The War Council convened not in the Great Hall, but in the heart of the newly operational Void Realm forges. The air shimmered with heat and the clang of hammers on enchanted steel. Before Thorzen and his Sentinels, racks held the fruits of their temporal advantage: fifty suits of masterwork, rune-engraved plate armor and as many weapons, their edges gleaming with a hungry light. These were not mere tools of war; they were testaments to a nation's burgeoning industrial might.
"The Ashen Horde probes," Thorzen stated, his voice cutting through the industrial din. He gestured to a scrying orb where a replay of the eastern barrier's disturbance flickered—a brief, necrotic scratch against the Amber Aegis's warmth. "They are cautious. They test the fabric of our defenses, seeking a weakness. This changes our timeline."
He turned to Zek. "The Scalefolk. Ssithra's warriors have observed us for a week. What is their disposition?"
The kobold steward, looking more assured than ever, consulted a slate. "They are… impressed, Chief. The efficiency of the Legion drills, the productivity of the forges, the order within the walls. But they are pragmatists. They have asked to see our strength applied. They wish to witness a hunt."
"A hunt?" Hector rumbled, hefting a newly forged greataxe. "We can show them a hunt."
"Not a culling of beasts," Thorzen corrected. "A demonstration of coordinated, overwhelming force against a worthy target. We will give them one." His gaze swept over his commanders. "Guy. Your report on the eastern approaches. Is there a target that serves both as a demonstration and a strategic purpose?"
The goblin assassin melted from the shadows near the forge's entrance. "The probe originated from a location twelve miles east-southeast. A corrupted spire the Ogres call 'The Weeping Fang.' It is a nest for Gargoyles tainted by the Horde's influence. They harry our scouts and the Ogre patrols. Eliminating it would secure the eastern flank and send a clear message."
"Then that is our stage," Thorzen declared. "We deploy in one hour. The Aethelgard Phalanx will have its baptism. Hector, Torac, you will lead the main assault. Zog, provide screening. Guy, forward reconnaissance. Fan, you and Kaelen will provide magical overwatch. I want the Scalefolk delegation to witness everything from a protected vantage point. They will see the Legion's hammer, the Sentinels' anvil, and the magic that binds it all."
The mobilization was a lesson in terrifying efficiency. Within the hour, a column of fifty legionnaires of the Phalanx, clad in their new, dark steel armor and moving with the unnerving synchronicity of veterans who had trained for years in a matter of weeks, marched out the main gate. The relevant Sentinels moved with them, a pantheon of power. Following at a discreet distance, under the watchful eyes of Wan and his guardian Bastion, was Ssithra and her Lizardfolk guards.
The march to the Weeping Fang was silent and swift. The spire was a jagged, obsidian tooth jutting from the blighted earth, its surface weeping a viscous, black fluid. Twisted, stone-winged shapes circled its peak.
From a ridge a half-mile away, Ssithra watched through a far-seeing glass provided by Laeronis. Her forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air heavy with ozone and decay.
The battle commenced without fanfare.
Guy and Stalker materialized at the base of the spire, planting small, crystalline devices—Kaelen's first field creation, Mana Static Mines. A low hum filled the air, and the circling gargoyles faltered, their magical flight disrupted.
That was the signal.
"Phalanx, advance! Shield wall!" Hector's voice boomed.
The fifty legionnaires moved as one, their tower shields interlocking into a seamless wall of steel that advanced up the rocky slope. The first wave of grounded gargoyles shrieked and charged, claws scraping harmlessly against the enchanted barrier.
"Javelins!" Torac commanded.
A volley of heavy javelins, their tips glowing with runes of penetration, shot from behind the shield wall. They struck with brutal force, punching through stony hides and pinning shrieking gargoyles to the ground.
Then, the Sentinels engaged.
Hector and Bulwark smashed into the gargoyle line like a living avalanche, his new greataxe shearing through wings and limbs. Torax and Lineage formed an immovable bulwark on the flank, the Redeemed's sheer presence bolstering the Phalanx's resolve as he shattered any creature that came near.
From the ridge, a spectacle of light and power began.
Nyx, with Event Horizon humming beside her, didn't merely attack. She redefined the battlefield. A Spatial Rend tore a twenty-foot gash in the air, swallowing three gargoyles whole. She then folded space, teleporting a struggling cluster of the creatures directly into the path of the advancing Phalanx, where they were efficiently dispatched.
