A hum I was all too familiar with echoed through the fortress. Standing in the grand kitchen, I decided—after a long hiatus—to cook something myself. I found myself wondering what I could create with the array of ingredients at my disposal. After a minute of back-and-forth deliberation, I settled on preparing a feast inspired by the world we Dungeon Masters hail from. It would be reminiscent of a classic coq au vin, but crafted with ingredients native to Fiendfell.

First, I gathered my ingredients: a large chicken that I'd ordered the servants to butcher—because the food was that fresh—pluck the feathers off before bringing it to me, a handful of pearl onions, a few strips of salted pork, wild mushrooms, several cloves of garlic, and a bottle of deep red wine freshly ransacked from the last city we invaded. A bunch of fresh thyme tied with twine and a few bay leaves would be my herbs of choice.

I began by lighting the hearth, setting fire to the stacked wood beneath the iron cauldron manually like a peon would as I hadn't unlocked any fire-related skills that would let me do something as convenient as igniting it with a flick of my finger. As the flames took hold, I placed a heavy skillet over them. Into the skillet went the salted pork, which I had cut into lardons. They sizzled and rendered down into a crisp, golden brown, their fat coating the bottom of the skillet.

Once the lardons were set aside, I dredged the chicken pieces in a light dusting of flour seasoned with salt and pepper. The chicken, now coated, was added to the hot pork fat, turning golden as I seared each piece to crisp perfection. Once browned, these too were removed and set aside on a wooden platter.

Into the remaining fat went the pearl onions, peeled and whole. I stirred them around until they were bronzed and slightly soft, then added the crushed cloves of garlic and the mushrooms, which had been cleaned and quartered. The earthy aroma of garlic and mushrooms filled the kitchen as they cooked down.

With the vegetables nicely sautéed, I poured in a generous amount of the red wine, scraping the bottom of the skillet with a wooden spoon to lift the fond. I returned the chicken and lardons to the skillet, adding enough water to barely cover the ingredients. The thyme and bay leaves were nestled among the simmering mixture.

As the stew began to bubble gently, I reduced the fire to a low, steady heat. One of my spells ensured that the temperature remained constant, perfect for slow cooking. Over the next couple of hours, I occasionally stirred the coq au vin, adjusting the seasoning with a pinch of salt and a grind of black pepper to taste.

When the chicken was tender and the sauce thickened to a velvety consistency, I removed the skillet from the hearth with a cloth to protect my hands from the heat. To accompany the dish, I had prepared a pot of mashed roots—turnips and potatoes—seasoned with butter churned from our own cream and flecked with chopped parsley.

I arranged the coq au vin in the center of a large, ornate serving platter. The mashed roots were spooned into a decorative bowl, their steam carrying the scent of butter and parsley.

As a final touch, I garnished the platter with a few sprigs of fresh thyme from the garden because yes this particular flying fortress came with an actual garden.

After a moment of contemplation of my culinary creation, I carefully portioned the coq au vin, arranging succulent pieces of chicken and hearty vegetables onto each plate.

Seeing me wrapping everything up, "I didn't take you for a good cook," Aquaflora remarked, leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded and an amused smile playing on her lips. Her voice carried a tone of genuine surprise mixed with a hint of admiration. Midway through my cooking, she had appeared and, as silently as she arrived, observed from a corner.

I paused, a half-smile tugging at my lips as I met her gaze. "Well, there are many things you don’t know about me yet," I replied, placing the last serving on the ornate tray.

"Clearly," Aquaflora chuckled, pushing off from the doorframe and stepping closer to inspect the plates. "This looks and smells delightful. Who knew you, out of all people, had such talents?"

Smiling, I asked, "Did I ever tell you? At barely fifteen, I ran away from my family castle."

"You did?"

"Yes, I did. I won't go into the details, but just know that from that moment on, I journeyed on my own for quite some time. I believe you're familiar with how long a horseback journey can be. I had to cook to survive. The best thing I could say about how it tasted is that it was passable—anything beyond or below would be an exaggeration. So, I could either better my cooking craft or content myself with second-rate meals. Needless to say, once I had the time, I chose the better option."

After portioning the meal into two plates, I handed one to Aquaflora for her to have a taste. I then motioned at two young Argyrian elves to bring large portions of the food and plates to Goblin. As the two young elves left, I turned back to Aquaflora with a smile and suggested, "I can teach you how to cook well if you want."

"Are you suggesting that I don't know how to cook?" Aquaflora frowned before taking her first bite.

"I was merely insinuating that you're not better than me and that you could learn from me," I said, taking my own first bite. "That is, of course, if you willingly choose to improve. Mh, delicious—as expected of me."

With a sigh, Aquaflora fed a spoonful to her Loong, which had appeared and clung to its usual spot on her shoulder.

"Let's say I wanted to learn from you. How do you think we could arrange this?"

"Mh," I mused before declaring, "Once all of this is dealt with, I intend to take a pause—a much-deserved pause."

"Oya, why do I feel like I've heard that before? Oh, right, you did say that before going against the Argyrian Patriarch. You said you'd like to go live some peaceful life somewhere deep in the verdant mountains."

