At the capital city of Mornet, within a massive, ancient tower guarded by countless soldiers and defensive turrets, Aster focused on the war map before him. The map was divided into large regions, with red marks indicating ongoing battles between the two forces. Among them, the battles at Voga and Mornet were the most crucial. Both sides commanded all around fifty thousand troops, including over a hundred warlords. Hesmor Voga personally led the army of Rumi, while Aster’s forces were commanded by Fugger Caesar, the right hand of Fugger Jacor, a powerful Battle King and a brilliant tactician.

  The territories of Voga and Mornet were divided by the Middle River, which flowed from the Emerald Range. The river was so named because its course split Hesmor in half, past Voga and Melor, then finally reaching its mouth where Mornet met the Seawall Mountains.

  Aster gazed thoughtfully at the red mark representing the battle between Voga and Mornet. Opposite him sat Jagger Jacor, who waited silently. Suddenly, Aster spoke, his tone filled with doubt.

  “Intelligence reports say that Rumi met with Oracus in secret? But Greaton cannot violate the treaty! My spies along the eastern sea confirm that Greaton remains motionless. Perhaps it was just a failed negotiation.”

  “Failed?” Jacor smiled mysteriously and slowly raised his long, thin finger, pointing to the position Aster was observing.

  “You see this battle? Our army dominates on all fronts. Rumi’s troops are merely holding their ground. It won’t be long before our two flanking forces join in, and the battle will end. We know this, and Rumi knows it too. He’s not a fool. But look at the numbers our scouts provided, Rumi’s army has grown from twenty thousand to thirty thousand. Everything has a purpose, Aster. Perhaps… he intends to strike?”

  “Impossible! Attacking with thirty thousand troops would be suicide. We already have thirty thousand of Ceasar alone, not counting the two other wings, a total of sixty thousand men. If he attacks, he dies.” Aster stated firmly.

  Jacor did not deny it. Yet, as a merchant, he was always a man with contingency plans.

  “Maybe he won’t attack… or maybe he’s buying time for something else. The goal of this battle isn’t to measure victory on the field, Aster. This battle is a chessboard and whichever king is checked first will lose everything.”

  Aster fell silent. He felt Jacor was right. Even though he couldn’t discern what Rumi was plotting, the target was undoubtedly himself. Somehow, Rumi would strike this city to capture him.

  “Move the troops from Melor back to reinforce the defenses. The border forces are to continue merging with Caesar’s army. And Jacor… execute whatever plan you deem necessary.”

  “That would be for the best, Your Majesty Aster,” Jacor replied with a faint smile.

  The Voga–Mornet front was not as brutal as expected; instead, it had settled into a deadlock. From the outset, to blunt Aster’s overwhelming numbers, Voga had destroyed every bridge crossing the Middle River and ordered defensive lines erected along the riverbank, manned with archers and long-range mages. It was an effective defensive scheme. The two armies were now roughly even, and Caesar found it difficult to locate a breakthrough in Voga’s fortifications. Yet he was in no hurry. Intelligence told Caesar that the noble contingents on the border plains and Melor’s domain had withdrawn and declared neutrality. That meant Voga’s forces were isolated and faced only two options: surrender or retreat, because once Caesar’s two flanking forces joined, Voga would be vastly outnumbered and his defenses crushed. Caesar knew this, and he believed Voga knew it too. Voga might not be bright, but he had advisers.

  Strangely, Voga did not withdraw. On the contrary, he kept pouring more troops into the defenses.

  “What is he trying to do? Attack? No! An attack would cost him the terrain advantage; the river would become an obstacle to his own men. But if he won’t attack, why reinforce?” Caesar wondered. He considered the possibility of Voga tunneling under the river to stage rear ambushes, but that was impractical "too time" consuming and too conspicuous. Besides, this area would soon be choked with Aster’s troops. Caesar peered through his spyglass at the distant camp commanders; an uneasy premonition stirred in him, though he had no clear evidence.

  On the other side of the river, inside Rumi’s makeshift camp, Voga sat with two of his strategists, discussing a forthcoming strike.

  “This passage is rock-solid. I had it built over twenty years ago as an assassination route against a rival. It leads straight into Mornet’s capital,” Voga said arrogantly. He had once been a candidate for True King; knowing he could not compete head-on, he had secretly had a tunnel dug to assassinate the rival king. The plan had been discovered by Horta who rather than report it counseled Voga and persuaded him to abandon the scheme.

