Read Novel Full Chapter 1703 Terms of the Strong
Chapter 1703 Terms of the Strong
"An ordinary member of the Saint Gran Council, or a Deputy Commander of the Champions Alliance—which post would you call the weightier?" Edward turned his head, threw Morando a look that said make of it what you will, then put his attention back on the war-citadel.
The moment it touched down, the citadel roared to life. Lights blazed through it, and from a sprawl of tents laid out like scattered stars, rank upon rank of war-riders burst forth, their faces beyond making out. They massed together into a flood of moving light and charged the far dark, fearless.
"Quite a showing. That citadel's no lesser thing than the Death-Soul Race's Bronze City—and those riders are a fusion of light and dream, a paired affinity. Elemental advantage on their side. They should hit harder still." Morando caught Edward's meaning well enough: the man was angling for higher standing, better terms. He'd half meant to make some promises—then the citadel's strength knocked the wind out of him. If the Saint Gran Council was going to step in, they'd have to put real treasure on the table, or they'd never hold the room, never save face.
"That's our Commander's citadel. The prestige is baked in. There's no falling short of it." Invincible Commander, invincible citadel—Edward's eyes shone, and a haughtiness climbed into him inch by inch until he wore an air fit to look down on the world. Not arrogance. Flat certainty about Commander, in raw strength and in style alike.
"Hmph. The Mirage Void hides twelve Divine Mantles. First come, first served—the strong take them." A measured spell of lording it over creation, and then the precise turn of the screw. Edward knew exactly what the Saint Gran Council wanted. They were short of neither territory nor resources. What they lacked was a road to immortality, the right to step into the realm of the gods—a Divine Mantle.
"Compared to Blackstone City, you might go look in on the other three footholds. Weigh them. See where it's truly worth laying your bet. I'm in no hurry. Neither is Orion, and least of all Commander—across that long life of his, he's never short of allies to pull in and fight beside. And no offense, but Commander doesn't need the Saint Gran Council in particular." A pressure laid on light as a feather. Edward reined the feeling in and went easy and deep all at once.
With the war-citadel running, Blackstone City's situation had turned for the better—the pressure off all at once—and only then did Edward have the leisure to turn toward the field where Kaidric was honing his edge.
"My friend, you needn't push me so. I've already sent everything here back to headquarters through the mirror. Right about now, those old hands may well have set out—on the road already." Morando was in no rush either. He was still only bound to a Demigod Artifact; if the Council really seized a Divine Mantle, it would never come down to him. The ones in a hurry were the Speaker and the old hands behind the Council.
Edward heard it and let it lie. Press any harder and the friendship between him and Morando would start to fray.
Before long, a shrill howl tore across the sky, and Orion, Commander, and Kaidric returned to Blackstone City together, light and unbothered, none of the three inclined to set a hand to the war beyond the walls—savage as the slaughter was.
"Your Saint Gran Council is running low on time." Orion's voice was cool, as though he hadn't yet fully shed the fighting state. The look he gave Morando was no longer the friendly, hungry thing it had been.
This was the bearing of the strong. Having you adds nothing; lacking you costs nothing. With the fighting strength Orion held now, he could overawe a whole region—overawe the apex powers among his own allies. Strength like that turns a man's manner overbearing, hard-edged, as a matter of course.
"Titan King, before the battle our Speaker sent word ahead. He asked me to carry his apology to you—the Council's hesitation was never his doing alone." Morando laid a hand to his chest, fingers folded into a sign, an old mage's courtesy. "The Speaker says Saint Gran will raise a hundred mage towers, free of charge, for every satellite settlement Blackstone City builds. Let that good faith stand forever, alongside the friendship between our two powers."
"Tell your Speaker I've heard him. May the friendship of the Stoneheart Horde and the Saint Gran Council stand forever." Knowing where to stop is a thing every seasoned lord ought to grasp, and Orion had it cold.
"May our friendship stand forever." Morando bowed again—humbler, more deferential than when he'd first met Orion. That was the shift strength buys.
Orion nodded. The Council's apology meant nothing to him. Blackstone City, the Bronze City, the war-citadel, the main cities and satellite settlements he already had—which of them was short a hundred mage towers? You could argue the towers would be deadweight against what the cities already held, dragging in questions of how to split and tune resources and energy, most likely wasting a share of it.
Where they'd earn their keep was later—in the satellite settlements his allies would set up once they descended, and among the vassal races under the Stoneheart Horde. When those began raising cities and pushing their borders out, that hundred mage towers would prove their worth and take some of the load off the Horde. Then again, mage towers aren't especially hard to build. The hard part is keeping them fed with energy, and meeting their monstrous appetite for mana crystals when they open up to full attack.
—
On a flat stretch of ground atop the peak, just outside the Wishing Tree's ward, Commander pulled out a tent and lit a fire. From the Wishing Tree he drew three fruits that, the instant they hit the ground, became the hearts of great dragons; he skewered each on a peculiar wooden spit and held one out to Orion and one to Kaidric.
"I'm telling you—dragon heart roasted over holy flame is a thing of beauty."
At Commander's level, nothing the Wishing Tree conjured did a thing to raise his strength. But his appetite ran hot, and that alone left him well pleased with the tree.
"This isn't Abyssal Wyrm heart, is it? Doesn't smell like any dragon heart I've had—none of the menace of the Abyssal World, none of the reek." Kaidric took his and gave it a sniff. It didn't match the memory.
"Heh. It's World Dragon heart." Commander wore a touch of smugness, and something odd threaded through his laugh.
Only Orion, of those present, could feel the full weight of it. He, Arthas, the Deputy Commander, Leonidas, and Alexander had once drawn powerful enemies down on themselves over a World Dragon's egg—and Arthas, the Deputy Commander, and Alexander were still circling the egg they held, scheming every way they could to wring the most out of it. The thing the rest of them treated as a priceless prize, Commander had just pulled out to roast and eat. Not a whole World Dragon, granted—but the gulf between the two was enough to crack a man's composure, the tangle of feelings past putting into words.
"Now that's the good stuff." Kaidric's eyes lit, and the look he turned on the Wishing Tree ran a few degrees hotter.
"That it is." Orion considered the heart in his hand, then reached over, tore off a sliver, and set it on his tongue—tasting it raw, sashimi-style.