At that reminder, I couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed.

Not stopping there, Aquaflora added, "Remind me, what did you do instead?"

"I went on a level-up rampage."

"Yeah, you did. Not just for a week or a month, but ten years straight."

That's right. For the past ten years, wasting not a single moment, I focused entirely on leveling up. By hunting down the majority of the remaining monsters across the entire elven continent, I pushed myself to the brink. It took time, sweat, and blood, but those were preparations I had to make for what awaited me.

"I'll concede that I wasn't able to deliver before, but this time will be different. I'm going to take a well-deserved pause, somewhere in a verdant mountain in the middle of nowhere. What do you think? Wanna join me?" She didn't answer right away, just eyed me in that familiar way she does when I tease her. So, I added, "I know you want to come. Don't tell me you have anything that'll make you unable to take such a pause. And no. The old 'my subjects need me' excuse won't work on me this time."

Throughout these ten years, I had jokingly invited Aquaflora—now a full-fledged Matriarch of the Argyrian— to join in my training but she always used the stability of her 'family' as an excuse. An excuse that, over time, became less and less believable. Right now, the Argyrian capital is in the most stable state it's ever been, possibly even more so than when the Argyrian Patriarch was in charge.

Seeing how she was still hesitating to say yes, I said, "So, you gonna say it? Or do you need me to literally force you?"

Sighing, Aquaflora finally gave in. "Alright, I'll accompany you."

"See? Was it that hard to say?"

"No… Also it’s just the time to improve my cooking, right?"

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"Yes but that'll take time. I estimate it'll take about a quarter of a human lifetime," I said, handing her a glass.

"Twenty-five years?! Am I that bad of a cook?"

"That's a minimum," I replied, pouring her wine.

"You know what, whatever," she said, taking a big gulp.

Taking a sip myself, I said nothing at first, but when she finished and grabbed the bottle to pour herself more, I couldn't help but comment. "You're sure it's alright for you to drink like that?"

"You're one to talk—What?" Aquaflora suddenly asked, noticing my change of expression.

Midway through her sentence, I sensed it. Gulping down what was left in my glass, I announced, "It's here."

Not even taking the time to finish the meal I'd spent hours cooking—since it would be impolite to make my guests wait—I left the kitchen with Aquaflora, and we made our way to the deck. There, waiting for us, was Goblin, blocking one of his eyes—most likely because he was sharing vision with one of his little birds. Upon seeing us, he announced, "Your guest has arrived, Ma'am."

At his words, Aquaflora looked at me with concern.

"Well, well, well. At least he was considerate enough not to make us wait long."

It had been two days. Nine, if you counted from when the flying fortress breached into the Land of Men. In those nine days, we'd invaded three capitals: Evermere Kingdom's capital, Radiance Kingdom's capital, and Dawnrealm Kingdom's capital. With our flying fortresses—each packing quite the arsenal and carrying the strongest, most battle-eager individuals drafted from both the Argyrian and Aurian families, —we'd not only subjugated the three capitals with relative ease, but we also killed the king of Dawnrealm.

By the time we reached the capitals of the Radiance and Evermere Kingdoms, their rulers had already abandoned their thrones, fleeing their cities in cowardice. Only a few remained behind—prideful, foolish nobles who dared to challenge us, only to be instantly obliterated for their belligerence. The more reasonable noble families, those who lacked either the time or the will to flee, chose not to interfere with our advance. Even the faith, bound to their Seraphim's decree, turned a blind eye to my invasion.

With little resistance, our journey across the continent was smooth, allowing us to reach this place: the Parting Sea, where the land itself is split in two. For two days, we waited for him. And now, at last, he was here.

"Did he bring his kings along?" I asked Goblin.

Goblin shook his head. "The six of them are here but in retreat. It seems—"

"It seems he wants to get this done already," I nodded. "Well, what else can I do but respond in kind," I resolutely declared. "I'm going to receive our guest. Alone."

At these words, both Goblin and Aquaflora turned to look at me with similarly grave expressions, most likely understanding better than before that the outcome of this whole invasion was going to be decided here.

"What are you two looking at me like that for? You look at me as if I was making a suicidal charge. I'm going to win this battle," I declared with assurance.

The duo looked at each other, then just sighed.

"I don't even know why I'm worried," Goblin muttered.

"I don't know where you get your assurance from," Aquaflora said as she closed in to hug me. "But good luck to you, even though you most likely think you don't need it."

I said nothing, simply returned her hug. Then, walking over to Goblin, who had put his plate on the balustrade, I opened my arms wide for a hug. "You're not going to wish me good luck too, are you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head, transitioning into his young teen version as she pulled me into an embrace. "But Imma take the hug anyway."

As I returned the hug, I leaned in and whispered into Goblin's ear, for her, but also not just for her. "I will handle him. But just to be sure, get everyone and the fortress in ready formations." I had plenty of opportunities to see it with my own two eyes. "Monarchs are prideful beings—it's in their nature. Yet, for all their pride, they are not beyond vindictive instincts. When things get to it, the kings may—no, they definitely will leap into action under his orders. Otherwise, he wouldn't have brought them here with but would have left them somewhere safe. So, you need to be ready."