But the true artistry came from the ridge itself.
Fan, her eyes closed in concentration, stood beside Kaelen. The Arcane Entity hovered, its hands moving in a slow, intricate dance.
"Observe," Kaelen's crystalline voice intoned to Ssithra. "The difference between destruction and deconstruction."
A gargoyle broke from the swarm, diving straight for their position. Fan didn't open her eyes. She simply raised a hand. A whip of violet psionic energy snapped out, not to strike the creature, but to envelop its head. There was a silent, psychic implosion, and the gargoyle's head simply dissolved into dust, its body crashing lifelessly to the ground.
Meanwhile, Kaelen gestured towards a group of four gargoyles harrying Zog's scouts. It didn't cast a fireball or a lightning bolt. It weaved a net of pure, ordered arcane energy. The strands settled over the creatures, and where they touched, the gargoyles' corrupted stone bodies began to revert, turning to inert, normal rock. They plummeted, shattering on impact.
"It unravels their very existence," Ssithra hissed, her gold-slitted eyes wide. "It does not break the stone. It convinces the stone it was never alive."
"The Chief calls it 'Conceptual Refutation,'" Laeronis, who had accompanied them, murmured, his own awe poorly concealed. "A level of arcane theory my people have only hypothesized."
Below, the battle was a foregone conclusion. The Phalanx never broke formation. The Sentinels were unstoppable. Within twenty minutes, the Weeping Fang was silent, its tainted inhabitants eradicated. The cost to the Conclave was zero. A few dents in armor, a minor strain on mana reserves.
As the Legion policed the area, Ssithra turned to Thorzen, who had observed the entire engagement with a detached calm.
"Your… hunt… was successful," she said, the formality in her voice replaced by a new, deep respect. "You do not just have strength. You have a… system. A machine of war that thinks and adapts. My warriors have seen. We have seen." She placed a clawed hand over her chest in a formal gesture of her people. "The Southern Marsh Tribes will swear allegiance to the Aethelgard Conclave. Our strength will be your strength. Our hunters will be your scouts. We will be a thread in your tapestry."
It was done. Another race, another strand of power, woven into the whole.
[Diplomatic Action: Successful.]
[Allegiance of the Southern Marsh Tribes (Scalefolk) secured.]
[Reputation with Southern Factions: Neutral -> Respected.]
[New Quest Completed: The Southern Outreach.]
[Rewards: 40,000 XP, Scalefolk Scouts integrated into Legion, access to Southern Marsh resources.]
That evening, as the clan celebrated the new alliance and the victorious, blooded Phalanx, Thorzen felt the accumulated weight of his actions—the successful integration, the flawless military operation, the strategic advancement—coalesce within him. The System notification was a thunderclap in his soul.
[Level Up!]
[Thorzen has reached Level 17!]
[+10 Attribute Points to distribute.]
[+5 Skill Points.]
[New HP: 1,870 | New MP: 465]
He allocated the points without hesitation, his base attributes now climbing to a staggering 227. The power was a tangible force in his veins. He was nearing the apex of what he intuitively felt was the "mortal" tier of power.
But a second, more urgent notification followed, this one from the core itself, relayed through Zek.
Chief! The Ashen Horde's probe… it's changed. It's no longer a scratch. It's a focused, sustained assault on a single point of the eastern barrier, grid-seven-alpha. The Amber Aegis is holding, but the mana drain has increased by 300%. They're not just testing anymore. They're trying to break through!
Thorzen's eyes snapped open, all satisfaction gone, replaced by cold, sharp focus. The demonstration was over. The real test had begun.
He strode into the War Room, his Sentinels converging around him. The scrying orb showed the eastern section of the barrier flickering under a constant, concentrated beam of sickly green energy.
"They've found a frequency that resonates with the Aegis's matrix," Kaelen analyzed, its featureless head tilted. "A crude but effective brute-force approach. They will succeed in breaching it within six to eight hours."
"Then we will not wait eight hours," Thorzen said, his voice flat and hard. "They have brought the battle to our door. We will answer in kind."
He turned to the assembled might of the Aethelgard Conclave.
"Legion, to arms! Sentinels, with me! We do not wait for the siege. We take the fight to them. We find the source of that beam, and we break it."
He looked at each of them, his gaze final.
"The Crucible is lit. It is time to forge our destiny in the flames of their annihilation."