  “You actually built a passage from Voga straight into Mornet just to assassinate a rival? Have you read the nation’s Constitution? It clearly states: ‘During the era of two kings, one must not use armed measures to interfere with the selection process; violators will be stripped of rank and exiled from the realm.’”

  Hesmor Noman watched his father in horror. Once again his father’s recklessness terrified him. Noman silently thanked Horta for saving their branch of the family; exile wouldn’t fall on only one man.

  “Of course I read it… after Horta told me I had to stop. That’s why I dropped the plan,” Voga admitted, flushing. He was brave on the battlefield but not fit to be a king. He was too rash and impatient.

  Noman rubbed his temples and sighed. Returning to the matter at hand, he thought the assassination passage idea still held merit: a direct strike into Mornet to capture Aster could end the civil war at once.

  “The passage was built for assassination, so it’s narrow. It can only carry elite troops. Also, it seems Rumi knows of its existence. After all, he was Horta’s pupil. He’s gathered forces here to draw the enemy in. The enemy will assume we are massing for a full assault or preparing to make a stand, and they will concentrate their troops here,” Noman mused.

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  Noman calculated silently while Voga sat waiting for his son’s plan. Then Noman asked his father bluntly.

  “Rumi’s plan is clever but unrealistic. Even if our forces reach thirty thousand, the imbalance is still too great. Our move is too obvious, an attempt to buy time. Aster will anticipate it and might send a wing back to defend. If I’m right, he’ll bring fifteen thousand troops from Melor. And we can only send a little over a hundred through the passage. Even if they are all elite, they can’t overcome fifteen thousand mercenaries. Did Rumi give you any special instructions?”

  “I don’t know! After he met Oracus, Rumi told me to stick to the plan and do not worry about Aster’s forces,” Voga replied.

  “Huh. So Greaton is involved? Impossible! What did Rumi pay them to do that?” Noman asked in confusion.

  “Oh! Noman!” Voga said, then produced from his chest a crystal as clear as a drop of water. It glowed faintly; when pressed to the ear it sounded like the lapping of waves.

  Noman took the crystal, astonished and suspicious, then suddenly broke into a bright smile.

  “So that’s it,” he said.

  In the Mornet Bay, aboard an old, weather-beaten vessel, Jagger Jacor pinched his nose against the stench of salt, fish, and rot. He strode briskly toward the captain’s quarters and rapped on the decaying wooden door. “Come in, honored guest.”A shrill voice rang out. The door creaked open. Jacor stepped inside. The dim glow of a wall-mounted candle revealed a cluttered table littered with half-eaten food, and behind it sat a plump man with a bright red parrot perched atop his greasy head.

  “What brings you here, Lord Jacor?”

  The fat man grinned, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. Strangely, the one speaking was not him but the parrot itself, mimicking his voice perfectly. Jacor was unfazed; this wasn’t his first time visiting.

  “Mulock,” Jacor said calmly. “I’ve come to offer your filthy pirate crew the kind of job that could change your lives.”

  “Ah, straight to business as always, Lord Jacor. Targets and pay?”

  “The target is Hesmor Rumi, a Battle King. The reward: one thousand gold coins.”

  “Hold it right there, Lord Jacor,” Mulock sneered. “Your target is the True King of Hesmor? You’ve lost your mind. We’re not taking that contract.”

  Jacor smirked inwardly. "Extortion again".

  The Mulock Pirates were infamous across the seas, terror of Break Island. They roamed from continent to continent hunting for the lost relics of the ancient gods. There were only seven of them, but each was monstrously strong. Greedy for gold, they wasted their fortunes on rum, gambling, and women.

  “Keep him alive,” Jacor said. “I’ll double the reward”.

  Mulock burst into laughter. “Ha! Always a pleasure doing business with you. Very well! I’ll need a binding contract to prove that we, the citizens of Break Island, aren’t meddling in Hesmor’s politics. We don’t want to violate the Alliance Treaty, after all.”

  Jacor flicked his wrist, tossing the fat man a glowing magic sigil which was an enchanted contract, signed by Aster himself and bound by an oath before Enesur. From that moment, the Mulock Pirates were no longer freebooters, but hired mercenaries under Aster’s command.