"Don't worry, Ma'am. I—we'll be ready to handle them properly."

Patting Goblin's silver hair, I said out loud, "Counting on you all," before taking my leave.

----------------------------------------

Leaving everyone behind—including the flying fortress fleet—I took to the skies to meet my guest. I flew with my spiritual blade humming faintly beneath me, carrying me steadily between the endless stretch of azure waves below and the vast, clear sky above. That’s, of course, if we ignore the moon that hovered in the sky even though it wasn't actually that time of the year. The sea and sky mirrored one another so perfectly that it felt as if I were gliding between two infinite worlds, with nothing but myself suspended in the balance—but not for long. After a leisurely flight, he came into view.

Neither shy nor impolite enough to immediately open hostilities, I slowly approached within parley distance with the man—one of quite the formidable presence.

Standing atop a platform, its perimeter seemingly adjusted to carry him through the sky, he stood tall. Runes imbued into its surface continuously manifested magical circles that appeared and faded at regular intervals, creating intricate changes to keep him afloat while seamlessly supporting his weight.

Hovering atop his platform, the dark fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders swayed gently in the salty breeze, its weighty folds giving him the appearance of a shadow come to life. Beneath the cloak, an armor of unimpressive quality—especially for someone of his standing, judged by my level 10 Identification skill and my own sense of aesthetics—glinted faintly in the sky. An imposing two-handed sword rested at his side, its long blade's tip nearly grazing the platform’s edge. The hilt, wrapped in weathered leather, was firmly gripped in his gloved hand, as though it were an extension of himself—unyielding, solid, and ever-ready.

Deep lines etched his forehead, framing eyes as sharp and cold as steel. The man's face, framed by strands of white hair that caught the sunlight, made him, with his stern expression, look like the sculpture of a tragic hero from a distant past. Strong, wise, but ultimately tragic. Deep-set lines traced his forehead and mouth, making a point of how old he was, yet miserably failing to accurately highlight how old exactly. That was just the face of a strong man in his early sixties and not the face of someone who was older than a millennium.

As I approached, his eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto me with an intensity that felt almost tangible. The cold steel of his gaze cut through the distance between us, and though no words were spoken, I felt their weight: judgment, annoyance, and a flicker of unrestrained bloodlust.

"You're late," he said calmly.

"You'll excuse me, Your Imperial Majesty," I said with a smile at Emperor Cleon, the monarch who called himself the 'One and Only.' "But your arrival was unannounced. If you'd sent me word of your arrival, I would have come to welcome you."

"You could have done the same—sent me word, and I would have welcomed you, your new friends, and your fleet in Dawnrealm if you had the civility of warning me."

"That was an oversight on my part. It seems that the sixty years or so I spent away from civilisation have made me lose sense of decorum."

At those words, his gaze bore into mine, leaking bloodlust like never before. Unwavering, unflinching, I looked back in defiance. After a tense standstill, he withdrew his bloodlust and spoke in a way that strangely reminded me of my grandfather—the former Weiß Duke—who expressed his disappointment in me when I chose my class. There was no reproach, not in words, just a disappointment that he made sure I felt in his gaze.

"Decorum, respect, loyalty—those are things you never had. You only ever pretended to have them. I have known that for years. I've seen all too many of your kind in my long existence, and I have always granted them the appropriate punishment for that affront—death. But you, I made an exception for, beyond your flaws, I believed that someday, along the way, you and I would achieve so much together."

Sugar-coating the truth, aren't we?

He and I knew very well that the reason he didn't kill me for my many transgressions was that I was a registered adventurer—a faction he gave his word to keep his hands away from. The other reason—the main reason—was due to me being the only one capable of dealing with the plague that dungeons posed for the Faith and the world in fact. I was under the direct protection of the three Seraphims. He himself, as a monarch, had the same reasons as the Seraphims to keep me alive.

"I agree with you on one point—that you and I could have achieved so much together," I declared.

Cleon was a monarch—a very problematic one—but ultimately, he wasn’t an authority wielder. As a Dungeon Master, I had no real motive to wish for his death. In fact, given our shared enemy—the ones responsible for the enslavement of the dwarven continent, who wielded an authority—he and I could have been allies. But that, due to how he is, will never become reality.

And to be frank, even if he somehow, out of nowhere, changed his ways, I don't think it would change anything for me: He has to go.

"I would usually say that what I'm about to do isn't personal, but frankly, it deeply is," I declared, ascending to a higher altitude. Atop his platform, he followed.

His eyes looked past me, into where I came from. "Are your new friends not going to join you?"

"Worry not, Your Imperial Majesty," I declared, coming to a halt in my ascent. He did too. Activating [Mantle of Serenity], which instantly dressed me in my battle-ready outfit—a clear omen of opening hostilities—I continued, "I intend to make this a fair fight for you. I alone will fight."

"I do not know what it is you bargained with them," he said, his gaze shifting to the moons—three moons that, at this time of year, had no reason to be there, except perhaps to witness what was about to unfold. "But trust my words: today, they will not, as they have for the past three centuries, shield you from what I should have done the moment I first met you."

On these words, it began.