A few weeks earlier, A black-haired, brown-eyed teenager, walked through a hallway adorned with windows. The golden and crystal chandeliers remained unlit, allowing sunlight to flood the space, and casting its radiance upon the polished marble floor. After a couple of minutes, he arrived at a grand, dark wooden door. Taking a moment to inspect his white shirt, and black slacks, and adjust his tie, he whispered to himself, "Everything perfect," before knocking on the door. "It's Zak."

"Come in."

Zak entered the office and caught a glimpse of his master standing before a full-length mirror, getting dressed.

The office exuded an air of sophistication with its polished oak wood desk, two bookshelves, and a wardrobe that housed the old man's collection of suits. A black piano shimmered like a diamond in the corner, while Qing porcelain dishware, a Sengoku samurai armor set, and Mesoamerican pottery adorned the space.

"Everything looks impeccable today, Sire Völundr. Did you just clean the room? It's wonderfully organized. I especially admire the piano's polish!" Zak said.

Völundr nodded without diverting his gaze from the mirror.

"Sire, are you ready?"

"Almost."

"Not donning your War Suit?"

"Oh, no... I detest that thing! It's hideous!" Völundr rolled his eyes.

Völundr adjusted his necktie and smoothed his white waistcoat. He combed his trimmed beard and shoulder-length grayish hair. Then he paused to study the reflection of his green eyes in the mirror. After tending to his mustache, Zak handed him a black frock coat.

"Thank you! It's good to have you here," Völundr smiled.

"Your eyes, Sire. They're reddened. Have you not slept much?"

"It's alright. Don't worry!"

"Same goes for you! You will do splendidly, Sire."

"I hope so... I loathe this entire spectacle. I am merely serving as a moderator in a clash of rowdy bulldogs. I don't even relish my role."

"You’ll handle it well. Everything will turn out satisfactorily!" Zak reassured him with a smile.

Völundr tied up his hair into a short ponytail and glanced at his reflection in the mirror once more. Then he left his carpeted office, with Zak following closely behind.

"Mediator of the Society of Nations!" Völundr smirked, closing his eyes. "What a mockery. They only want someone they can bribe to secure more territory."

"They chose you because you are impartial, Sire."

"And because I am not supportive of slavery, colonization, or corruption. They consider me a virtuous individual… Yes, I know, they hold me in high regard," Völundr sighed.

"Yes, you are a good man, Sire."

"That makes it all the more difficult."

Völundr hurried through the same hallways that Zak had traversed before. "I detest the paintings," Völundr muttered as they reached the main lobby. "Why must we squander our funds adorning every inch of the walls with thousands of artworks? There isn't a single wall without a painting!"

"Sire, speaking nonsense again? Nervous?" Zak remarked.

"Sorry," Völundr coughed. They arrived at a massive oak door. "Can you hear them screeching like beasts?"

Zak nodded. The cacophony emanated from the other side, sounding as though everyone inside was engaged in an underground brawl.

“It’s like an underground boxing ring,” Völundr sighed.

“Have you been to one?” Zak asked.

Völundr shook his head, shrugging.

Zak extended his arms to open the doors, but Völundr gently tapped on his shoulder. "I shall handle it! This will be a fierce battle. You can wait for me in the office.

Zak nodded and stepped back, finding a spot behind his master. Völundr took a deep breath and pushed open the doors, immediately overwhelmed by the deafening noise of the gibberish.

Zak closed the door behind Völundr, creating a shield from the uproar.

Völundr made his way towards the stage in the center of the chamber, squinting as he surveyed the semicircular auditorium constructed from oak wood. He scanned the tiers, searching for familiar faces, and his gaze fixated on a crystal chandelier the size of an adult elephant that loomed above. So opulent and unnecessary, he thought to himself. Continuing towards the podium, he cleared his throat, catching the attention of the bald man serving as the secretary.

The place was packed. Völundr couldn't ascertain the exact number of attendees, but he estimated around two hundred men. The secretary attempted to gain control of the crowd by wielding a gavel, but his efforts were in vain. Völundr approached the fifteen flags representing different delegations near the podium and pushed the pedestal where they hung. The flags landed on the floor with a resounding thud, eliciting a hush from the crowd.

"You gentlemen seem quite touchy when your flags hit the ground!" Völundr sneered, and the men in the crowd collectively glared at him. "If looks could kill, I would be dead by now... Let's get to the point. I don't wish to waste my time."

The room erupted into another round of shouting, with everyone clamoring to have their say.

