Eason raised a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting as if he were entertained by a private joke.

  "Then perhaps," he said mildly, voice polished smooth by decades of command, "you should enlighten me. Who exactly is in charge here? So we can stop dancing around it."

  Shane didn't hesitate. He lifted a hand and pointed straight ahead.

  "Him."

  Klaus stiffened—then recoiled like he'd been struck by lightning.

  "Me?!" he squeaked, his voice jumping an octave as he clutched his chest. "Why, Shane, I never knew you felt this way."

  He shot Shane a wounded look. "Throwing me into the fire without warning? I thought we had something special. Partners. Equals. Brothers bound by shared misery."

  Shane only spread his hands, palms up, absolving himself.

  "Can't argue with facts."

  Eason laughed, a warm, rasping sound that carried far more weight than it should have. He leaned on his cane, eyes narrowing with interest as he studied Klaus.

  "Ah," he said, amused. "Youth. Always loud. Always dramatic. Always convinced they're not being obvious."

  Samantha said nothing.

  Her gaze slid between Shane and Klaus, slow and precise, like a blade measuring distance. Her expression remained flat, unreadable—but the slight tightening of her jaw suggested she already understood something.

  Klaus let out a long sigh and turned back to Shane, the theatrics draining from his face.

  "You're serious," he said quietly.

  Shane nodded once.

  That was all the confirmation he needed.

  Eason straightened his back, his presence suddenly heavier. "Very well," he said. "Since you've decided who speaks, shall we begin?"

  He tapped his cane against the ground once.

  "I want you to assemble an army of subjugators. Six parties. Three-star rank or higher."

  Klaus's smile vanished.

  "So," he said slowly, voice dropping, "we're talking about a war." His eyes stayed on Eason. "Let me guess. Lizardmen? Kobolds?" A pause. "Quartzmen?"

  He tilted his head. "Or are we skipping straight to golems?"

  "Goblins," Eason said, without hesitation.

  The word cut deep.

  Klaus's eyes widened, and for a heartbeat, the present fractured. Two years of memories surged up uninvited—fields littered with bodies, the reek of blood and smoke, fire staining the sky while screams drowned out orders.

  "We're not participating," Klaus said.

  The room seemed to exhale—and then hold its breath.

  Shane's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as though a name had been spoken that belonged only to the dead. He said nothing, but the silence around him grew heavy.

  Eason regarded them calmly.

  "As subjugators," he said, "you exist to protect the innocent. That is your duty."

  Klaus let out a short, humorless laugh.

  "Protect the innocent," he repeated softly. "That's rich." His eyes hardened. "Who exactly are you trying to convince, old man?"

  He leaned back slightly. "And just so we're clear—we retain the right to decline any mission."

  Samantha finally spoke.

  "A coward like you," she said flatly, "should never have been allowed to wear the title of a subjugator."

  The words were blunt. Surgical.

  Klaus turned toward her, smiling thinly.

  "Funny," he replied. "Coming from someone who couldn't even protect her own comrades."

  His eyes flickered, "I really wish I could see the looks on the Moving Fortress and the Priestess when they realize they've been abandoned."

  Samantha's fingers curled, knuckles whitening.

  She took a step forward—

  "Enough."

  Shane's voice cut through the room like steel.

  Hatred flickered across his face, though no one could tell whom it was meant for. He didn't look at Klaus or Samantha.

  "Focus."

  Then he turned to Eason and bowed slightly.

  "Old Duke Leonhart," Shane said, controlled and formal, "I humbly apologize. But we must decline your offer."

  Eason shook his head slowly.

  "You truly never grew up, Shaney," he said. "Your emotion still clouds your judgment."

  He lifted a finger.

  "A third of the loot will be yours once the war concludes. Every participant will receive formal recommendations for rank advancement—from Duke Sater of Solrien and Duke Hemline of Crowvale." His eyes gleamed faintly. "And, of course, the favor of the people of Kollus."

  Shane answered immediately.

  "And those who die?" he asked. "They'll be forgotten. Their widows and orphans will receive a cold medal and a handful of coins instead of the warm hands of their loved ones."

  Eason went silent.

  He remembered the news about the Battle of Aegulus—how the fallen received no prayers, no names carved in stone. Only a letter. And a few coins.

