A white linen shirt, half unbuttoned to expose a sculpted chest, its sleeves rolled to the elbows; tousled sun-blond hair and fur shimmered under the glow of scattered mana lamps around the tent. On his wrist, an elegant timepiece—an innovative invention known as a wristwatch—ticked patiently, created for battlefield utility where pocket watches had long failed.

  “So,” Narsiz’s voice carried a measured gravity as he reclined behind a desk, drowning in disarray, one leg draped lazily over the other. Paper towers loomed around him like besieged ramparts, and a waste bin overflowed with the casualties of bureaucracy—spent inkpots and mangled drafts from countless sleepless nights. In his ink-stained fingers, a half-empty crystal wineglass cradled a dark red vintage that gleamed in the candlelight. “I actually summoned you all here to discuss—”

  Before Narsiz could finish his statement, Bjoern—heir of the hawkish Iron-Claw household—cut in, voice tight with restraint and simmering fury. “Yer pup’s been testing every ounce of ma patience,” he growled, his attention fixed solely on the third person in the tent, tone low but loaded with unspoken threat.

  “Why blame me, though?” Styx—one of the Heart-Fire triplets—spread his arms in mock innocence, every exaggerated movement tailored to needle the room. His smirk, insufferably smug, practically begged someone to take a swing. “What could I possibly have done? I’m just an adorably harmless lil’ pup~”

  Narsiz watched them both with mounting irritation, his bushy, pristine tail flicking with restrained exasperation. Internally, he cursed his “brilliant” little brother for dumping these two agents of chaos into his already volatile camp. Talented? Absolutely—brimming with power and combat instinct. But their cultural differences, northern or not, had transformed the atmosphere into a pressure cooker primed to explode—not factoring in the impending mating season. Households rarely collaborated in this way—and the reasons why were now painfully clear.

  “Ya think yer hot shit, don’t ya?” Bjoern growled, stepping forward with deliberate menace. His towering Iron-Claw frame cast a shadow that swallowed the smirking cerberuskin. “Wanna settle this properly, right here and now?”

  “Hoooh,” Styx slipped his hands into his pockets, leaning forward with an exaggerated swagger, natural thug-like personality on full display. “Do you have someone’s dick permanently stuck in your mouth, you pathetic faggot—speak normally for once.”

  Some military campaigns made exceptions—this one included—where youths from different cultures, educational backgrounds, and idealistic leanings were tossed together and handed lofty titles, token responsibilities, and a shot at earning arbitrary merits. Enough, at least, to one day call themselves Lords and Ladies.

  Bjoern’s [Aura] detonated with the fury of an avalanche—power befitting the Titan’s heir. A wave of killing intent swept the tent, dropping the temperature to near freezing. “Say that filthy insult again, yer shite-spewin’ twig,” he snarled, muscles surging beneath straining fabric, and tail standing still. “Ye actually thin’ I’ll not crush yar skull?”

  Styx’s smirk widened with malicious glee as he leaned in, lips just beginning to shape the insult again—taunting, daring Bjoern to snap. “F—”

  Though their intentions were often good, without Alexander serving as their de facto leader and calming presence, they behaved more like barely restrained wild creatures than nobles. This unruly behavior only intensified as the mating season crept closer, their pheromones rising in volatile waves that clouded judgment and eroded self-control across the camp.

  Before Styx could even finish articulating the inflammatory word, a gleaming string materialized around his throat, crackling with concentrated [Energy]. “Perhaps we should abandon our puppyish behavioral problems and actually focus on the important reason I summoned you all here?”

  Styx’s gaze traced the glowing string’s origin with amused curiosity—Narsiz held up his index finger with casual precision, the other end of the deadly string wrapped around it securely, while his eyes turned cold and sterile—sharp enough to cut through glass with their intensity.