"Gentlemen!" Völundr bellowed, his voice piercing through the chaos.

Once again, silence fell over the crowd.

"The diplomats have already signed a humanitarian treaty. They have condemned the slave trade, prohibited the sale of alcoholic spirits and firearms, and granted permission for missionary activities within African land," the secretary announced, clearing his throat.

"There are already established colonies within the continent. My homeland controls forts along the Gambian coast. We have a presence in Lagos, the Gold Coast protectorate, and the Southern African colonies," a bald British gentleman stated, his large mustache neatly groomed as he finished speaking.

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"Roast Beefs always craving more!" an impulsive French emissary interjected, bursting into laughter.

"Shut up, Frog... Go wash your armpits!" the British retorted, his expression turning sour. "You could use a bath."

The French mediator chuckled. "Pathetic, Briton! Get on your knees before your Queen!" The entire French delegation erupted in scornful laughter.

"You ought to show some respect, you imbeciles!" a Russian voice interceded. "Behave like the gentlemen you are."

"Oh, you need to show some respect, Tsar's minion. Let your Rasputin teach you the same way he's teaching your Tsarina," the British gentleman roared.

"Please, gentlemen!" the secretary pleaded, using his gavel to restore order.

"Oh, Secretary Gimenes... representing Portugal! It was your country's policy of pillaging the Kongo Kingdom that fueled the Slave Trade in the first place!" the Russian emissary retorted, his expression marked with disapproval.

"Shut up, Rasputin!" the British gentleman fired back.

"While expanding into Asia, you encountered the Japs, and they dealt a blow to your Vodka!" the French emissary chimed in, a sly smile forming on his face.

"Gentlemen!" A commanding voice rang out, accompanied by the rhythmic thumping of a cane against the wooden floor. A fifty-year-old man with piercing blue eyes and blond hair rose from his seat, making his way toward the podium with a noticeable limp.

The crowd fell silent once again.

"Sire Ragnar Sørensen, good to see you here!" Völundr greeted the newcomer, shaking his hand as if they were long-time acquaintances.

"Our esteemed Secretary will provide us with a summary. Please, Sire João Gimenes, the floor is yours," Sire Sørensen bowed, his gray frock coat being carefully removed by his butler.

The Secretary adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and began reading from his notes. "The diplomats have established the rules of competition for the signatory nations: Austria-Hungary, Belgium, Denmark, France, Prussia, Italy, the Netherlands, Portugal, Russia, Spain, Sweden-Norway, the United Kingdom, the Ottoman Empire, the United States, and the Observing Nations. These rules were intended to guide them in seeking colonies," the secretary paused to clear his throat.

"The Signatory Nations have also agreed that the area along the Congo River will be administered as a neutral territory, known as the Congo Free State, under the rule of King Léopold II of Belgium. This region will allow for free trade and navigation. No nation should stake claims in Africa without notifying the other nations of its intentions. Formal territorial claims cannot be made without effective military and administrative occupation. All signatory nations will have free trade rights throughout the Congo Basin, including Lake Malawi and the area south of the 5th parallel north."

"That's it. We must put an end to the inhumane Slave Trade in Africa. The esteemed Ottoman delegation, despite their country still permitting slavery, signed the treaty and committed to its abolition. However, there are still illegal slave traders we must apprehend!" a gentleman from the French delegation exclaimed.

"So, why did you summon me here? My role was to make you sign, but you have already signed!" Völundr sighed, feeling a sense of redundancy.

The crowd erupted into another heated exchange, the argument escalating like a hurricane, clouding their thoughts.

"Gentlemen, please!" Sire Sørensen's voice boomed, his cane resounding against the floor. The room fell silent once more.

"As the President of the Society of Nations, I have a proposal," Sire Sørensen announced. "Even after signing the treaty, you, my respected delegates, remain antagonistic towards one another. We still require an impartial mediator to resolve territorial disputes among our nations. I, being one of the signatories, cannot fulfill this role. However, Sire Völundr Smed, someone like you— a proponent of peace, opposed to slavery and colonialism, a free thinker and trader, incorruptible and charismatic, an egalitarian— one of the few non-Chauvinists in this amphitheater, you can take an impartial stance.

Völundr closed his eyes, exhaling with a heavy sigh. He knew exactly where things were heading.

"I would like to nominate you, Sire Völundr Smed, as the Society of Nations' ambassador. You will be granted full authority and all necessary resources for this crucial endeavor. We cannot afford to let war break out," Sire Sørensen proposed.

