Chapter 83: Whispers of War and the Architect of Ruin
The air within the King's private chambers was thick, not with dust, but with an almost palpable layer of paranoid despair. Leornars, having momentarily materialized to conduct his swift, almost surgical reconnaissance, moved with the soundless grace of a phantom. The heavy, gold-threaded carpet and the ancient, groaning floorboards offered not a single protest to his passage. He was a ripple in the room's stillness, not a presence.
His initial sweep was complete, confirming the room's emptiness and identifying the key surveillance points. He banished the microscopic trace of dimensional residue left by his immediate teleportation—a necessary measure even for a momentary visit. He was just confirming his escape route when the distinctive, loud Click of the brass doorknob turning echoed in the silence.
A flicker of amusement crossed Leornars's mental landscape. He allowed himself a small, internal sigh of satisfaction. "Phantom Illusion," he murmured, the command flowing like cold water from his mind. Instantly, the room's reality seemed to re-knit itself, presenting an image of flawless, undisturbed order. Leornars himself dissolved into the non-space between dimensions, his consciousness observing from a point just outside the visible spectrum.
The heavy, ornate door—carved with the crest of the Seraphim kingdom—swung inward with a heavy thud, and King Theron staggered into the chamber. The man was a caricature of royal distress, his ruby-studded robes rumpled and his face drawn, etched with fear and fury. He didn't walk; he stumbled to the sprawling, canopied bed, collapsing onto the silk sheets. With a guttural, wounded cry, he violently ripped his cumbersome, gem-encrusted crown from his head, launching it across the room where it struck the wall with a hollow clatter!
"Why? Why is he here? Why is Leornars here?" Theron's voice was a choked, panicked hiss, sharp enough to tear the heavy velvet drapery around the bed. He ran a trembling hand through his sweat-matted, thinning hair, his eyes darting wildly. "He… he slaughtered the entire Lurtrian Royal Family and every damned noble faction there! He's a destroyer of kingdoms! What possible, benign reason could he have for being in my capital, walking in my castle?"
The King rose from the bed, pacing the room in small, agitated circles like a trapped beast. His voice rose, tinged with hysteria. "No, he couldn't have discovered my plans for the Lurtra invasion. Impossible! I was so meticulous, so careful with the funding and the covert communications. I was absolutely certain no one would find out! I had everyone who knew the true scope of the invasion… dealt with. Silenced. So how could he possibly know?"
Theron stopped, clutching his chest. His voice cracked with genuine, self-pitying despair. "He claims to be on 'vacation,' but that's a monstrous lie! Who would vacation here? This pathetic nation is little more than a 'whore nation,' rife with decadence, political rot, and corruption! We're a laughingstock among the major continental powers! That's why I'm perpetually excluded from the damned Skyvault Meetings! He has an agenda. He must! It's the only logical conclusion!"
The sheer depth of the King's paranoia and his country's self-loathing was almost fascinating to Leornars. He allowed the tirade to play out, absorbing every last drop of information—the King's fear of exposure, his plan for Lurtra, and his deep-seated political insecurity.
Leornars slipped from the chamber just as silently as he'd entered, reappearing in the shadows outside the castle's colossal Royal Library. The library, an architectural marvel of polished wood and towering bookshelves, was surprisingly lively.
He caught a glimpse of his own Phantom Illusion, a perfectly crafted double, engaged in what appeared to be a light, casual conversation with the young Princess Louis. The illusion was chatting with the appropriate charming reserve. With a subtle, almost imperceptible surge of mana, Leornars adjusted the illusion's parameters, placing a small, immaterial silver crown of woven light upon its head—a silent, yet deeply symbolic acknowledgment of the princess's future importance in his calculus. He was already priming her for her role.
'Let the seed of ambition grow, little princess,' he thought, a fleeting, cold calculation.
He walked away from the distracting noise of the library and located his next objective: the cramped, pungent atmosphere of the castle's Science Room. The air here was heavy with the metallic tang of volatile compounds and the sweet, cloying scent of distillation. Beakers bubbled lazily on wrought-iron stands, casting strange, flickering shadows on the stone walls.
Leornars, always the curious student of unique sciences, approached a shelf of unlabeled jars. He picked up one containing a mass of crystalline, almost translucent powder, tilting it to catch the light.
