The morning sun bruised the sky a deep, majestic purple. The light filtered through the shattered dome of the Grand Banquet Hall, illuminating a scene that felt less like a royal council and more like a group of college students regretting their life choices after a party.
Kaelen, the First Hero, stood by a mossy pillar. He wasn't posing, but he had that natural, magnetic gravity that drew the eye. He held the empty foil wrapper of his burger, smoothing it out against the stone with a thoughtful, almost tender expression.
"You know," Kaelen said, a small, charming smile playing on his lips. "I've fought dragons that had less complexity than this sauce. It's a tragedy, really. We save the world, sleep for an eternity, and wake up just in time to taste perfection... only to realize there are no seconds."
Garrick was lying flat on his back on top of the dining table, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "Move on, Captain. It's just meat and cheese. Don't write a ballad about it."
"It's not about the meat, Garrick," Kaelen replied, glancing over with a wink. "It's about the principle. A world that invents this has something worth saving."
"Hold still, Captain," a sharp, melodic voice cut in.
Lyra, the Elven Priestess, stepped into the light. She moved with a grace that made the crumbling ruins look clumsy. She held a handkerchief that glowed with a faint, cleansing mana.
"You have a smudge of the 'Divine Sauce' on your cheek," Lyra said, her tone serious, as if she were diagnosing a lethal curse. She reached up, gently wiping Kaelen's face.
Kaelen smiled down at her. "Thank you, Lyra. Always looking out for my image."
Lyra didn't smile back. She was too busy inspecting the burger wrapper in Kaelen's hand with intense, magical scrutiny.
"I have analyzed the residuals," Lyra announced, her nose wrinkling slightly. "This food contains no nutritional value. It is 40% salt, 30% grease, and 30% regrettable life choices." She paused, then looked Aris dead in the eye. "It is poison. And if you do not summon more of it by dinner, I will riot."
Aris blinked. "Noted. Poison for dinner. Got it."
His gaze drifted to the darkest corner of the room.
Thal, the Shadow Assassin, was standing perfectly still. He had his arms crossed, his chin tucked into his cowl, and he hadn't moved in six hours. He looked like a statue carved from pure angst.
"Thal," Aris said, breaking the silence. "There is a bird eating your cape."
Thal didn't flinch. He didn't even look down.
"I am the darkness," Thal rasped, his voice echoing with maximum edginess. "The darkness accepts all things. Pain. Hunger. Fabric-eating vermin. Let it feast. For I am nothing but a shadow, and shadows cannot bleed."
"It's going to poop on your boots, 'Darkness'," Eve said, walking into the room carrying a tray of cracked mugs. "And since we currently have zero running water, you will be the 'Smelly Darkness' until further notice."
Thal moved instantly.
The "stoic avatar of death" vibe vanished in a split second. He kicked his leg out in a panic, shooing away the three-eyed crow. He looked down at his boot. There was a small, white stain on the black leather.
Thal froze. He stared at the spot with the intensity of a man witnessing a murder.
"Wyvern-hide," Thal whispered, his voice trembling not with sadness, but with suppressed fury. "These were crafted in the abyssal forges. They are immune to fire. They are immune to acid." He looked up at the crow, his hand drifting toward his dagger. "But apparently... not immune to indignity."
Garrick snorted from the table. "The darkness accepts all things, huh? Except laundry day."
Aris took a mug from Eve, hiding a nervous smile behind the rim. "Status report, Eve. And please, skip the part about the dust."
Eve sighed, flipping open her notebook. "We have six Legends, one Demon King, and exactly zero toilets."
The room went dead silent. Elowen, who was floating upside down from the chandelier braiding her hair, stopped swaying.
Kaelen straightened up, his playful smile fading into a look of genuine leadership concern. "Zero? Aris, morale is built on two things: full bellies and sanitation. If we don't have the latter, we aren't a Kingdom. We're a refugee camp."
"The plumbing is dead," Eve said ruthlessly. "If you flush, you are simply mailing your problems to the basement rats."
Valerius, the Pale Healer, drifted in, hovering an inch off the floor. "The rats are evolving," she whispered, looking delighted. "I found one in the pantry. I named him Fluffy. If we don't fix the sewage, the dysentery will set in by Tuesday. I'm preparing the autopsy table."
"No one is dying on my watch, Valerius," Kaelen said firmly, though he took a subtle step away from her. "And leave the rat alone."
Aris stood up. "Kaelen is right. We can't live like this. I can't build a toilet with magic, and neither can you."
