of the newly reestablished Junior Holy Guard of the Church of Marialism. Elitests warriors sworn to the Voice's will. Codenamed 'The Obsidian Flame of the Last Judgment,' yes?"
He let the silence stretch before continuing, his smile tightening.
"I was under the impression that only four individuals at any given time could be chosen for the Junior Holy Guard. And only three in history have ever ascended beyond it. Quite the prestigious title. But nowhere in the scriptures—or the battlefield records—did it mention that your sacred warriors were blunt, brainless brutes."
Then, without even glancing toward the towering figure beside the bishop, he added with feigned innocence, "If I may advise, Deputy Archbishop Sariel, perhaps next time you should bring a lowborn ogre instead. It'd be cheaper. And it might actually know how to hold its temper better than this spineless, slavering mutt."
A thick vein bulged on Ronald's temple, pulsing visibly beneath his skin. His hand twitched, the grip on his axe tightening with every word. It looked like he was one insult away from turning the table into splinters.
But before he could move, Sariel raised her arm—calm, firm, and horizontal. A silent command. Ronald froze, teeth clenched, though his glare remained locked on the boy with deadly intensity.
"I will overlook this… mooncalf's remarks," the teenage envoy continued, as if the bishop's interruption was a personal favor to him. "But naturally, such unrefined conduct will shape our future negotiations. I trust you'll remind your attack dog of that the next time you bring him into a diplomatic tent."
His voice remained level, but the glint in his eyes had turned cruel.
"You son of a—!" Ronald snarled, stepping forward—
—and immediately fell silent, mid-syllable.
Sariel's fingers had formed a triangle at chest level, Makra radiating subtly from the pattern. Whether she muted him with magic or simply invoked a disciplinary binding known only to the Church hierarchy was unclear, but it worked. The giant stood frozen, his mouth moving without sound, the fury still alive in his eyes.
The student clicked his tongue softly, then offered a shallow bow toward the two as if dismissing a pair of unruly guests.
"Well then. May the Emperor's shadow bless you," he said, voice calm and expression unreadable.
"Farewell."
He gestured casually toward the tent's entrance. Sariel didn't respond. Neither did Ronald. But as the two turned and exited in stiff silence, the faint sound of clenched fists and grinding teeth echoed behind them.
Outside, the line of white-robed clergy turned in unison. Without a single word, the Church delegates began their quiet retreat. Step by synchronized step, their shadows faded into the distance as they made their way back toward the heart of the central realms of Arkanthaal.
Not long after the Church delegation disappeared beyond the horizon, the tent flap rustled softly—and a man stepped inside.
He wore a hybrid armor of red and black, the upper half of his body heavily plated in imperial steel while his lower half was left comparatively light, built more for speed than endurance. A strange mix of elegance and raw combat utility. His golden hair hung loosely past his shoulders, catching the light as he entered with unhurried steps.
Only the teenage envoy remained inside.
"So…" the man said casually, his tone light but edged with something firmer beneath. "Are you sure about this, Lurius?"
He walked to the side of the table, glancing briefly at the scattered documents and still-hovering Makra illusions.
"You do realize we didn't have an imperial decree for this meeting, right? And if I hadn't held myself back when that axe-man raised his weapon, there might've been a diplomatic incident on our hands."
His expression was relaxed—maybe even lazy—but there was something sharp behind his blue eyes. Not anger. Concern, maybe. Or calculation.
Lurius, still adjusting the edge of his collar, responded without looking up.
"Relax, Suzuran. You're one of the three Imperial Fangs, aren't you?" he said with a dry smirk.
"Shouldn't you have bigger things to worry about than baby-sitting a student diplomat?"
He waved a hand dismissively, then added with a faint scoff,
"Besides, I know better than anyone what the Emperor actually wants. Better than that soft-headed advisor he keeps around."
Suzuran raised an eyebrow.
"Mm. You really were scared for a second, though," he said, amused. "Want me to personally accompany you next time? Could stand quietly in the corner, like a very handsome statue."
His hand came down lightly on Lurius's shoulder, more teasing than serious.
Lurius immediately shrugged it off.
"No need. Your direct presence in that tent would've derailed the whole thing. They would've frozen up the moment they recognized you, and I need them to talk—not lock up in fear."
He leaned back slightly, confidence returning to his posture.
"You're more useful when you just listen. Quietly."
Suzuran let out a chuckle. "Fine. But do try not to die, will you? Not until you keep that promise of salvation you're always talking about."
Lurius gave him a sideways glance and an arrogant smirk.
"Hmph. Who do you think I am?"
------- To be continue-------