“Oh my, that certainly doesn’t look good.”

- Satanael moments before the explosion

———

Xeros

Xeros collapses in his chair and lets out a deep, tired sigh.

Fortunately, the inspections of the other layers have not been nearly so eventful. The Proletariat’s production line is operating as planned, and the destruction wrought in the Erudite has since cleared.

Now, here he is—resting at the very summit of the spire. The room is dark, shadows veiling all save for a sliver of light passing through a glass dome behind him, and not a speck of ornament nor decoration can be seen. Only the bare necessities remain.

Luxury is a lure, the bait that snares the hearts of all caught within its grasp. For those of meager aspirations, there is no greater a motivation.

But to those who seek to rule, such things are but mere vices. Xeros has no need for it. He has seen plenty a swine seduced by its glamor; if ever the day comes when he shall fall for such temptations, then he would rather someone end his misery right that instant.

However, there is one possession he has yet to relinquish: a painting of a woman dressed in greasy overalls.

Luxanne stares at that painting now, seemingly entranced by the portrait of her mother. The girl normally avoids it like the plague, but something about this day compels her to take a closer look.

Libevich, meanwhile, leans on a nearby wall. The decrepit hag absentmindedly taps her foot with an increasingly annoying cadence of boredom, but for once she shows the Grand General a modicum of respect. That, or perhaps her mind is also stuck in those bygone days.

“Captivated, are you?” Xeros says to Luxanne. “I never was one skilled with the brush, but I do think I captured her features quite nicely, would you not agree?”

“I… don’t know,” she mumbles. “It’s been a long time. As the days pass, my memory of her only becomes more hazy.”

“Such is the curse called aging. The mind deteriorates, the body withers, and all that shall remain in the end are embers of what once was.”

Libevich cackles. “Are you really talking about old age before me, Xeros? You’re twenty years too young to be acting like a sage. Don’t believe him, my dear: aging is a state of mind. Just follow your whims, and you’ll be looking like me for decades to come!”

The woman walks over to the painting and peers at it with a coarse expression. “Well, I’ll give the brat some credit. It does look pretty good. Why don’t you hand over your title to Luxanne already and become a painter? I bet she’d do more in one year than you ever did with twenty.”

A black-plumed finger manifests behind Libevich, and pierces her right in the throat. Unfortunately, the crone is unbothered, but at least she will not be able to spit any nonsense anymore. At least, for a little bit.

She throws her hands up in the air, annoyed, and goes back to her little corner.

Xeros casts her a glare in reply. Although he is the one who appoints the commanders, it is rather unfortunate that the strong tend to be the ones most steeped in mental instability. Luxanne is sane due to her personal upbringing, but all the rest follow a doctrine of madness. Gravitas, Libevich, and Nokron… their only worth lies in war.

Speaking of Nokron, where is he?

“Luxanne, have you seen Nokron’s signature in the entry wit?” he asks.

“No, Grand General, but he should’ve arrived a couple days before our return.”

He grumbles and rubs his brow. “And why have you not notified me about such a discrepancy until now?”

“Apologies. The Alchemist Regent rarely leaves the capital, so I assumed he forgot.”

Another annoyance to deal with… Xeros wonders if this day shall ever have an end. “Nokron is not the sort to forgo such procedures. I understand you do not interact with him much due to the separation of your duties, but one must be accustomed to the nature of those above, and below, them if they are to be a proper leader.”

Luxanne begrudgingly bows her head. “I understand, Grand General. I shall take your lesson to heart.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“That you must.”

He scowls and quickly sifts through the pile of documents on his desk. Nokron is a fool obsessed with research, but he has never once failed to meet his commands. It seems the man has become impudent. Is it finally time to sever the rotten link? The Grand General would not lament his removal, but for it to occur now is rather bothersome. Perhaps he should do so after the Polus conquest.

Problems after problems… it is a never-ending cycle. Xeros has believed his luck to be on the rise after Lorelai’s death, but fate demands otherwise. No rest can be given to one such as he.

Curiously enough, after inspecting the available papers, it seems that Nokron is not in the city. None have entered his private laboratory since his departure, and neither guard nor city official has reported any sightings of him anywhere in the layers. No matter how much he enjoys skulking about, this type of secrecy is unheard of.

Thus, only three possibilities remain:

Nokron is late due to an unforeseen circumstance.

Nokron has betrayed Nox Caelum and deserted.

Or Nokron has finally succumbed to one of his experiments.

