"Catch them!"
"Sarkaz curse!"
The scene was chaos—one chasing, one fleeing, with a swarm of players flooding the narrow street. A towering man nearly two meters tall lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the assassin's waist and tackling him to the ground. His expression was twisted with fury, and in an instant, others piled on like a collapsing tower of bodies, pinning their target firmly against the cobblestones.
Two bystanders stopped to watch. When one of the players looked up, curious about what kind of NPCs they were, he caught a glimpse of two figures walking away.
"Whoa, I swear that was a total beauty—and a little girl with her!"
"Are your eyes playing tricks on you? Who were they?"
"No, really! I saw them just a second ago. Looked like a mother and daughter. Their hostility meter was yellow—neutral."
"Assassins usually work alone. Since when do mothers and daughters go on assassination missions together?"
"Uh… yeah, good point."
The player scratched his head, uncertain whether he'd imagined it. All he could recall was that the pair had been wearing impossibly fine gowns, like noblewomen straight out of a medieval documentary. And then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.
At the corner of the street, the woman quietly dispelled her spell of concealment. Her gaze swept across the unfamiliar surroundings, curious and cautious—like someone visiting the city for the very first time.
"Mother, this place is nothing like Kazdel."
The voice beside her was calm, resonant, and oddly androgynous.
"The Arts tells me… they feel at peace," it said softly.
"Yes… this city is different from Kazdel's mobile fortresses," the woman murmured, brushing a gentle hand over the child's head.
"I want to go explore on my own," the younger voice replied.
"Alright. But don't forget to maintain your disguise. Most won't be able to tell your true race like this—but caution never hurts."
"I know."
As the girl—if she was a girl—departed, the mother sighed quietly. Drawing her veil over her face, she began to walk alone through this strange yet oddly familiar land.
Everywhere she went, she felt serenity—peace.
From the faces of the Sarkaz she passed, she could sense genuine warmth, hope, and purpose.
Could such emotions truly exist within Kazdel's cities?
She shook her head slightly. Such tranquility she had only ever witnessed in Her Highness's presence. The irony stung: what the so-called Sarkaz King had once achieved, an outsider—a Sankta—had now recreated.
Had the civil war opened the door for outsiders to exploit?
Was this Sankta, this so-called Pioneer, merely a trap set by Laterano to sow chaos in Kazdel?
But deep down, she knew that wasn't true.
With more than two centuries of experience behind her, she could see clearly what kind of man this so-called Pioneer truly was—what his heart desired.
"Long time no see, Lady Laqeramaline."
A deep, gravelly voice broke through her thoughts. She froze for an instant, her surprise flickering beneath the veil, though her composure quickly returned.
"You are… a Gargoyle?" she asked evenly.
"When the royal council convened, many sought your people," she continued, her tone solemn. "Yet your kind vanished completely—no trace, no whisper."
"Forgive our decision, my lady."
A small stone winged-like creature fluttered down before Laqeramaline, bowing deeply in respect.
"I cannot disclose our whereabouts," it continued. "But we hold a bleak view of Sarkaz's future. Even if the General gathers the remaining courts under one roof…"
"Then why appear before me now?" Laqeramaline asked quietly.
Though the Sarkaz royal courts often competed with one another, they had once stood shoulder to shoulder in battle.
Even now, separated by politics and distance, the blood of Sarkaz still ran strong through them all.
Before this Gargoyle emissary, Laqeramaline's demeanor was gentle—much as it was when she spoke to the royal court, the General, or Her Highness herself.
"The Gargoyle Court recognizes Felix."
Laqeramaline blinked in mild disbelief. For the first time in years, she felt a trace of absurdity. She knew the Pioneer's true name—Felix—and that only deepened her surprise.
"The Gargoyle Court… chooses to support the Pioneer?"
"Yes," the Gargoyle replied, nodding slightly. His voice rasped like stone grinding against stone.
"His actions may not always seem right—but they are the most effective. What appears to be a detour is often the shortest path forward."
"Lady Laqeramaline, have you not noticed the unique nature of this Pioneer's city?"