Völundr opened his eyes, his gaze piercing through the crowd. Many faces stared back at him, concealing their underlying intentions behind deceitful smiles. ‘I'm in a freak circus,’ he thought to himself. ‘From moderator to ambassador, fancy name.’

"You will have complete autonomy, international immunity, and unlimited funds," Sire Sørensen continued.

"I agree. We need someone impartial to counter the Russians and the French!" a British gentleman smirked.

"Go home, Briton. You've had too much tea today!" a Russian delegate retorted, provoking a response from the crowd.

"Gentlemen!" Sir Sørensen's cane struck the floor once again. "No more quarreling, please!"

"Those in favor of nominating Sire Smed as ambassador, raise your hand," the Secretary announced, and every man in the auditorium complied.

"It's settled! Congratulations, Sire Smed," Sire Sørensen acknowledged bowing his head.

A standing ovation erupted from the diplomats, and Völundr closed his eyes, waiting until the applause subsided.

"It will be my pleasure to embark on this new endeavor. I am honored by your high regard for me, and I feel deeply flattered," Völundr expressed, a faint smile on his face. Yet, beneath the surface, cold sweat trickled down his brow, and a burning sensation churned in his stomach. The weight of his new responsibility was palpable.

"However, due to this, I have no time to waste. I must begin planning my agenda," he added, determined to set things in motion.

"As far as I know, Sire Smed, you have already assembled a group. Some might call it your personal army!" a gentleman from the Austria-Hungary delegation interjected.

"I anticipated an opportunity such as this might arise, so I made preparations in advance. That group is not an army; it serves a different purpose. However, I am indeed training a select group of talented individuals to work as my aides," Völundr clarified.

"Very well, esteemed gentlemen. Let this man prepare himself for what lies ahead. Sire Ambassador, I will send all the necessary paperwork to your apprentice," Sire Sørensen informed.

With his farewells exchanged, Völundr made his way out of the auditorium, finding Zak still waiting for him in the main hall.

"They ambushed me... I'm in trouble now!" Völundr exclaimed, his brow furrowed. He hurried to his office, with Zak following closely behind.

"Sire Völundr, I have news," Zak said, handing him one opened and one sealed letter. "The open letter is addressed to both of us. It appears that Steve has escaped from prison. He is now returning to North America by ship."

"What?" Völundr halted in his tracks, eyes widening. Suddenly, a sense of relief washed over him, and the burning sensation in his stomach faded. He resumed his pace, a satisfied grin forming on his face as his heart pounded with anticipation.

"The letter was dated three months ago, so we may expect him to arrive in New France by next week."

Already at his office, Völundr took a seat in front of his desk and proceeded to read the sealed letter.

"I'm not sure how I feel right now," he said when he put down the paper after reading.

"Is it bad news?" Zak asked.

"It's about a former apprentice. I was concerned about her well-being... but she's safe!" Völundr revealed.

"Isn't that good?" Zak frowned.

"It's excellent news! However, she has just been released from prison," Völundr explained.

"Prison?" Zak's eyes widened in surprise.

"Sne Fæstning!" Völundr confirmed.

Zak's astonishment grew, and he opened his mouth agape. "So, this apprentice is not a Mågiats... Can she perform Thaumaturgy?"

"Yes, she is a powerful Jana, with Thaumaturgic abilities far surpassing my own," Völundr confirmed, clearing his throat. "I'm glad she's free, but I must keep a close eye on her movements. I don't want her to end up back in prison."

"Should I watch over her?" Zak offered.

"Certainly!" Völundr stood up, a determined look in his eyes. "I want you to go to Paasilinna and find out what she is up to."

"What will you do, Sire?" Zak inquired.

"I will wait for Steve. Then, I will prepare the group for their introduction and our first mission," Völundr revealed.

"First mission? Are you going to Africa?" Zak asked, curiosity piqued.

"No, that can wait," Völundr replied, his expression turning serious. "Ragnar Sørensen has given me full authority within the Society of Nations." He reached into a drawer in his desk.

"What are you planning, Sire?" Zak asked, observing Völundr with intrigue as he tracked every movement with his eyes.

Völundr handed Zak a wooden chest. Inside, the teenager found a pistol and a ring. "You may need these in Paasilinna," Völundr said, a mischievous grin on his face. "Now, with the authority I was given, I will expose the Sørensens' crimes. Sørensens influence is ingrained in Paasilinna’s politics. What better place to start?"

"So, you intend to intervene in the scramble for Africa?" Zak questioned.

"Yes, I will put a stop to those bastards!" Völundr declared, determination burning in his eyes.