"That element is Sodium Chloride, Lord Leornars. It's still not a perfected element within this kingdom's technological parameters. For the record, I highly recommend against ingesting it into your physical body; the current preparation is unstable." The calm, perfectly modulated, informational voice of Althelia—the artificial intelligence residing within his core, acting as his internal oracle and database—spoke directly into his mind.
Leornars sighed, placing the jar back down with the utmost care. "I appreciate the warning, Althelia, but I'm afraid I'm not Zaryter. I don't need a reminder that everything in a poorly-maintained lab is inherently dangerous for consumption."
His final stop in the castle's labyrinthine interior was the source of a distant, metallic din: the Royal Knights Training Room. The clang of steel, the rhythmic thud of wooden targets, and the sharp shouts of instruction were a welcome, grounding change from the castle's earlier tense quiet.
The Captain of the Knights, a man named Kael, a known powerhouse and strategist, was keenly supervising a nervous squad of recruits. Kael was a man defined by vigilance. He was lecturing a young soldier on stance when he suddenly froze.
A deep, visceral chill—the instinct of a veteran who had fought too many battles against too many unnatural foes—ran through his body. He felt a shift in the air, a silent, momentary change in the dimensional constant. His hand snapped to the hilt of his greatsword.
The large, heavy oak door to the training room creaked open, and Leornars stepped inside. He had changed his attire slightly, and was now wearing a ridiculous, yet undeniably authoritative, crimson crown fashioned from an unknown, faintly glowing metal that dangled slightly over his forehead.
"State your name and purpose, intruder!" Kael bellowed, his voice laced with suspicion, his posture instantly shifting from instructor to warrior. The noise in the room immediately ceased.
Leornars ignored the question, walking casually to the nearest weapon rack. He picked up a dull-edged practice sword, testing its balance. "You really don't have to yell, Captain. I assure you, I'm just looking around at the local talent."
Kael didn't move a muscle, his greatsword half-drawn. He was a mountain of muscle, vigilance, and rigid military discipline. The moment hung taut in the air—then Leornars simply vanished.
Kael reacted instantly. Pure, honed instinct took over. He activated his unique, high-level skill: "Great Rithia." A faint, shimmering, barely visible field of golden mana enveloped him, transforming him into a living dimensional radar. This ability could detect any displacement, whether it was a rapid dash, an immediate teleportation, or even a subtle shift into an adjacent dimension. He roared, swinging his blade wildly to his right.
CLASH!
Sparks flew as his steel met Leornars's practice sword. Kael had anticipated the attack route perfectly. A grim, self-satisfied smile touched Kael's lips. He was good. Fast, but I caught him.
But as he looked up, the smile vanished, replaced by a mask of sheer disbelief.
Standing before him were six other Leornars's, all identical down to the dangling crimson crown, all looking back with an expression of utterly mild, almost palpable boredom. They hadn't attacked; they had merely manifested.
"What kind of devil are you?!" Kael shouted, forcing himself to discard his shock and engage the bewildering array of opponents, the roar of the greatsword echoing in the suddenly small room.
The real Leornars, meanwhile, was already seated comfortably on a polished wooden bench to the side, next to a pretty young lady, Diane.
"Do they always yell so much when they train?" Leornars murmured to Diane, his voice low and charming.
The door opened again, and a new figure entered: Prince Luiphonia, the Third Prince, a handsome man with an air of aristocratic arrogance. Behind him was his shadow and formidable guardian, Jeremy, the Prince's personal bodyguard, a warrior reputed to be second only to Kael. Jeremy's gaze immediately skipped the battle and locked onto Leornars seated on the bench. He fixed Leornars with a hard, appraising, and clearly suspicious stare.
Leornars met the gaze, offered a silent, almost imperceptible nod of dismissal, and simply... blinked out of existence.
Poof.
The six combat illusions battling the Knight Captain, and the one talking to Princess Louis in the library, all instantly faded, dissolving into motes of exhausted mana. Leornars was gone.
He reappeared just inside the castle's main entrance hall. He strode toward the colossal, copper-bound door, whistling a low, complex, and tuneless melody.
A final obstacle materialized: a young, terrified rookie knight, who had been standing guard at the massive doors.
"Stop! Halt, I said!" the boy squeaked, brandishing a standard-issue, flimsy longsword with shaking hands.