  As out of nowhere, blistering heat collided with glacial force in an invisible clash that made the air crackle—Styx retaliated, barely acknowledging the lethal string pressing at his throat, eyes narrowing, and smirking in simmering irritation. “So that’s how we’re doing this?” he muttered, yanking his hands from his pockets—shimmering with rising heat, veins glowing like molten lines as the temperature surged. “Let’s see who melts first—”

  “Stop this foolishness this instant!” The tent flap suddenly burst open with dramatic force as Persephone, Styx’s politically astute sister, entered with urgent steps. Her voice carried both authority and genuine anger as she surveyed the volatile scene before her. “How dare you blatantly ignore our gracious host’s established rules!”

  The entire absurd conflict—one of many—had stemmed from Bjoern’s openness about his relationships with several male partners. In the south, such preferences were commonplace and accepted, but in the north—particularly his hometown—they bordered on scandalous. This military operation had conveniently provided Bjoern a chance to explore his identity before the inevitable political matchmaking forced him to choose a female fiancé. Privately, however, he held no actual interest in women at all.

  All [Auras] collapsed at once as Styx turned, the swagger draining from his face—panic and embarrassment flickering in his eyes like a pup caught red-pawed raiding the pantry. “But—”

  “No buts!” Persephone leaned in sharply, cutting him off, voice edged with fury. Her black-furred dogkin ears stood upright in irritation, while Styx’s flattened against his head. “How many times have I told you—no petty fights! Is this really so hard to understand?!”

  Persephone was by far the most diplomatically skilled of the three Heart-Fire siblings, consistently trying to appeal to Alexander’s comprehensive orders while hoping to secure additional support for their struggling household—though, there was already an agreement to provide substantial assistance, but their ongoing negotiations had stagnated significantly because he demanded complete autonomy for his educational institutions, charitable organizations, and general economic development programs, while the current rulers disliked such an idea.

  Styx raised his arms in mock surrender, his tone slipping into defensive sarcasm. “Maybe he wouldn’t get so much attention if he didn’t make out with half the camp in broad daylight? What—”

  Persephone didn’t let it slide. “Oh?” Her eyes narrowed as she straightened, tone sharpening. “You seriously want to pick a fight with Bjoern over his… preferences?” Narsiz noticed her upper lip twitch in momentary distaste before she caught herself. “Would you also like to fight with Narsiz, too?”

  Narsiz, already dispersing his string, offered Styx a slow, mock smile as the young man waved nervously. “Hello, my little gem~,” he said with a flamboyant flourish, letting his gaze sweep deliberately up and down. “Fight? No, no—I’d much rather make love. Though I assure you, I’d be the one in charge,” he added with a wink.

  Styx staggered back, his face drained of color—only for the flush of fury to rise just as quickly. “You smug bastard,” he snarled, all teasing gone from his expression. “I swear I’m going to knock your teeth in!”

  “Good luck with that,” said Lethe as the tent flap stirred and he stepped inside—last of the Heart-Fire triplets, posture slouched, laughter clinging to his words despite the everlasting exhaustion etched into the bags under his eyes. “Touch Narsiz, and you’ll be lucky if Alex doesn’t slice you into geometric accurate pieces.”

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  Styx only smirked, arrogance gleaming in his eyes. “This lightweight? Barely managed to take down Freya and now struts around like he’s some war god. You really think I’m afraid of that yapping pup—”

  The interruption came swiftly as laughter rippled through the tent and Isabella stepped in, her own laugh ringing out with cheerful disbelief. “Haha, you and Alex?” she echoed, her sun-blond tail swaying playfully as she entered. “You do remember that fight, right? He barely tapped into any magic—fought with a body missing both [Energy veins and core]—and still turned Freya into a mess. If he ever goes full throttle, you’ll be lucky to last thirty seconds.”

  Isabella of the pacifistic Feather-Paw household strutted into the tent—military uniform impeccable, her hands completely covered in fitted black leather gloves that hugged her fingers tightly, and a soft voice filled with delight—a dedicated officer in the medical corps and genuinely loved by almost everyone because she healed and cared for soldiers and prisoners alike without discrimination.