"I could punch a tunnel to the planet's core," Garrick offered lazily. "Instant waste disposal."
"And instant lava," Aris countered. "No. We need engineers. We need a workforce."
"Dwarves?" Lyra asked, her gaze shifting to Aris. She was leaning on her staff, watching the boy-King closely. She saw the tremor in his hands, but she also saw the determination in his eyes.
"Too expensive," Aris said. He pointed toward the jagged peaks in the distance. "We need the Goblins."
Kaelen crossed his arms. He didn't yell. He didn't panic. He just gave Aris a look of weary, experienced patience.
"Aris," Kaelen said gently, as if explaining fire safety to a toddler. "I admire your optimism. Truly. But Goblins? I've tried to negotiate with them. I once offered a Goblin Chief a treaty of peace. He tried to trade me three rocks for my boots, and when I refused, he bit my shin. They don't understand contracts. They understand shiny things and violence."
"They understand value," Aris corrected. "They just have a different currency."
Aris clicked the latches of his briefcase open. "The Canyon of Rust isn't just a home for them. It's a failed factory. They want to be builders, but they lack the knowledge. So, we're going to give them an upgrade."
He gestured to Eve. She unzipped the garment bag, revealing the charcoal-grey suit. It was woven from high-grade wool, stitched with a precision that didn't exist in this era.
The Legends stared.
Garrick sat up, sliding off the table. "A suit? You want to conquer a horde of savages with... haberdashery?"
"It's about psychology," Aris lied smoothly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at them, projecting a confidence he didn't feel. "We offer them dignity. We treat them like Gentlemen. Like business partners. If we dress them like Kings, they'll act like subjects."
Lyra looked at the suit, then at Aris. She frowned softly, then looked at Kaelen. She was waiting for his judgment. She trusted Kaelen's instinct more than her own gods.
Kaelen walked over to the suit. He touched the fabric, humming thoughtfully.
"It is a nice suit," Kaelen admitted, a witty glint returning to his eyes. "I mean, if I were a Goblin, I'd probably still bite you, but I'd look fantastic doing it. It's a bold move, Aris. Diplomacy through style. It's so absurd it might actually work."
He turned to his team, clapping his hands once. The sound echoed like a gunshot, snapping them to attention.
"Alright," Kaelen commanded, his voice dropping into that natural, easy authority that made armies march into hell with a smile. "We follow the King's lead. Garrick, you're on security—don't break anything unless it tries to eat us. Lyra, keep an eye on the rear.Elowen,just don't try to blast the goblins and Valerius... please stop looking at the rat."
"He has a name," Valerius whispered, drifting away.
Aris checked his watch. "Grab the gear. Eve, bring the lint roller."
As they moved toward the door, Eve leaned in close to Aris.
"You're gambling," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You think a suit and a smile will stop a thousand armed Goblins?"
Aris looked at her, sweating slightly. "I'm betting on human nature, Eve. Or... Goblin nature. Same thing."
He clutched the briefcase tighter. The suit was the hook, but he hoped the schematics hidden underneath would be the anchor.
He turned to leave, but stopped dead in his tracks.
On the highest rafter above the door, looking down upon them with judgemental square pupils, was the mountain goat.
It wasn't just standing there. It was sitting on a velvet cushion that it had definitely stolen from the ruined throne room. And on its head, askew and tangled in its horns, was a rusted, iron circlet—Aris's spare crown.
The goat stared at Aris. It let out a low, resonant bleat that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"He's mocking me," Aris whispered, horrified.
"He is asserting dominance, Master," Eve noted dryly. "He has the high ground. He has the crown. And quite frankly, his beard is more impressive than yours."
"I am the Demon King!" Aris hissed, pointing a finger at the rafters. "That is my crown! Get down here, you woolly usurper!"
The goat narrowed its eyes. It leaned forward and deliberately spat a half-chewed piece of moss onto Aris's shoulder.
Garrick burst into laughter. "I like him. He's got ambition. If you die, Aris, I'm swearing loyalty to the goat. Long live King Bleat."
"Eve," Aris said, his voice trembling with indignation. "Forget the curry. Put 'Goat Sacrifice' on the menu."
"I believe the goat is currently winning the political debate, Master," Eve replied, deadpan.
Aris groaned, wiping the moss off his shoulder. He swept his arm toward the door, trying to salvage the moment.
"Let's just go," Aris muttered, marching out into the wind. "Before he starts issuing decrees."