The question left Laqeramaline silent. She thought carefully about all she had seen and heard since entering the city… and slowly nodded.
"But you understand, do you not?" she said at last. "The Pioneer is Sankta. Even if you acknowledge him, the other courts will not."
The Gargoyle gave a low, scraping laugh, like gravel shifting underfoot.
"Lady Laqeramaline, do you not think it stranger still—that a man like the Pioneer is a Sankta?"
"Teekaz," he whispered.
From the Gargoyle's mouth came a name that stirred familiarity in Lady Laqeramaline's heart.
"With his abilities," the creature said solemnly, "awakening is only a matter of time. When that day comes, we will stand behind him—as his strongest shield—so that Kazdel may rise above Terra in the truest sense."
"…You've seen much, haven't you," Laqeramaline murmured, letting out a faint sigh.
The Gargoyle gave no answer. After leaving Kazdel, their kin had traveled to Victoria, where they witnessed firsthand the deceit and bloodlust of its nobles—how they would turn to violence over the smallest profit. That savage, bone-crushing ruthlessness had taught the Gargoyle much about survival and progress.
Then, by chance, they encountered Felix—moving easily through both the markets and the noble circles. At first, he was but a curiosity to them. Yet, despite his youth, he maneuvered those tangled webs of politics with practiced precision, forcing even the most obstinate old nobles to cooperate with him.
That alone spoke volumes of Felix's capability.
But more striking still was his attitude toward the Sarkaz—measured, tolerant, almost compassionate. To a race long burdened with suspicion, this open-mindedness had shaken the Gargoyles deeply.
They observed him quietly, listening to every word he spoke at the Banquet of Kings, watching how he guided the Eblana sisters with calm wisdom. And in time, they reached a conclusion: this man would one day restore the Sarkaz to greatness.
"Lady Laqeramaline," the Gargoyle continued, "even the lich clans in far-off Leithanien have shown interest in Lord Felix's research laboratories. According to what we've learned, they sent an envoy to make contact last month. That messenger may still be on the road."
Laqeramaline's eyes widened slightly. If what the creature said was true… would that mean two royal courts might soon stand behind Felix?
"In today's Ten Courts," the Gargoyle went on, "the Wendigo bloodline has long since fled to Ursus, abandoning their Sarkaz heritage. The Diαblo clan is extinct. Tell me, Lady Laqeramaline—do you believe the fallen Sankta could ever rise to claim one of the Royal Court?"
"Why can't we settle this calmly?" Laqeramaline replied, blinking slowly. "You know as well as I do that the Ten Courts' seats have not changed since the beginning."
The Gargoyle unfurled its rough, stony wings.
"Before we left Kazdel, we already heard that the Sanguinarch of Vampires intended to remove the Wendigo from the royal seats."
"Perhaps that is only a misunderstanding."
Laqeramaline's tone was level, her expression unreadable. "The General and Her Highness may differ in their vision for the future, but the role of the Courts is to stand beside them—offering support, not division."
"I do not believe," rasped the Gargoyle, "that Lady Laqeramaline would ever side with the General."
He bowed his head slightly. "Forgive my bluntness, but such restraint is not typical of your kind, the Banshee."
"…"
Once more, the Gargoyle bowed deeply. "Please allow me to convey the greetings of the Gargoyle Court, Lady Laqeramaline. We will continue to watch over Kazdel—from the shadows."
With a heavy beat of his wings, the small gargoyle lifted into the air and vanished from Laqeramaline's sight. She stood silently for a long while, letting out a quiet sigh.
The rift between the General and Her Highness—she understood it, even sympathized. In her heart, she leaned toward Her Highness; she believed that following her would bring a brighter future for the Sarkaz people.
But when she later heard mercenaries speak of the Frontier District, curiosity drew her to visit. What she saw there made her question everything.
Perhaps what Her Highness strives for… this Pioneer is already achieving on his own path.
Now, one of the Ten Courts—the Gargoyle—had openly pledged its support to the Pioneer.
Even the Liches had shown great interest in his work.
If those two courts truly chose to back him… could Felix one day unite Kazdel under his banner?