  Styx blinked in confusion, about to retort, when Lethe casually slung an arm over his shoulders. “Listen,” leaning in with a low voice. “You’ve got [Mana Sense] now. You’ve seen the kind of stuff he can pull off with basic mana artifacts, right? You’ll have a mana bomb in your ass before you even blink—how about we just let this go, you apologize to Bjoern and Narsiz, and you don’t have to get your lower parts healed for months?”

  It was true—Narsiz remembered that fight vividly. Alexander had deliberately restricted himself to testing new spells and relying on martial arts alone. If he’d been aiming to kill, it would’ve been a different story entirely: diamond and metal shards slicing through the air like a hurricane, ripping everything in their path to shreds. His spatial pouch and even his clothes were rigged with so many concealed weapons, he could’ve reduced the entire camp to scattered limbs and smoldering debris in seconds.

  “But—” Styx started to protest, voice faltering as he realized every pair of eyes in the tent was already aligned with Lethe. The weight of collective agreement smothered whatever bravado he’d hoped to muster.

  Before the situation could spiral further, Lethe’s arm strained around Styx’s neck while dragging him behind Persephone, who was barely holding herself together. “Come with me~,” he said in a singsong voice, light but firm. A hush fell over the rows of noble youths. “We’re going to have a very serious talk about your behavior... later, privately.”

  Styx offered only token resistance, his feet dragging as he followed, head bowed in silent shame. As the brawler of the trio, he was undeniably strong—but also the least emotionally stable. He lived in the shadow of his own volatility, always a breath away from detonating, and it often fell to his more composed siblings to rein him in—especially during the chaotic instability of mating season.

  “Hm.” As the atmosphere in the tent finally began to ease, Isabella glanced at Bjoern, whose eyes remained locked on Styx—as if still itching to end it very differently. “I think someone owes an apology,” she said, her gaze shifting pointedly to Persephone.

  Narsiz arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, regarding her as an unlikely ally. Throughout the military campaign, Isabella’s idealism had often surpassed even Alexander’s—she was a textbook Feather-Paw. Yet when tempers flared and chaos threatened, she stepped in with maternal instinct, seeking to deescalate before sparks turned into infernos.

  Persephone caught Isabella’s gaze, then turned back to Styx. “You will stay directly behind me at all times,” she ordered, her voice sharp and unwavering, the glare typically reserved for unruly pups. Then, with graceful formality, she faced Bjoern and offered a respectful bow. “Please accept my deepest and most sincere apologies, Bjoern A. Iron-Claw.”

  While Persephone could’ve opted for a more casual approach, she recognized the shifting political landscape. Building a strong rapport with everyone was now essential—Alexander’s rapid and relentless integration of every household in eastern Moorgrel left her no room for missteps. The archmage pup was nothing if not persistent.

  ‘You really are cornering everyone, Alex,’ Narsiz mused inwardly, noting how even Bjoern’s sidelong glance in his direction seemed to cool his temper. ‘No one here is reckless enough to test those boundaries now,’ a wave of schadenfreude, tinged with quiet pride, passed through him.

  Their guests and supporters hadn’t come solely for the military campaign—they witnessed Wolfsteeth firsthand, along with Foxteeth and every city en route, and saw what true progress looked like. Development surged alongside an almost fervent loyalty toward Alexander. Students from his academy didn’t just improve—they excelled. Their [Skills] and [Levels] soared, transforming the average orphan into someone comparable to a modest noble, both in power and poise.

  Bjoern exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he gave a curt, respectful nod in response to Persephone’s formal apology. “Think nothin’ of it,” he said, voice gruff but no longer hostile. “Just keep yer in check.”