  "…Then I will add that," Eason said at last. "A memorial for the fallen. And the widows and orphans will never know hunger again."

  Klaus tilted his head, as if the idea had only just occurred to him.

  "No slaves," he said calmly. "If you fulfill everything you just promised, we'll gather the men you need."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The words lingered.

  For the first time since the negotiation began, Eason's expression cracked. His eyes widened—only slightly, but enough. He had expected greed, ambition, maybe moral flexibility. He had not expected this.

  Even Shane's fingers paused mid-movement, hovering near his belt before slowly relaxing again.

  Eason let out a low hum.

  "Interesting," he murmured. "You're the first to ask that." He studied Klaus carefully. "Is that all?"

  Klaus didn't answer immediately.

  Instead, he reached out and lightly tapped the massive Howitzer resting beside him. The metal hummed once, then shattered into motes of pale light. In a blink, it vanished, absorbed into his Mindforger as if it had never existed.

  "One more thing," Klaus said casually, dusting his hands together. "I want a different share." He smiled. "A fourth of the loot will be sufficient."

  Eason's brows knit together.

  "A fourth?" he repeated. "Aren't you being greedy, young man?"

  Klaus's smile didn't fade. If anything, it became lighter—almost friendly—yet something sharp hid beneath it.

  "No," he said simply. "I just know my value. If you want me to join, a fourth is enough."

  Eason's gaze hardened.

  "Your self-evaluation carries no merit, kid," he replied. "You believe yourself more valuable than a Keeper?" His cane tapped once against the stone ground. "Refusing to involve slaves is already an absurd demand. Now you want a separate share?"

  Klaus shrugged.

  "If you can't fulfill my request," he said, voice still easy, "then I'm out."

  Eason frowned deeply and turned his eyes downward, lost in thought. Truthfully, the preparation had been a disaster. Convincing two dukes alone had taken weeks of negotiation, favors, and concessions, only to secure a hundred soldiers from each. The subjugator alliances of Solrien had rejected the proposal outright, calling it too risky. Too costly with little gain.

  The Keepers' remaining hope rested on scattered alliances in Crowvale—and even those were unreliable.

  Eason exhaled slowly, the weight of age pressing down on his shoulders.

  "Let us settle this another day," he said at last. "This old man is tired."

  He lifted his gaze back to Klaus.

  "I hope you'll reconsider my offer."

  Klaus nodded once.

  "I will."

  Eason raised his cane and traced a slow arc through the air. Space shuddered, then split open, forming a dark rift that swallowed light itself. Without another word, he stepped forward and vanished into it, the tear sealing behind him with a soft, final whisper.

  Samantha looked at Shane, then at Klaus. Her lips parted slightly, as if she intended to speak—but whatever words came to mind never left her tongue. Instead, her expression hardened, and she turned away.

  A moment later, her body dissolved into drifting smoke, scattering and fading until nothing remained.

  Klaus stretched his arms wide until his joints popped, then let them fall back to his sides with an exaggerated sigh. Dust stirred around his boots, drifting through the ruined battlefield where the smell of scorched mana still clung stubbornly to the air.

  "Well," he said lightly, as if they had just finished a casual chat instead of negotiating with a duke and a walking threat, "that went… better than expected."

  Shane glanced at him from the corner of his eye. His face was calm, almost blank, yet his gaze lingered just a second too long—as if weighing Klaus rather than his words.

  "You enjoy pushing people too far," Shane said.

  Klaus grinned, unbothered.

  "Only the ones who can afford it."

  He turned away before Shane could respond and slipped a hand into his ring. The movement was casual, but Shane noticed the shift in mana immediately. Klaus pulled out a scroll and flicked it once between his fingers. The parchment looked old—far older than it should have been—its surface veined with dark lines that pulsed faintly, like something alive breathing beneath the ink.

  Without ceremony, Klaus tossed it toward Shane.

  "Here," he said. "Another pet of yours."

  Shane caught it reflexively. The moment his fingers touched the scroll, a faint chill crawled up his arm. He frowned and activated his skill.

  "Merchant's Appraisal."

  His eyes narrowed as the information unfolded before him.

  "…A Familiar Binding Contract?" he said, disbelief slipping into his voice.

  Klaus leaned back against a broken slab of stone, folding his arms.

