Beheld the latest concoction from the cosmic kitchens of intergalactic commerce—the new and improved battle mech armor, a veritable titan among tin cans!

It stood at a towering, why-even-bother-with-ladders height, having ditched the quaint charm of its 8'5" predecessors for a bulkier, brawnier build that promised to make doors everywhere tremble in their frames.

Where the first version pranced around battlefields with the delicate grace of a ballet dancer, the latest model thundered across the terrain like a four-legged tank on a caffeine binge.

Its sturdy exoskeleton was forged from a new, unpronounceable alloy, rumored to be sourced from the core of a neutron star—because, of course, when it came to military overcompensation, only star guts would do.

This new suit was not just a pretty face with an intimidating body. No, it was smarter, too!

Equipped with an AI co-pilot, the mech could make tactical decisions faster than a politician disavowing past statements.

Its weapon systems had been upgraded from "mildly alarming" to "do we really need a tactical nuke for a sidearm?" levels of firepower, ensuring that whatever it pointed at became a poignant historical footnote.

Control-wise, the designers apparently decided that the previous interface, which required three doctoral degrees and a sacrificial offering to operate, was perhaps a tad inaccessible.

The new controls were as easy as playing a video game!

Powering this marvel of destructive efficiency was not your grandma's AA battery pack but a miniature fusion reactor, because nothing said "overkill" like harnessing the power of the sun to fuel your morning commute of mayhem.

In summary, if you ever dreamed of striding into battle encased in several tons of sci-fi superiority, all while casually obliterating obstacles with the nonchalance of swatting a fly—this latest battle mech armor wasn’t just your ride; it was your throne!

“Let’s buy them.”

In an office, trimmed with the kind of opulence that suggested 'money is no object', a man leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the weight of his decision.

He faced a group of individuals dressed in transparent blue robes that still reflected the light to hide what’s under.

"We'll take 20," he declared with a casual flick of his wrist, as if ordering a round of drinks rather than a fleet of high-tech battle mechs.

The futuristically dressed sales team barely masked their glee; the commission on this deal would likely fund their next trip to their next conquer.

"And what will be the cost?" the office-dwelling magnate inquired, his voice dripping with the boredom of a man accustomed to buying rather than being sold to.

The lead salesman, his smile sharp enough to slice through starship hulls, replied, "A fortune, sir. We require payment in pure, high-grade mana stones straight from the mine. A hundred of them."

“That’s basically thievery," the buyer mused, swirling his drink. "Very well, consider it done."

As the sales team departed, visions of mana stones dancing in their heads, the man chuckled to himself.

"Better be worth their weight in gold," he muttered.

Just when the man was about to celebrate his purchase, the polished doors of the office swung open again.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

This time, it was not to seal deals on war machines but to usher in the worried visage of the butler, a man as finely groomed as the gardens of the palace and equally as rigid.

"Your Grace, buying this much modern weapon could be seen as treason to the kingdom..." he ventured cautiously, his voice carrying the tremor of a leaf in a hurricane.

"And who would dare accuse me of such a thing?" retorted the Duke of Velaryon, his sneer turning the room a few degrees colder.

Velaryon, a duchy known less for its beauty and more for its machinations and power plays within the Edensor Kingdom.

"The king of this kingdom is my nephew—and only a twelve-year-old boy," he scoffed, the words dripping with a mix of familial disdain and aristocratic arrogance.

"Yvain is smart enough not to intervene in his maternal uncle’s business. If he’s being a good boy, wouldn’t he get one or two good things from us too?"

The duke's voice was slick with the oil of political manipulation, suggesting gifts as mere tokens of benign nepotism rather than pieces in a much larger game of thrones.

The butler, ever the picture of loyalty but internally questioning the wisdom of arming a man who viewed royal blood as a mere footnote to his ambitions, merely nodded.

As he exited, the duke leaned back, a smile creeping across his features—a smile that was all teeth and no warmth.

Barely had the door clicked shut behind the butler, it flew open again, this time with a gusto that nearly unhinged it. The butler, usually the epitome of composed servitude, burst into the room with the urgency of a man chased by his own shadow.

"Your Grace!" he gasped, cheeks flushed with the sprint from whatever courier had accosted him with the news.

The Duke of Velaryon, who had been relishing his recent dealings in high-grade weaponry with the smug satisfaction of a cat in a sunbeam, looked up sharply.

The butler's disheveled appearance was a stark contrast to his usual meticulous presentation, suggesting the tidings he bore were of substantial weight.

"The capital has sent word," the butler panted, his words tumbling out as if he were auctioning them off at record speed. "Young King Yvain has accepted King Burn’s offer to surrender!"

The news struck the duke like a misfired spell, unexpected and a tad inconvenient. His plans of familial manipulation, so beautifully laid out, now seemed in vain.

“That’s just how he is. First, he latched on Morgan Le Fay. Now that she’s gone, he hugged another thigh—Burn of Soulnaught. Just like that bitch… How pathetic.”

Duke Velaryon recalled how his younger sister decided to marry the royal family and had a terrible end.

"Until the very end, they still wouldn't grovel for our support, huh? Madeline… and her son."

***

SLAM!

“Are you crazy?!”

Burn leaned back, a sardonic grin playing at the corners of his mouth as Yvain's indignation filled the air, the young king's slam on the table sending a reverberating echo through the opulent chamber.

"Why?" Burn replied with feigned innocence, shrugging as if discussing the weather rather than the fate of kingdoms.

"With or without you by my side, they're going to scurry around in the end, anyway. Take the western nobles, for instance, snugly close to my borders. They’ll be the first to ditch your banner the moment things look bleak."

Yvain’s eyes faltered.

Burn leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They'll swear fealty to me faster than you can say 'traitor,' abandoning Edensor without a backward glance.”

“Then watch as the dominoes fall: the southern duchy’s family will sprint to the sea, hoping to sail away from their troubles, while the northern duchy will scamper inland, probably knocking on Inkia Kingdom's door for refuge."

"And then," Burn continued, his smirk widening, "there's your maternal family, the esteemed Velaryon.”

Yvain frowned. His hand trembled hearing the name.

“Oh, they'll put on a good show, brandishing their swords and baring their teeth, but when the dust settles and they see the writing on the wall, they'll come crawling to me,” Burn calmly narrated it a-matter-of-fact-ly.

"I'm sure that in the scenario where you oppose me or end up dying at my hands, they will beg to manage Edensor under the Soulnaught flag, hoping to salvage some shred of dignity by administering the very chains that bind them."

Burn chuckled softly, watching Yvain's reaction, enjoying the display of predictable noble maneuvers as if he were a chess master watching pawns erratically attempt to avoid inevitable capture.

It was the real future after all.

"You see, it's not madness, young Yvain. It's merely... inevitability."

Yvain's eyes wavered. He gazed into Burn's confident eyes, his own filled with defeat as he asked, "Is it really that bad? This kingdom..."