The elders' faces twisted with rage. In their plan, they'd stall Idris's new Alchemy Faculty by any means necessary—smear him, mire him, make him the next lightning rod like the last Grand Sages. They hadn't expected him to move this fast, prove alchemy in front of all Sumeru (and foreign guests!), and rake in public acclaim.
Unacceptable.
A Grand Sage the people like was the last thing they wanted. A disliked figurehead kept the six faculties feasting just fine. Idris's push to centralize power? That threatened their dessert plates.
Idris drew his sword—the jet-black blade that drank the light: Frostmourne.
"I've scolded many people since I took office," he said evenly. "The Little Lucky Grass King. The Matras. The Corps of Thirty. Scholars. Even myself, at times. But you—I haven't scolded you once. Instead I showed you, again and again, what alchemy can do. I even demonstrated it for you personally." His gaze swept their ranks like a cold tide. "And still you bristle. Disappointing."
The mercenaries ringed him tighter. Fatui masks glinted in the dim. A few elders avoided his eyes, shame flashing an instant before malice returned. The scholars wouldn't lift a finger themselves; that was what hired steel—and the Fatui—were for.
Idris turned to the masks. "And you lot… sent by the Doctor?"
The leader shook his head. "Misunderstanding, Grand Sage. The elders named a price we liked. This is a side job, nothing more."
Cautious answer. Idris doubted it was the whole truth. Without the Doctor's shadow, these small-fry wouldn't dare.
He faced the mercenaries—many in Gilded Brigade garb. "And you? Many of you are Sumeru-born. Kill me, put some fossil back in the chair, and that helps your homeland how?"
Several looked stricken. Their captain cupped a fist. "We're… sorry, Grand Sage. We take coin and resolve trouble. That's the code."
Of course it was.
An elder barked a laugh. "Are your last words finished, Idris? Even with a Vision, you can't stand against all of us. Don't fret—we'll pin it on desert sellswords. Your precious 'unity' will remain intact."
Idris smiled. "I questioned you for one reason: to give myself a clean conscience when I kill you. You chose rebellion; I've been wanting a live-fire test of my current strength."
No King's Aura. No theatrics. Just steel.
He tilted the blade. "Frostmourne—feed."
The sword purred, a low, eager hunger.
—
Back in his quarters, Nahida drifted in from her nightly wander and paused. No Idris at the desk. Not unusual—he worked absurd hours. She probed the Sanctuary's boughs with a god's sense.
Nothing.
Her stomach dropped. Idris's presence wasn't anywhere on the sacred tree.
In that instant, the Little Lucky Grass King truly panicked.
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