  "Found it among the loot," he said. "Figured you'd make better use of it than I would. I already have enough things trying to kill me. I don't need another one trying to eat me."

  Shane didn't comment. He tore open the seal carefully, as if one wrong move might cause the scroll to bite back. Then he bit his thumb, letting a drop of blood fall onto the parchment. The scroll reacted instantly, glowing faintly as Shane pressed his bloodied thumb down in a firm fingerprint.

  The ground beneath his feet lit up.

  A circular magic array spread outward, lines interlocking with precise symmetry. The air hummed softly. From the center of the array, a shape began to rise—first large, black, pointed ears, then a pair of glowing purple eyes.

  The figure fully emerged with a soft flutter.

  It was… small.

  A bat-like creature hovered in the air, its head almost as large as its body. Its fur was a mix of black and deep brown, its wings short and rounded rather than sharp or menacing. It looked less like a terror of the night and more like something that belonged on a child's shoulder.

  The creature tilted its head, studying Shane with open curiosity.

  A thin golden thread appeared, stretching between them.

  Shane spoke calmly, his voice steady.

  "From now on," he said, "you will be called Cukuz."

  The bat squeaked softly and flapped forward, landing clumsily on Shane's shoulder. The magic array dimmed, then vanished completely, leaving only faint scorch marks on the ground.

  Shane lifted a hand and gently patted Cukuz's head.

  "Stay there for now," he said. "I'll prepare a comfortable ring for you later."

  Cukuz let out a tiny shriek that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

  Klaus watched the scene with mild amusement, though his attention drifted inward. During the negotiation with the Keepers, he had already made his choice. Among the copied skills available to him, one had stood out.

  Eye of the Forsaken.

  A powerful perception skill that predicted enemy movement through posture and micro-motions. Dangerous, precise—and limited. At level ten, its effective range was barely two and a half meters. Close enough to matter. Close enough to be fatal. Great for close combat, almost ineffective for long-range combat.

  Klaus suddenly clenched his chest.

  "—gh."

  He staggered half a step, pressing a hand against himself. A faint burning sensation spread across his skin. He pulled his hand away and saw it—a small mark seared into his chest. A crescent shape, with three claw-like marks carved inside.

  A familiar chime echoed in his mind.

  "Cursed egg successfully embedded."

  Klaus blinked.

  "…What the hell."

  He read the description quickly, his brow furrowing deeper with each line.

  "This egg contains a curse hatchling. The curse's attribute will depend on the host. It will consume a small portion of the host's health over time until it hatches."

  He exhaled sharply.

  "Reduced health over time," he muttered. "That's not a curse. That's a real curse that's killing me slowly."

  Shane noticed the shift immediately. He turned, eyes narrowing.

  "Is something wrong?"

  Klaus looked up.

  "I've got a curse."

  Shane paused, then frowned—not in concern, but frustration.

  "Lucky bastard," he said. "I've wanted one for years. Curses aren't easy to acquire, and only a handful of people even have them."

  He studied Klaus. "What's its attribute?"

  "It doesn't have one yet," Klaus replied. "Still an egg."

  Shane opened his mouth to respond—

  A notification appeared in his status window.

  His expression softened into a small, satisfied smile.

  "Looks like they finished their job quicker than I expected."

  Before he could say more, another notification appeared.

  His smile vanished.

  "…Zevy," Shane said sharply. "Come out."

  The hawk materialized in front of him in a flash of light.

  "Viral Modification," Shane ordered.

  Zevy glowed, his body expanding rapidly. Feathers shimmered gold as his form grew, stretching and solidifying until a massive hawk—nearly three meters tall—stood before them, wings flexing powerfully.

  Shane mounted swiftly and glanced at Klaus.

  "We have a situation."

  His eyes flicked briefly to Cukuz.

  "Hang on, buddy. This'll be a bumpy ride."

  "Zevy," Shane said. "East."

  The hawk took off like a cannon shot, wind tearing across the battlefield as they vanished toward the rest of the party.

  Klaus stared after them, then sighed deeply.

  "Can't I even get a proper rest?" he muttered. "I'm just a side character here."

  He activated Phantom Jump and disappeared in a blur of motion, chasing after Shane—because, trouble clearly wasn't done with them yet.