Kaelen Vayne stood at the apex of the Black Tower, a structure less ornate and grand than the spires of the great Magic Academies, but undeniably formidable. Its peak served as the command center for the Lionhart Legion, the largest mercenary group the continent had ever seen. The view from here should have been exhilarating—a panoramic sweep of the sprawling, chaotic megacity of Crossroads, a testament to his century of unrelenting, self-made effort in a world teeming with billions. Yet, all Kaelen felt was the bone-deep weight of it.
He was, by any measure, a miracle. At roughly one hundred and twenty years old, he had long surpassed the lifespan of an ordinary Expert and was closing in on the upper bounds of a Master. But Kaelen Vayne was not a Master. He was a Legend, a term whispered only among the hidden upper echelon of Emperors and High Priests. He was the solitary, unbreakable pillar supporting this entire edifice.
Kaelen ran a weary hand over the slick, polished obsidian table where the daily reports lay. They weren't engraved scrolls or enchanted crystal slates; they were neat, tabulated reports compiled on thin, pressed parchment, secured with simple bronze clips. It was a mundane process he had insisted upon, requiring precise columns of income, expenditure, manpower distribution, and casualty rates. It was a methodology of control rooted in a century-old, half-remembered phantom of a life where numbers were king and efficiency was god.
"A seven percent increase in desertion among the northern sector's main cohorts, Lord Vayne," reported Silas, his chief quartermaster and one of the few trusted Adepts in his inner circle. Silas was sweating, though the room was cool, his mind reeling from the scale of the crisis.
Kaelen's gaze remained fixed on the expense column. "Seven percent of our Northern Defense force is not a 'desertion,' Silas. It's the deliberate erosion of the contract we hold with the Iron Gate Confederacy. And the reason is transparent." He tapped a specific entry with a finger hardened by a Legend-tier body and scarred from countless battles. "Our disbursement to them is still based on the payment scale established before the Dragon's Tooth campaign. They are risking their lives to guard a worthless stretch of the Dragon Spine, and they can't even afford Expert-grade healing potions. They know their worth, and we are insulting it."
"We simply don't have the coin flow, my Lord," Silas pleaded, desperation leaking into his voice. "The Archduke of Silvershade Kingdom hasn't paid the second installment for their garrison contract, and you know we cannot pressure an Archducal family without risking—"
"A full-scale war," Kaelen finished flatly. He knew the cost of every action. He had built this power by taking the risks no one else would, but the sheer scale of the Legion now demanded the cautious strategy of an established power—a strategy he loathed. The Lionhart Legion was vast, a colorful, chaotic mix of species and backgrounds, boasting over ten million combatants. But numbers meant nothing when facing true power. The largest army in the world needed a treasury to match, and they were always, eternally, one month from bankruptcy.
He looked at the reports of his high-tier personnel. The Legion had thirty-two Grandmasters, a respectable number by any kingdom's standard, but utterly pathetic compared to the dozens of Sages that an Empire or a top-tier Church could deploy. Kaelen himself was the ultimate deterrent, the only Legend on the continent known to openly lead an organization. His power was a shield, but it also painted a massive target on their back. If he ever fell, or if the ancient, established powers finally decided to cooperate and crush the upstart mercenary organization, the Lionhart Legion would dissolve in a day. He had no Sage successor, no treasury of high-grade artifacts, and no deep wells of millennial knowledge—only his ruthless intellect, his modified sword technique, and the constant, nagging feeling that he was trying to run a fantasy kingdom like a modern corporation, always seeking efficiency where only raw, brute magic should apply.
The memory of the Archducal family, the stifling rules of the first five, flashed briefly—a cold, metallic taste in his mouth. He had left everything for freedom, and now he was arguably more shackled, chained by the financial and logistical needs of the largest army on the continent.
"Silas," Kaelen said, his voice dropping, the command authority of a Legend settling over the room like a physical weight. "Cancel the Silvershade contract immediately. Deploy three Grandmasters to retrieve the first installment and issue a formal letter stating the Legion will never service that kingdom again. No threats, just cold formality."
Silas gasped. "But, my Lord! That is a fifty-thousand gold crown loss this quarter!"
"And maintaining a contract with a defaulting client is a hundred-thousand crown loss over the next year, coupled with the slow rot of our reputation," Kaelen countered, tapping the expense column again. "We need capital. Real, deep capital, not the trickle of mercenary fees."
He turned away from the mundane reports, his eyes catching the light of the twin moons rising over the horizon. There was only one way to gain the resources, the artifacts, and the high-tier techniques needed to solidify the Lionhart Legion, to make it truly self-sustaining, and to finally live up to the promise of his Legend status.
It was time to take a risk that was commensurate with his power.
"Silas," Kaelen repeated, a dangerous smile touching his lips. "Initiate the emergency contact protocol with the Hidden Sun Syndicate. Tell them Lord Vayne is personally interested in their largest and most dangerous outstanding clearance job."