Chapter 1: The Only Asset Left
Ian Voss leaned against the damp stone wall of the Voss family crypt and watched the last of his inheritance get loaded onto a cart by people who didn't even bother to spit on the ground he walked on. He wasn't sad. He was just counting. Three grain silos, four hundred acres of blight-ridden rye, and a title that meant you got to sit in the cold section of the Emperor's court.
The Voss family was a barony in the Western Reaches. That sounds fancy. It isn't. It means you own a lot of wind, some rocks, and a populace that looks at you like you're the reason the soil turned sour. Which, to be fair, his great-grandfather probably was.
He was the third son. The one nobody expected to live past the pox. The one they forgot to send to the officer's academy. Ian was twenty-three, broke, and he had the kind of face that didn't make women swoon—it made them check their purses. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair that never stayed where he pushed it, and eyes the color of old pennies. Tired, but not soft.
The cart driver, a fat man named Hark, grunted as he threw the last sack of salt beef onto the pile.
"That's it, Lord Voss." Hark said 'Lord' the way you'd call a dog 'Sir' for a laugh. "Crown's taking the back taxes. You got the house and the crypt. I'd suggest sleeping in the house, less draft."
"Get off my land before I decide the crown can tax your teeth next, Hark." Ian's voice was flat.
Hark laughed, a wet, wheezing sound. "You got no men, no coin, and no sword arm to speak of. What're you gonna do, glare me to death?" He climbed onto the cart and snapped the reins.
Ian watched the cart rumble down the muddy track. Hark was right. He had nothing. The world of Aethelgard was a meat grinder. Empires rose on the back of Aether Cores and Bloodline Steel. The strong took. The weak got taken. Ian was so weak he was basically already part of the dirt.
He walked back into the empty manor. Dust motes danced in the weak sun. No servants. No guards. Just him and a lot of empty rooms that smelled like damp wool and failure.
The only thing left in his father's study was a heavy iron key and a note.
Basement. Don't open it unless the house is on fire or you're desperate.
- Father
Ian picked up the key. He was desperate. The fire had already come and gone.
The basement steps were slick with moss. At the bottom was a room that shouldn't exist. The manor above was simple timber and stone. This was black obsidian. And in the center of it, hovering an inch off a stone pedestal, was a perfect cube of blue light. It looked like a shard of frozen sky.
It was an Aether Relic. Old World tech. Illegal to own unless you were high nobility, and even then, they watched you like a hawk.
As soon as Ian's shadow fell over the cube, the world stuttered.
SYNCHRONIZATION ACCEPTED.
HOST: IAN VOSS.
STATUS: PATHETIC. CORRELATING...
"Fuck you too," Ian muttered, not even flinching at the voice in his skull. When you grow up in a haunted house, a talking cube is just a Tuesday.
The light sharpened. A screen of pure energy snapped open in front of his eyes, invisible to anyone else.
[WELCOME, WARLORD.]
[YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR THE TITAN CONQUEST SYSTEM.]
Ian squinted at the text. "Titan. Like the old fairy tales? Giants eating people? My nurse told me those to make me eat my peas."
The screen flickered, unamused.
[INCORRECT. TITANS = UNIQUE BIOLOGICAL SIEGE ENGINES. EXTREME POWER. EXTREME HUNGER. EXTREME LOYALTY.]
[CURRENT CREDITS: 0.]
[CURRENT HAREM COUNT: 0.]
[CURRENT TITANS: 0.]
Ian read it twice. "Hold on. Why is 'Harem Count' between Credits and Titans?"
[BECAUSE THAT IS HOW YOU ACQUIRE TITANS, DIPSHIT.]
[SUMMONING PROTOCOL: THE SEED OF CONQUEST.]
[UPON THE COMPLETE PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL DOMINATION OF A FEMALE TARGET (DEVOTION RATING >85%), YOU RECEIVE ONE (1) SUMMONING TOKEN.]
[THE 'VALUE' OF THE CONQUEST DETERMINES THE RARITY AND POWER OF THE TITAN SPAWNED.]
Ian stared at the words. Emotional Domination. Value. He wasn't a good man. He knew that. He'd been cold and selfish just to survive this long. But this? This was a level of transactional evil that even made his stomach do a slow roll.
Then he thought about Hark's laugh. He thought about the empty pantry upstairs. He thought about the Viscount two towns over who'd laughed when Ian asked for a loan to fix the roof.
"So..." Ian said slowly, the words feeling like gravel in his mouth. "If I find some desperate barmaid and she falls for a 'Lord' with a big empty house..."
[RESULT: FODDER TITAN. 3-METER CLASS. USEFUL FOR CLEANING STABLES OR DISTRACTING A MEDIUM-SIZED DOG.]
Ian nodded. "And if I... say, manage to get the Duke's daughter to call me 'Master'?"
The screen brightened slightly. It was almost eager.
[RESULT: UNIQUE ABNORMAL VARIANT. 15-METER CLASS. ABILITY: CRYSTALLIZATION SCREAM OR LOCALIZED EARTHQUAKE GENERATION.]
[ADDITIONAL NOTE: TITANS ARE NOT MINDLESS. THEY POSSESS PERSONALITIES AND QUIRKS. LOYALTY IS ABSOLUTE. HUMOR IS... OFTEN DISTURBING.]
Ian cracked his knuckles. He looked around the dark, cold basement. He had no army. He had no gold. He had no friends.
But apparently, he had a very specific, very perverse path to power. And he was hungry. Not just for food, but for the look on Hark's face when something forty feet tall stepped on his cart.
He turned and walked back up the stairs. The key was cold in his pocket. He didn't need to think about morality. That was a luxury for people with full bellies. He needed to think about assets.
And the first asset was currently walking up the long driveway, carrying a basket of washing. Her name was Marta. She was the baker's daughter. She had kind eyes and a figure that made men in town stupid. Her father owed Ian a favor from two winters ago when Ian didn't let his horse trample the old man in the snow.
She saw him standing in the doorway and smiled nervously. "M'lord Voss. I thought you might be hungry. With everyone leaving... I brought bread. And a bit of cheese."
Ian looked at her. Value: Low. Fodder Titan. He looked at the basket. Then he looked at the empty house behind him.
Need to start somewhere.
He smiled. It was a cold smile, but he tried to make it reach his eyes. It was the first time he'd tried to smile in years. His face felt like it was cracking.
"Marta. You're a sight for sore eyes. Come in. The door's not locked. Let's talk about that debt your father owes me. I have a new... payment plan in mind."
She stepped over the threshold. The door clicked shut behind her. Ian locked it.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
TARGET ACQUIRED.
POTENTIAL VALUE: E-CLASS (COMMONER).
PROJECTED TITAN: "BITER" CLASS - 3M. AGILE. MINOR REGENERATION.
Ian Voss, the third son of a dead house, walked toward the first conquest of his new empire. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't heroic. But it was a start. And in Aethelgard, the only thing that mattered was who was standing at the end.
And Ian intended to be standing on a mountain of the dead, with an army of monsters at his back.