  “Sail tonight,” Jacor ordered.

  With that final command, he turned and left quickly, eager to escape the nauseating stench.

  Meanwhile, Noman led a strike force of one hundred and fifty elite soldiers through the narrow tunnels of the hidden passageway. Among them were over ten Warlords; the rest were seasoned Fighters. Though not as mighty as Voga, Noman was a formidable Battle King, one of the finest of his rank. Voga had to stay behind to draw the enemy’s attention, leaving Noman in charge of the true operation.

  “Commander,” one of the scouting Warlords reported, “above us lies the Mornet capital. Just as you predicted. It’s swarming with Aster’s troops. Looks like the Melor detachment has returned.”

  “There’s no need to rush,” Noman replied. “We’ll lie low for now. The moment their forces withdraw, we strike. Also! Be cautious of the woman always beside Aster. She’s one of The Writers. Their shared power is called Shadow. Every Shadow wielder is deadly and each possessing a unique variant of that ability. Do not underestimate her.”

  After speaking, Noman pulled from his chest the crystal he had taken from Voga. He crushed it in his hand. The shards dissolved into mist, drifting upward and vanishing into the air.

  Beneath the reef near the shore of Mornet Bay, hidden under the deep, gently flowing water, countless eyes blinked like transparent gems, waiting for something. They belonged to strange beings, upper bodies of humans, lower bodies of serpents, gills at their necks, pallid skin. They were the Naga, a martial people of the deep who wielded potent water magic. On the frontline two Naga leaders stood shoulder to shoulder: one young, one old. They spoke in a strange tongue, not the language of men.

  “Azhram! We’ve lain in ambush here for over two days. Will they attack?” the young one asked impatiently. He was well-built, eyes green as jade, golden scales streaking from the corner of his eyes down his face. His slick skin bore scars from cuts and slashes.

  “Do not rush, Kar’Zeth.” the elder replied. “This time our goal is only to distract the enemy. The queen sent you to gain experience! Be calm.”

  “Experience? I hope this will be interesting,” Kar’Zeth snapped.

  “Greaton only asked us to provide support. Don’t be reckless! You could lose your life.”

  The speaker was an aged Naga mage: dull yellow eyes, flaking facial scales, a white beard and long silver hair. He wore a black sorcerer’s robe over his upper body, leaving the serpent torso exposed. Suddenly he seemed to sense something; he turned to the younger Naga.

  “There is a response. They have signaled. We should strike,” Azhram said, composed.

  At Azhram’s confirmation, Kar’Zeth smiled cruelly. He had waited long for battle and hungered for it; this mission was never mere reconnaissance. From his back he drew a gleaming trident, one of the ten legendary weapons of the Madenes era: the Sea Trident, Serathis.

  Kar’Zeth brandished Serathis. A strange sonic wave radiated from the trident; the sea began to swell, dark storm clouds rolled in, thunder cracked, and heavy rain fell. A storm was upon them.

  In Mornet’s capital, Aster frowned as a clear sky turned sullen. He had a bad feeling. Looking toward the bay, he watched the waves rise unnaturally and his face drained of color, a wild idea struck him.

  “Quick! Order the Melor detachment to move to the bay and take up defenses! The Naga have gone mad. They’re attacking us!” Aster shouted to the messenger. The soldier receiving the order went pale and ran off at top speed.

  “Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Those damned Greaton fools,” Aster muttered, realization settling in. He felt foolish for seeing it too late.

  “There appears to be an extraordinary presence in that area,” Shelley’s voice sounded suddenly. “I can sense a strong magic there.”

  “Perhaps it is time for The Writter to show you their intent, Aster. I will handle that side,” Shelley laughed.

  “No! You must protect me!” Aster protested.

  “Do not worry. Someone else will come to your aid. Remember: when he appears, do not be afraid. Keep your composure. For if you panic, you will die,” Shelley said mysteriously, then leapt from the window toward the bay battlefield.

  “What the hell…” Aster sank back in his chair, helpless. It all came down to his own weakness. He was only a small Fighter with a bit of cunning; to them his life was disposable, mere fuel to be thrown away. Aster’s eyes burned red with anger at his impotence. He swore that one day he would grow powerful, one day he would make those who scorned him pay.