Some time before the declaration of war, Lucas was glancing around…

  Lucas told himself he was ready for battle.

  He always did. It was the thing you had to believe if you wanted your legs to keep moving forward instead of bolting the other way. Still… the numbers didn’t lie. Level twenty-three. Not exactly the kind of level that legends were written about. Hell, not even the level Charlie’s bar drunks boasted about between belches.

  Lunaris wasn’t top-tier either, though, and people trusted her. So if she got a seat at the table, then—by rights—he deserved one too.

  Right?

  He squared his shoulders like that would settle it, but deep down there was a tiny crack whispering he wasn’t as sharp as he pretended.

  Their target loomed ahead: Portside Barracks. And once he saw the place, he understood exactly why it was chosen. Whoever designed this city hadn’t been dumb. All the roads and alleys spilling in from the portside gate bent here, like rivers funneling into one fat whirlpool.

  If this were Earth, he would’ve called it the mother of all roundabouts. But this wasn’t Earth.

  This was Rimelion, and the roundabout wasn’t circling some fountain or statue… it wrapped around a slab of military paranoia given stone and mortar. The barracks were basically a fort in their own right, a square brute with thick walls.

  One massive street looped around the whole thing, clean and deliberate, like the city planners hadn’t bothered with imagination. Just: here’s your circle, here’s your wall, get used to it.

  The port square spread out on the lakeward side, meant for goods and sailors coming through the gates. On the opposite side, facing deeper into the city, was, predictably, the city square.

  The names made him snort.

  Real poetic. Whoever came up with them clearly spent all their creativity chiseling walls.

  Unlike the market stretches he was used to, there weren’t many stalls here. No bright cloth awnings, no fruit sellers hollering.

  Just space.

  This street was built for movement, not browsing, and it showed. Wagons rattled, boots pounded, voices blended into a constant roar. People flowed like a tide around the barracks, not stopping, not lingering, just… moving. Lucas tried to imagine himself as part of the force taking down the fort, smooth and confident. But all he could feel was the churn in his gut, reminding him he wasn’t as untouchable as he wanted everyone to think.

  He stole a glance over his shoulder toward one of the towers at the far end of the square.

  Up there, standing as if she belonged on a tall tower, was Pearl. She was leaning over the stone edge, scanning the chaos below with that curious tilt of her head that always made him want to smile and groan at the same time.

  Lucy had given her a fancy title: [Unseen Angel]. Anointed, that was the word. And she even had an 5-Epic class, [Glimmerwitch]. Flashy and with an effortless way of bending the battlefield so everyone else danced to her tune.

  Lucas?

  He was a [Spark Mage]. 3-Rare. Which, sure, sounded solid if you asked the average gamer. But compared to the monsters gathered around Charlie? It was like bringing a firecracker to a dragon fight.

  “Eh…” He actually muttered it under his breath and groaned, the sound more self-pity than frustration. He shouldn’t be in charge. Hell, he shouldn’t even be standing this close to the front-lines. Yet here he was, sweaty palms clenched around a fistful of tokens, checking the system clock every five seconds despite already having an alarm set.

  Under the barracks wall, Lucy was already holding court.

  Three hundred players, maybe more, clustered around her like ants waiting for a signal. Guards paced nervously along the ramparts above, one or two shouting half-hearted orders for the crowd to disperse.

  It never lasted.

  The players always drifted back like a tide that didn’t care what orders were barked from above.

  Lisa, meanwhile, had broken formation entirely… again. She was darting after that cute rogue from her guild, the one who always slipped out of her hugs like it was part of her rotation.

  Lucas’s eyes dragged back to Pearl.

  His chest tightened in that stupid, achy way it always did when he looked too long. He wanted to kiss her again, right here, in the middle of all this chaos. Wanted to remind himself that somehow, impossibly, he’d gotten lucky twice in his life. He didn’t deserve her, not even close. But she was here, and she was his, and—

  The alarm shattered the thought. Riiiiiiiiiing!

  His whole body jolted, instincts wired by the army drills. Without hesitation, without a second look back, he logged off.

  The capsule hissed as it cracked open, steam curling around Lucas’s face like a stage cue. He wasn’t the only one… four others slid free from their pods, the hiss and click of machinery filling the room with a kind of sterile heartbeat.

  For a moment, he just sat there, flexing stiff fingers, watching the others climb out like soldiers from some science-fiction sarcophagus.

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  Llama spoke first, voice practiced, like he’d rehearsed the line in his sleep. “Katherine's ready with me, central ready. Seneschal and Poundcake waited with us before moving southeast.”

  Lucas’s turn. His chest tightened. His mouth went dry. He pulled in a breath as if it might armor him and forced the words out smooth. “All good portside. Lucy’s ready under the wall, Pearl on overwatch.”

  He left out the part about himself… how he was just one step behind the actual players, clutching at his role like it actually mattered.

  No one needed to hear that. He sure as hell didn’t want to admit it out loud.

  NightSwallow dipped her chin. “We’re ready. Lumi and CEO are waiting to rain tokens; I’m watching from behind.”

  Then Frozna cleared her throat, stiff and clipped. “I’m ready, but Tramar’s busy showing off with his mage friends. Bigger fireballs, higher arcs, you know how he is.”

  Llama’s head shook once, slowly. “Noted. Proceed anyway.”

  Fty raised his hand like a kid in a classroom. “I’m alone, and ready to summon players.”

  Another nod from Llama, his face unreadable, already ten steps ahead in his mind. “Plan is in motion. Good luck.”