'Who's this imbecile?' Leornars didn't pause his stride. He walked straight past the rookie, treating him like an annoying pillar. The boy, panicking at the sight of the strange noble who had just materialized from thin air and was wearing a ridiculous crown, lunged and grabbed the hem of Leornars's fine tunic.
Leornars stopped. His expression remained utterly impassive, but his tone dropped into a whisper that was infinitely more dangerous than any shout. "Unhand me immediately, and I will, for the sake of your youthful foolishness, overlook this moment."
"No!" the rookie insisted, his voice cracking with a desperate, misplaced ambition. "You're an intruder! If I manage to turn you in, I'll be handsomely rewarded by the King! A noble's ransom!"
Leornars let out a deep, dramatic, and wholly theatrical sigh. "Very well. I will count to four. If you do not unhand me by the time I finish, I will kill you."
"Count all you want, you—you aristocratic fraud! I'm getting rich today!" the rookie crowed, tightening his grip.
"Four," Leornars began, the word a gentle, almost inaudible whisper.
"Three."
"I said I'm not leaving you alone, you—" The knight's sentence was brutally, instantly interrupted, cut short with horrific finality. His head, cleanly and perfectly severed from his body, dropped and rolled down the grand marble staircase with a dull, sickening thump.
The scene was witnessed by another, older knight, who had been patrolling the adjacent gallery. He stared in absolute horror, his jaw slack, his weapon forgotten. "You said till four! You monster!"
Leornars's lethal, nearly invisible threads of abstract mana—finer than spider silk, sharper than any monomolecular blade—vanished back into his core. "I did, yes." He didn't turn around, simply looking at the remaining guard over his shoulder. "I counted the two in my head. And then I killed him."
The remaining knight, galvanized by the horror, finally drew his sword, the scraping of steel an angry sound in the echoing hall. His hands trembled violently.
"Are you truly that idiotic, or are you just eager to join your colleague?" Leornars asked, raising a delicate, unimpressed brow.
"By the law of the Seraphim Kingdom," the knight stammered, his voice barely a breath, "for the murder of a Royal Guard, you are to be executed!"
Leornars's eyes narrowed, his casual demeanor evaporating, replaced by a cold, absolute intensity. "If you move even a single step towards me, or raise that blade any higher, I will kill you, and I won't bother with the counting this time."
The knight's eyes darted wildly—from the headless body to Leornars's cold, absolute gaze, then to the massive, bolted doors. Slowly, his hand trembled as he slid the sword back into its sheath.
"Good choice," Leornars said, finally turning his back on the guard. "Now, you have a task. Clean up that mess. Or, I guarantee you, you'll be framed for murder by someone who hates you, or someone who simply desires your position. It's actually a very normal, deeply human thing for people to use... chances to exploit to their advantage."
The terrified guard rushed to retrieve a body bag, scrambling away from the scene as Leornars finally stepped through the great doors, disappearing into the vibrant, chaotic life of the capital city.
The sheer, bustling cacophony of the Seraphim capital was a welcome contrast to the silent, suffocating paranoia of the royal halls. Leornars walked through the crowded streets, the noise a pleasant distraction, searching for his compatriots.
"Leornars! Over here!"
He turned to see Stacian waving enthusiastically from the doorway of a respectable-looking manor they had rented. She had shed her travel attire and now looked absolutely radiant in a deep, vibrant blue kimono that seemed to shimmer faintly under the afternoon sun, a stark contrast to her dark hair. Trailing behind her was Julah, who looked professional and tense in a simple, elegant pink dress, her hair neatly tied up in a precise bun.
Back at the manor, they settled into a small, sunlit sitting room. Leornars took a comfortable seat at a mahogany table. Stacian returned moments later with a silver tray bearing an antique coffee pot, two dainty cups, and a plate piled high with beautiful, artisanal cookies. Leornars set his book—a treatise on ancient Runes—aside and took a slow, appreciative sip of the tea.
"So," Stacian asked, leaning forward, the silk of her kimono rustling softly, her eyes glinting with excitement. "What's the plan?"
"Huh? That's new," Leornars noted, genuinely surprised, a slight smile touching his lips.
"What is?"
"You normally just go with the flow, Stacian. You don't usually ask about the strategic specifics of the plan," he said, placing the cup down.
