The sky over Pritz Harbor was sliced open by a massive iron shadow. A royal airship, bearing the gilded emblem of the Loen Monarchy, descended like a bloated predator. To the surrounding nobles, it was a symbol of divine industrial might. To Lucius, it was a primitive piece of junk—a flying coffin waiting for a structural failure.
"Glelynt, aren't you going to join the herd?" Lucius asked, his voice dripping with boredom as he watched the nobles scramble toward the royal family like starved dogs.
"Me? I'm not of age, Lucius. I don't have the 'standing' to lick those boots yet," Glelynt snorted, though his eyes betrayed a hint of jealousy. "What about you? You're acting like you've lived through three lifetimes and seen it all."
"Maybe I have," Lucius murmured. His gaze wasn't on the airship, but on the invisible pressure radiating from it. George III. The man was a walking disaster for anyone with a brain.
Before Glelynt could pry further, a stern-faced officer cut through the crowd. "Lucius Sheffield?"
"That's me," Lucius replied, his posture straightening instinctively.
"Follow me. Your father's 'associates' are waiting. And kid—keep your head down. The Army Gate isn't a ballroom."
Lucius offered Glelynt a curt nod and followed the officer, Marin Westalia, deeper into the naval base. As they walked, the air changed. The smell of perfume and expensive wine was replaced by the acrid scent of gunpowder, cheap tobacco, and the heavy, spiritual weight of high-sequence Beyonders.
They arrived at a massive oak door. Marin signaled him to enter alone.
Inside, the room was thick with smoke and the presence of men who had killed more people than Lucius had met in his life. At the center stood a mountain of a man in a Lieutenant General's uniform. This was Leif Strauss—his father's maternal uncle, a veteran who looked like he could snap a man's neck with two fingers.
"Lucius. Get over here," Leif growled, though his eyes softened for a fraction of a second.
"Uncle Leif," Lucius said, keeping his voice steady. He remembered this man. In the original host's memories, Leif was the one who used to buy him 'dresses' as a child, claiming he was too beautiful for rough soldiering. It was a sick foreshadowing that Lucius only understood now.
Leif introduced him to a gallery of killers: Colonel Karel Duarte, Wyatt Pass, and several others. All of them were Hunter-pathway Beyonders, the backbone of the Loen military.
"Your father was a hero, Lucius. But he was a fool for getting involved with her," Leif said, waving the others out so they could speak privately. He slammed a heavy hand on Lucius's shoulder. "We need to talk about the rot in your blood."
Lucius didn't flinch. "You mean the Sequence 5 characteristic."
Leif's eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. "Who told you? The Demonesses? Did those bitches contact you?"
"No one told me. I can feel it, Uncle. It's like a cold snake coiled around my heart," Lucius lied smoothly, his Instigator instincts guiding his tone. "It's a Demoness characteristic, isn't it? Affliction?"
Leif sighed, the smoke from his cigar swirling around his grizzled face. "Worse. It's a permanent 'gift' from your mother. We tried to purge it when you were six, but it's fused with your Spirit Body. You're a Sheffield—you should be a Hunter, a leader of men. But because of that characteristic, the military pathway is a dead end for you. You'll never reach the high sequences without losing your mind—or your manhood."
Lucius felt a surge of cold fury. Not because of the danger, but because he was being told his "ceiling" was already set.
"So, what's the plan? You want me to be a puppet Baron while I 'cultivate' others to fight my wars?"
"It's the only way to keep the Sheffield name alive until you produce an heir without that... pollution," Leif said. "But there's a shift in the wind, Lucius. The Royal Family is relaxing the rules. George III is handing out quotas for Demigod advancements like candy. I've made a deal. I'm going for Sequence 4."
Lucius's mind raced. George III is loosening the seal? That means the Black Emperor ritual is moving into its final stages. The world is about to go to hell.
"And the price, Uncle? The King doesn't give anything for free," Lucius challenged.
Leif's expression darkened. "The price is loyalty and things better left unsaid. But with a Demigod watching over you, no one in Backlund will dare touch a Sheffield. We'll weather this storm."
Lucius looked at the old soldier. He saw a man willing to sell his soul to a corrupt King just to protect a failing legacy. It was pathetic, yet useful.
"I understand," Lucius said, his voice dropping into a lethal, low tone. "Advance, Uncle. Become the shield I need. But don't expect me to sit in a manor playing house. If the military pathway is closed to me, I'll find another way to the top. I'm not just a Sheffield. I'm something the world isn't ready for."
Leif laughed, a rough, barking sound. "That's the spirit. Now, let's go. The King is waiting, and we have a hero to bury."
As Lucius followed him out, he felt the Sequence 5 characteristic in his soul pulse with a cold, feminine hunger. He wasn't afraid. He was going to use the King, use the Church, and use the Demonesses.
The "Peace" of the world was a lie, and Lucius was ready to be the one who lit the match.