“Fufu, I can see that brain of yours wracking its gears,” Libevich taunts, her vocal cords now recovered. “Think that living corpse deserted? He always was an odd one.”

“… No,” he says. “Nokron knows that no other nation will tolerate his eccentricities, much less provide support for his experiments. His devotion to me is genuine, and he would not have a change of heart so easily. His mind is like yours: twisted and malformed.”

“Aw, you’re making this old woman blush~”

Perhaps Xeros should gouge her throat again.

“If he’s not in the city or deserting, what could possibly make him so late?” Luxanne asks. “That man’s like a roach. I don’t think anyone’s capable of killing him except for someone equal to the Thrones, but I haven’t received any news of movement from Polus for a while.”

“Hm. Do not be so sure.”

“Pardon, sir?”

This situation reminds Xeros of when first found the dead bodies of Lorelai and Gravitas. Even now, he knows not who or where the culprit currently is. What if…

“Nevermind that, I shall ascertain the truth myself,” he says, standing up and readying the Corvid’s Eye. “The both of you, step to the side.”

Libevich shrugs and retreats to a corner with Luxanne. Meanwhile, Xeros covers his eye in darkness and releases a violent surge of red lightning into the cloud. He does not much care to use this power in the confines of his personal sanctuary, but a cold chill urges him to move with haste. Instinct exists for a reason, and right now it delivers upon him a foreboding sense of dread.

In truth, there is another possibility that exists: a laughable idea, a whim banished without another thought back when it has first come to be, but the world ever so does enjoy in realizing the impossible when most unexpected.

And as the conjured eye manifests above the Magnus Murus, it dawns on Xeros just how complacent he has been. He has believed with utmost certainty that Polus’s King would be paralyzed with grief over the loss of his treasured love. He has believed the winged nation to be overcome with despair, with hopelessness, and that they would sink further into their own cowardice.

But Xeros is wrong, for he stares now at the ruined remains of the fortress. Instead of crippling the King, Lorelai’s death has crippled himself.

Down below are signs of a great and vast battle. Bodies of slaughtered legionnaires litter the coarse sand: bullets, shards, blood and gore. Only one army is capable of such destruction: Polus.

Polus is invading Nox Caelum.

Judging by the state of the battlefield, a few weeks have passed since the Magnus Murus’s destruction. If the knights maintain a steady pace, then…

Xeros recedes the Corvid’s Eye and slams the desk with a thunderous crunch, alarming the two commanders over the sudden bout of aggression.

Questions and words are hurled at him by the two, but the Grand General hears none of it. He claws his face and paces around the room in a deep trance.

Is it revenge? A last, desperate move brought forth from the King’s bereaved mind? No, the reason does not matter. What matters is that the Grand General’s territory has been encroached with nary a hint nor forewarning. That is impossible; how could they have traversed the swampland without alerting Nokron’s attention?

They must have surprised him—assaulted the fortress before he could react. It is no surprise the Polus forces chose such a location; the Magnus Murus is more isolated than any other due to its surrounding geology. That is why Xeros has fortified its defenses to such a large degree.

Still, for such a large force to catch Nokron unaware… the secret must lie somewhere in the swampland. There are no feasible paths of traversal above ground, so that would only leave below.

The underground. The mere thought is ridiculous, but therein lies no other explanation: those winged traditionalists have broken their most feared taboo.

The Grand General cannot help but be impressed. It is a clever ploy. Only a strategist of Lorelai’s worth could have devised such a scheme, but does Polus hold another with such capability? Xeros knows the other two Thrones to be mere brutes akin to Libevich; how could such a shrewd individual escape his knowledge?

This is not good. The city is not prepared for an invasion. Assembling the ranks and preparing for a siege will take time—time he does not have. If his estimates are accurate, then Polus will descend upon the capital in a week: nay, a few days.

Or perhaps even now.

“Damn you, Ascalon!” Xeros shouts, eyes blood red with fury. “To think this cur would dare come after my throat after years of cowardice. You did well to hide your claws, but I shall not cower so easily.”

Luxanne flinches at the Grand General’s rage and attempts to calm him down. “Sir, what’s going on? You—”

“Now is not the time for this, Luxanne!” he barks. “We must—”

But before Xeros can finish, a deafening explosion from below sends everyone in the room into a stumble. The entire spire shakes and groans from the sudden force, debris falling loose from the ceiling, and as the Grand General raises his gaze to the outside, he bears witness to a giant, rippling beam of light descending upon them from the sky.