Stacian offered a playful, almost predatory grin, a charming flash of ambition. "Yes, but this time? This time, I want to be an active part of the high-level chaos. I want to be the one dictating the pace of the destruction."
"Oh, really?" Leornars's eyes sparkled with mild amusement. "Well, if that's the case. Fine then. You're in."
Stacian's smile widened in triumph.
"Alright, Stacian," Leornars began, shifting instantly into a cold, clinical tone. "How much gold coin do we have left in the Avangard reserve? The actual, liquid wealth."
Stacian didn't even leave her seat, a faint dimensional warp shimmering around her. In less than a second, she had teleported to the high-security vault in their distant homeland, retrieved the relevant financial documents, and was back, placing the sheaf of papers on the table.
"Roughly six hundred billion gold coins, Lord Leornars. That figure includes the classified 'Product X' reserves, our established continental trade routes, and the collective liquid assets of all our annexed guilds."
Across the table, Julah—who had just taken a delicate sip of her tea—suddenly choked on the liquid, spraying a fine mist of jasmine-scented tea onto the tabletop.
"WHAAAAT?! Six hundred billion gold?!" Julah practically shrieked, looking wildly between the two demigods who sat there, completely unfazed. "Where did... how is that even possible?!"
Leornars ignored Julah's predictable shock, continuing his briefing as if he were discussing the weather. "Now, first, we will use our currency—which is substantial—to financially cripple this nation. Their King has proven himself a threat to our vassal states and, by extension, to us. I do not tolerate threats of any kind. This economic shock will destabilize their current regime completely."
He paused, his voice turning even colder, his eyes distant as if already observing the distant conflict. "Simultaneous to the financial collapse, we will raise a coup d'état. This coup will utilize the enslaved demi-humans currently forced into labor within the Seraphim Kingdom."
"The demi-humans," Julah whispered, finally regaining her composure. "Are you sure? Their lives..."
"I'm not sure how many will die in the initial upheaval, Julah, but it's a regrettable risk I'm willing to take for the greater, long-term stability of Avangard's sphere of influence," Leornars stated, his lack of emotion chilling. "I will deploy the Undead Knights to protect the demi-humans if necessary, acting as an intimidating deterrent. However, since demi-humans are inherently stronger and possess greater resilience than humans, I doubt heavy military intervention will be needed from our side."
Stacian nodded in agreement, her gaze fixed on the financial documents. Julah, meanwhile, continued to express her utter disbelief in silent contortions, wringing her hands under the table.
"I've already assessed the full strength of their Royal Knights," Leornars continued, ticking off invisible points on his fingers. "The only two viable threats are Jeremy, the Prince's bodyguard, and Captain Kael. I believe that Bellian and Zhyelena—our two senior Arch-Knights—can handle them easily if the need arises. The primary objective is to swiftly and absolutely turn the Seraphim Kingdom upside down. I will not tolerate slavery, discrimination, or the exploitation of demi-humans in any territory near my Empire. It is a matter of principle and establishing a precedent."
He leaned closer to Stacian, his voice dropping slightly. "Stacian, your primary directive is simple: if you detect any serious malice, a viable escape plan, or any counter-threat from the King, eliminate him instantly. No hesitation." He smiled, a dark, conspiratorial expression that promised chaos. "Princess Louis is on our side, after a fashion. It feels a bit like the situation we handled with Selrose all over again, only this time, with far more gold."
"Speaking of Selrose," Stacian interjected, her professional mind already connecting the threads of their numerous geopolitical schemes, "the Durmount Kingdom forces are about to invade Lurtra. Since Lurtra is officially a vassal state of Avangard, we are planning to treat it as a direct act of war—an invasion of our Empire."
"Ooh, that sounds promising," Leornars mused, eyes lighting up with interest. "And I heard from Selrose that her idiot, arrogant brother is the current King of Durmount. We need to hurry and facilitate her ascent to the throne, as promised." He took another sip of tea, considering. "I've already sent Marrielle Suvallina there. She's manipulative, sharp, and ruthless enough to deal with that foolish crowned prince. I'm unsure of her direct combat kit, but she is strong. To ensure her success, I'll send three of our Undead Paladins to watch over her and act as heavy deterrents."