  They all sought the same support, and Alexander offered it with remarkably few conditions—only asking for cooperation, autonomy, and shared respect. This fostered a specific atmosphere, but politics were never so simple or clean. Everyone understood that while Alexander embraced cultural differences, they were expected to at least tolerate and navigate them with care. After all, no one could predict what the most popular young noble might do if slighted. And then there was the whispered rumor—that their “lovely” grandmother stood fully behind him, lending an unspoken, ominous weight to his growing influence.

  “So,” Isabella said, stepping smoothly into the silence that threatened to settle after the apology. “What exactly did you want to discuss with all of us?” Her small smile and playful wink weren’t lost on Narsiz, who quietly appreciated her effortless ability to steer the room.

  Feather-Paw was a different headache entirely—currently entangled in a serious conflict after Isabella’s sudden departure. Bartholomew Silver-Tail had reportedly clashed with Pomeran Feather-Paw, flattening an entire region in the process. But that mess was Alexander’s burden to carry; Narsiz had summoned them for something far more pressing.

  Narsiz sighed, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile that hinted at restrained amusement. “Let’s wait for the rest to arrive—”

  As if on cue, the final participant stepped into the tent, her cheerful presence radiating with infectious energy. Her weapons clinked lightly with each step, and her red tail wagged in bright, unfiltered delight.

  “You called, boss?” Mathilda of the Cold-Snout household strolled in with her usual lazy swagger, twin short swords at hips and a massive bastard sword slung casually across back. “Did I get promoted to guarding the meat locker or something?” she quipped, tone light and cheerful, completely at odds with the lingering tension in the room.

  Mathilda had been deliberately relegated to guarding the food storage—thanks to Cecilia and Brutus, her overprotective parents, whose imaginations could conjure entire war crimes if anything so much as brushed their daughter the wrong way. As a result, her days were spent in a comfortable cycle of training drills, casual drinking, and luxurious napping, given that the camp was already one of the most secure in the region. Fortunately, she took it all in stride.

  After several minutes of light banter with Mathilda, Narsiz’s patience finally wore thin. His voice cut through the chatter, laden with fatigue. “That’s enough chit-chat,” he announced, rising slowly with an audible crack of his spine. “There is a critical matter we need to address—now.” He slung his jacket over one shoulder and turned toward a concealed trapdoor at the rear of the tent, striding toward it with calm authority and gesturing for the others to follow.

  The tunnel network had started as a security precaution—tight, narrow, and functional—but over time, it had expanded into a sprawling storage complex. As the threat level dropped, the corridors widened, the construction grew more permanent, and its role evolved. Though the camp above appeared unassuming, its underground infrastructure rivaled the defenses of the main estate. Reinforced by powerful enchantments and guarded by vigilant night-elf sentries, the entire site remained impenetrable to any conventional threat.

  After several minutes of weaving through the labyrinthine underground corridors, they arrived at a chamber so plain and featureless it seemed designed to be forgotten. “Everyone, stand back,” Narsiz instructed, drawing a small ink bottle from his pocket. He uncorked it with practiced care, letting the thick ink seep toward his fingertips. “This was probably a terrible idea,” he muttered under his breath, watching as the black liquid crawled across his skin like a sentient shadow.

  As his ink-coated fingers touched the unremarkable door, Narsiz murmured an incantation. The liquid dark seeped into hidden seams within the wood, veins of faint light pulsing outward until the entire surface shimmered with activated enchantments. A soft, decisive click followed as the door unlocked.

  “Come inside,” Narsiz said, holding the door open. Though the display looked impressive, he secretly disliked this particular method of channeling Mana. Most mages summoned and controlled Mana directly or tethered it to their personal [Energy], but there was another method: linking Mana to a [Mystic Skill]. In Narsiz’s case, [Masterful Writing]—a rare [Mystic Skill] that allowed him to inscribe supernatural beauty and manipulate anyone who read the resulting script. To those experienced, it felt intuitive, almost second nature. Yet the method came with serious limitations. For Narsiz, every activation required intent, composition, and nuance—far more effort than most could imagine. Still, the skill’s creative applications were potent for anyone clever enough to exploit them.

  Clank

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