Yet… his lands were small. His soldiers, few. The adventurers within the Frontier District might be many, but compared to the disciplined armies of the General and Her Highness, they were but a drop in the ocean. The General tolerated the Pioneer only because of that limitation—for now.
Laqeramaline could not foresee what the future would bring. She only hoped the civil war would end soon. The Sarkaz had shed enough blood already.
---
At that very moment, Felix sat quietly in a conference room, listening to the heated discussion echoing from both sides of the long table. The participants—Sarkaz artisans, cartographers, and player-builders—were debating fervently over the next expansion of the Frontier District.
Part of the district had been lost to an Catastrophe, and a new residential zone had to be developed quickly. Voices overlapped, opinions clashed, and still, Felix did not speak.
That was the way of leadership, after all.
He'd seen it in old historical dramas—emperors at court sessions saying nothing at first, allowing their ministers to argue and weigh every possibility. Only when the balance of reason tipped clearly in one direction did the ruler finally speak.
Felix had no desire to be an emperor — but as a leader, he had no choice but to learn those same skills.
Sometimes, he missed the days when he was just a player — reckless and free, venturing across this vast, godforsaken land in pursuit of stats and gear. That was the true joy of an MMORPG, wasn't it?
"...Pioneers... Pioneers..."
Interlacing his fingers, Felix pulled his gaze away from the historical drama playing on the screen and turned toward Hoederer — the man currently in charge of supplies, and by now, the de facto leader of the Sarkaz mercenaries.
"Pioneer," Hoederer began in his deep, unhurried voice, "we need more living space than before."
He paused briefly, then continued, "Some mercenaries wandering the wastelands have heard about this place. They're taking shelter in nearby villages for now — but the villagers themselves are starting to head toward the big city."
Felix raised an eyebrow. "That 'big city' you're talking about… don't tell me you mean the Frontier District?"
"Yes," Hoederer confirmed without hesitation.
Felix blinked, momentarily stunned.
"The number of Sarkaz currently residing in the Frontier District has reached about fifty thousand," Hoederer went on. "That doesn't include the mercenaries capable of fighting — roughly another ten thousand. In the coming days, we expect a large influx of refugees seeking safety here."
"How many are we talking about?"
Hoederer glanced at Ines, who was flipping through her report. His throat went dry. "Possibly… a hundred thousand."
"A hundred thousand? Possibly?"
Even Felix was shaken by that number. It was already hard enough to feed the current population. Hunting was getting tougher; prey was scarce. The players had begun bringing in animals for livestock, but most of them keeled over after grazing on the contaminated grass.
Others tried their hand at farming — only to find that the tainted soil couldn't grow anything. Eventually, they had to buy soil from outside, carve out small plots, and start cultivating on their own.
Even so, through trial and error, they had somehow managed to stabilize food production.
At this point, Felix felt less like a leader and more like the overseer of an evolving civilization — one that refused to die no matter how many debuffs the map threw at him. Every hardship only made his "tech tree" stronger.
But now, with another hundred thousand people on the way…
In Civilization, every tile could only sustain so many workers. Growth depended on surplus food — and when the population grew too quickly, famine inevitably followed.
If that happened here, the players could always pack up and head for another mobile city to eat and regroup.
But the Sarkaz? They wouldn't survive the hunger.
The thought made Felix's head throb.
He had always maintained a practical relationship with the Sarkaz — cooperative but distant. Even now, many residents of the Frontier District didn't realize their lord was actually a Sankta.
As a shrewd "snake" of a player, his first instinct was darkly pragmatic: if food ran out, and the market price became unbearable, and the General started mocking the Frontier District's struggles, he'd simply declare another city's foods as his and push through the famine.
But here? He had no such luxury. The only people under his rule were Sarkaz. They have nothing here.
If Kazdel's factions had some stockpiles worth seizing, that would've been ideal. Felix frowned. He couldn't ask Theresa for aid — her own situation was already strained.
Which left him only one option.
"…Could it be," he muttered under his breath, "…that I'll have to trouble Theresis for a while?"