  One by one, they slid back into their capsules, with the hum of systems rebooting, the faint pressurized hiss sealing them away. Lucas lingered for a second longer, staring at the dim lights across the ceiling.

  Good luck. Right. He clenched his jaw, shoved the nerves back where they belonged, and lowered himself into the pod.

  Time to unleash hell… or at least, pretend he belonged among the people who could.

  As soon as he dropped back into Rimelion, he snapped open his interface and set the internal counter. Fingers moved fast, firing off messages to his squad, voice in his head hammering: don’t choke, not now.

  The ripple was immediate… players snapping into their formations like pieces sliding into place on a game board. Boots thudded, shields locked, and the air thrummed with that charged anticipation before everything went to hell.

  Lisa sidled up next to him, staff already glowing faintly in her hands. “Tell me when,” she said.

  But Lucas couldn’t answer; his focus was locked tight on the spell weaving in his palms. He had no room to fail, no second tries.

  First rune: steady.

  Second rune: clean.

  Third… he held his breath; and nailed it.

  ZAP!

  The sound cracked through the hum of the fort, a jagged spark that lit his nerves on fire. Other signals joined instantly, popping and flaring all around him, until the weird area seemed alive with static.

  He hurled the tokens, breathless, and watched them cascade down in glowing showers. One by one, everyone else followed… Lisa threw them, hundreds more players hurling their own contributions into the air. And in moments, the barren street was crowded. An army stood where seconds ago there’d been only shadows and dust.

  But then a voice boomed from the sky. “Count Itzel sends his regards.”

  Lucas jerked his head up… and froze. Of course. Of course it had to be her. His ex-lover, hovering across from the Grandmasters like she’d always belonged among gods and tyrants. How the hell had he not noticed her until now?

  “What—” The word caught in his throat.

  Banners snapped open before he could finish. Imperial. Dozens rising above their ranks. The system tags bled from ally blue to enemy crimson, marking a third of their force as traitors in a single breath.

  Lucy’s voice shattered the stunned silence: “Arrr—ye’d betray me? Har har! Wahaha! Ye be nothin’ but a miserable land-lubber an’ me sworn enemy!” Her laughter cut jaggedly against the enemies as she rallied her loyalists, dragging them into tighter knots around her.

  Lucas’s eyes locked on one of the banner bearers, the system text cold and sharp in front of him.

  Lisa’s voice ripped through him. “Let’s burn them all!” She was already channeling, heat lashing off her like an open furnace. “Help me, Lucas!”

  For half a heartbeat he just blinked, mind scrambling to catch up. Then the fear cracked, and the words spilled out of him like armor he didn’t quite believe in.

  “For the Queen!” he shouted, forcing his hands steady as he dragged the first rune into existence.

  Back to Charlie…

  I stared at the catgirl assassin. She used to be super famous in the future, killing even the toughest guild leaders, and one of the most popular assassins. Maybe because nobody knew who she saw, and she liked that, and only showed in the last moment to kill.

  Like now.

  Lola.

  The White Grandmaster’s voice cut the air like a blade dipped in honey. He raised one hand high, as though clutching victory itself.

  “How does it feel,” he thundered, “to lose someone so dear, so irreplaceable? To watch faith turn brittle and snap beneath your very grip?” His white sleeves snapped in the wind as he spread his arms, the square his stage. He kind of reminded me of Riker. “Now, my esteemed peers, join me. Let us show this upstart what becomes of foreign invaders who dare insult our halls!”

  The Purple Grandmaster stirred.

  Slow, deliberate steps carried him across the stone, his staff clicking faintly with each pace. His robes caught the light like bruised velvet. Finally, he came to stand at the White Grandmaster’s side. His mouth twitched, neither quite a smile nor a sneer. “What stranger times,” he said, voice low, measured. “That I would stand with you… for once.”

  The White Grandmaster let out a soft, scoffing laugh, chin lifted as if the outcome had already been sealed.

  Then, with the quiet scrape of boots on stone, the Black Grandmaster joined them. His cloak flowed like ink spilling across the square. “Altandai does not suffer weakness,” he intoned. “The Queen’s Gambit reeks of desperation. I lend my power to the Empire.”

  The Yellow Grandmaster followed in his wake, bright robes swaying like banners in a storm. “And I,” he declared, raising his golden staff. “The invaders will learn that our coffers are ours and we will protect them.” He took his place beside White without hesitation.

  Hopefully, Scamantha, with Luny and Yuki, can do something about it.

  And then Shad moved.

  Not toward them. Toward me. His stride was unhurried, every step deliberate. I braced for betrayal, for the sting of steel—

  Instead, he stopped before me. Dropped to one knee.

  And bowed.

  “I pledge myself,” his voice rang, “and my forces… to the Queen.”

  Wait what? He’s kneeling? To me? Oh, Saevrin, they’re all staring. I should probably say something queenly, but my brain’s just screaming?

  The Red Grandmaster walked, his cloak dragging across the stones. His expression was unreadable; his voice quiet. “Curious,” he said, gaze fixed on Shad kneeling at my side. “Shad has never been wrong.”

  He looked once toward the others—White tense with fury, Purple unreadable, Yellow glowing with conviction, Black smirking—and then turned back to me.

  Step by step, he crossed the gap.

  Then he dropped to one knee beside Shad.

  “Demon magic is impressive on its own,” he intoned. “But you….” His head bowed, red cloak pooled around him like a fire come to rest.

  “I pledge myself,” he said, clear enough for the city to hear, “to the Queen.”