"Excellent. And finally," Stacian added, tapping a finger on a separate section of the document, "the annoying border incursion with the Elven Kingdom of Elarian is still unresolved. Our spies indicate they are preparing a small offensive. We will need to implement ground threats on them as well—a display of force that makes them rethink the conflict entirely."
"Good idea. That's a sensible, three-pronged offensive." Leornars looked up at the ceiling, addressing his internal, sentient program. "Althelia, give me the incidence estimate for a direct, full-scale Empire of Avangard intervention on the continent, given our current activities."
"Assessment: Given the cumulative threat posed by your kingdom and the numerous destabilizing events you have committed across the continent so far, you will be treated no less than a Demon Lord and kept under constant, heavy watch by the major powers. The estimate of direct imperial military incidence is 75 percent."
"Hmm. Not enough," Leornars tapped the table twice. "We need more weight." He looked up again. "What estimate will there be if we were to attend the Skyvault Meetings?"
"The Skyvault Citadel Meeting is an emergency convocation called when a rising continental threat appears,it's held every two years and the next one is in two months, they're tasks is to breach acceptable parameters. If you were to attend such a meeting, your threat assessment would instantly rise to 89 percent."
"Still not enough. I want absolute peer status," Leornars declared, his voice gaining a hard, strategic edge. "I want the Empire to see us as an equal or even a slightly greater, indispensable threat. That way, if another nation—say, the expansionist Holy Kingdom—decides to invade Avangard, we have enough legitimate ground for a pre-emptive defense, even if we were the ones who initially started the problem. It's what I call 'Backdrop Tactics.'"
He elaborated, his fingers tracing patterns on the table. "First, make a major kingdom your enemy. Second, do not engage them in a full conflict. Third, let them attack first, giving you political high ground. Then, fourth, subdue them and absorb their assets. The global view is that they started it."
"But what if the Empire or the Holy Kingdom sides with them, viewing us as the common enemy?" Stacian asked, always calculating the worst-case scenario.
Leornars leaned back, his confidence absolute. "I've already begun complex diplomatic treaties with the Demon Clans and the Beastkin Kingdom," he stated. "If external intervention is needed, the Demons will assist us due to the centuries of political hypocrisy and misinformation the Empire has been spreading about them. We won't lose easily. The Devils are more... troubling to deal with, but they never, ever go back on their deals. If external intervention becomes necessary, I'll trade the souls of the Empire's invading soldiers for their guaranteed assistance."
Julah stared at them both, her face pale, finally finding her voice again. "You two are monsters. Truly. You treat lives and nations like pieces on a chessboard."
"It's called precaution and offense, Julah," Stacian said calmly, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea. "It's simply better to win both the war and the battles if necessary, rather than just winning a skirmish but losing the strategic initiative."
"But you two are so powerful!" Julah insisted, looking frustrated. "You're effectively demigods! Surely you can just handle anything with brute force."
"Power is an asset, not a strategy," Leornars concluded, his gaze sweeping over the opulent furnishings of the manor. "You can have all the money, the power, and the fame, Julah, but what truly counts in the long run is the action and the calculated effort. That's why I'd rather attack first and define the conflict than wait for someone else to attack me. Offense truly is the best defense, and vice versa. It keeps the enemy reacting, not planning."
A slow, profound realization dawned in Julah's eyes. She put down her teacup, her expression moving from shock to one of fierce, new-found resolve. "I understand now. I'll start preparing the terrains immediately. We will need them strategically softened and ready for the coup. I have spirit and agro magic—the earth is my territory, and I can shape it."
Stacian smiled, a genuine look of pleasure. "Yes, Julah. That will be extremely helpful. Thank you."
Leornars gave a slow nod, his crimson crown glinting in the sun. "We need to hurry. Our window of opportunity is defined by the Crowned Prince's schedule. Prince Luiphonia is highly capable and has far more political leverage than the King. He can and will end the coup swiftly if he returns before we are established. That's precisely why we came here six weeks before his scheduled arrival."
"Yes, Lord Leornars," Stacian and Julah chorused, now united by the sheer, terrifying scope of the plan.
Leornars brought his cup to his lips, the dark, satisfied smile returning to his face. "Let's see what you'll do, Prince Luiphonia, third prince of Seraphim, and your foolish father, the King, when your foundations are ripped from underneath you."