The guard's panicked announcement fell like a blacksmith's hammer on the hopeful, strategic planning in the longhouse. The air, which moments before had been electric with the promise of growth and connection, turned thick and cold with a familiar, gut-deep dread. The Kyorian Empire. The name alone was a blight, a shadow that threatened to smother the fragile spark of independence we had all worked so hard to cultivate.

Silas was on his feet in an instant, his hand reflexively going to the hilt of his sword. Elder Borin's face, usually as placid and unreadable as a mountain, hardened into a granite mask of grim ancestral memory. But it was Lucas who commanded the room. He didn't shout or panic. He simply stood, the full, immense weight of his leadership settling back onto his shoulders, and placed a calming hand on the terrified guard's arm.

"It's alright, son," his deep voice rumbled, a steadying anchor in the sudden storm. "How many? What are they doing?"

"Just one rider in the lead, sir," the guard gasped, struggling to catch his breath. "But… there's a caravan behind him. Four large wagons, pulled by those strange, six-legged beasts they use. They're moving slow. Making no hostile moves."

A caravan. Not an attack squad. That was… unexpected. And far more dangerous. A sword, you can block. A gift is a weapon that slides right past your guard.

"To the wall," Lucas commanded, his voice sharp and clear, addressed to Silas. "Full defensive posture. No one makes a move without my order. Borin, keep your people calm, but ready. Jack," he said, turning to me, his grey eyes serious, "stay with me. I want your eyes on this."

The settlement I walked through was a different one from the jubilant town of an hour ago. The celebration had evaporated, replaced by a tense, nervous silence. People scurried into their huts, mothers pulled their children close, and the fighters were all moving towards the walls, their faces grim. The 'Holy Lion of Justice' was a comforting myth, but the crimson and gold banner of the Kyorian Empire was a terrifyingly real threat.

From the top of the main gate's reinforced watchtower, we watched them approach. The lone rider was a perfect embodiment of Imperial arrogance, impressive considering he couldn't have been working for them longer than a year or so. He sat astride a sleek, reptilian mount whose scales shimmered like polished obsidian. His uniform was a work of art — a high-collared crimson tunic over black breeches, all of it perfectly tailored, unstained by the dust of the road. His boots gleamed. He radiated a clean, antiseptic power that was a stark, almost insulting contrast to our own mud-caked, hard-won existence.

Behind him, the four wagons trundled forward, laden with goods covered by canvas tarps. The six-legged pack animals pulling them moved with a fluid, unnatural grace, their eyes multifaceted and intelligent. As the rider reached a point a hundred yards from our gate, he raised a gauntleted hand, and the entire caravan halted.

"Greetings, people of… Bastion!" his voice rang out, amplified by some small device on his collar. It was smooth, eloquent, and carried an undercurrent of profound condescension. "I am Quintus, Emissary to his Lordship, Nexus Delta-7 Overseer Traichus Mac. I come in peace, bearing gifts and an offer of friendship from the benevolent Kyorian Empire!"

With a theatrical flourish, he gestured to the wagons. On his silent command, the drivers pulled back the tarps. A collective gasp rippled along the wall.

The wagons were filled with treasures beyond the wildest dreams of this desperate community. The first was laden with foodstuffs: not just dried rations, but wheels of hard cheese, barrels of what smelled like wine, sacks of fine-flour grain, and baskets of colorful, exotic-looking fruit. The second held bolts of fine, dyed cloth — deep blues, rich reds, soft greens — and exquisitely crafted tools of shining steel. The third contained medical supplies, neat rows of sterile bandages, vials of potent-looking analgesics, and complex diagnostic tools that made Masha, standing beside me, draw a sharp, covetous breath. The final wagon held weapons and armor: simple but flawlessly crafted steel swords, efficient-looking crossbows, and dozens of gleaming, standardized breastplates, all stamped with the Imperial sigil.

It was an overwhelming display of wealth and technological superiority, a masterful stroke of psychological warfare. It was designed to make us feel exactly what we were: poor, ragged, and desperate.

"These are for you," Quintus declared, his voice magnanimous. "A token of the Empire's goodwill. A gesture to show you that we are not your enemies. We are your allies in taming this wild, dangerous world."

Lucas stepped forward, his own voice unamplified but carrying its own weight of authority. "We thank you for the gifts, Emissary Quintus. What does the Empire ask in return?"

Quintus smiled, a politician's practiced, soulless expression. "Ask? Nothing at all! We only wish to offer you the full benefits of Imperial citizenship. Structure. Safety. Prosperity. This… valiant effort," he gestured dismissively at our hard-won town, "is admirable. But it is unsustainable. You are an island of driftwood in a raging sea. The Empire offers you a mighty ship. Come to Nexus Delta-7. Register your settlement as an Imperial Protectorate. Your leader will be granted a title, your people will be given proper housing, and your warriors will be integrated into the auxiliary forces, where they will receive superior training and equipment."

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"Disgusting traitor!" a man shouted from the back.

I watched the faces of the people on the wall. I saw the conflict, the raw temptation. The promise of safety, of full bellies, of not having to worry about the next monster attack, was a potent lure. For people who had endured the hell of this new world, the offer of a warm bed and a solid roof was almost irresistible.

But Lucas was a rock against which that tempting tide broke.

"It's a generous offer, Emissary," Lucas said, his voice deceptively calm. "But a cage, no matter how polished, is still a cage. We've read this page in the history books before, back on our old world. An empire arrives, promising protection and progress. It showers the natives with gifts they can't produce themselves. It offers to teach them a 'better' way. But in the end, it's never a partnership. The 'helping hand' always turns out to be a leash. And when the native lands are tamed and their resources assessed, the leash gets pulled tight."

Quintus' practiced smile tightened at the edges. The condescending warmth in his eyes flickered, replaced by a flash of cold irritation. "Your historical allegories are quaint, but misguided. The Kyorian Empire is not some primitive, feudal power like we were. They are the purveyors of order and civilization to a chaotic galaxy. To refuse their guidance is to choose barbarism."

"We call it freedom," Lucas countered, his voice ringing with a conviction that bolstered the wavering spirits on the wall. "We choose to build our own house, with our own hands, however humble it may be. We will not trade our future for the promise of comfort."

The Emissary's facade finally cracked. He scoffed, an ugly, arrogant sound. "Freedom? You call this squalor freedom? The freedom to be eaten by beasts? To succumb to plague? To live in mud huts and fight with sharpened scrap? You have a remarkable amount of foolish pride, 'leader.' I came here to offer you a ladder out of the dirt, and you choose to spit on my hand."

He sneered, his gaze sweeping over our settlement with open contempt. "Very well. Languish in your precious 'freedom.' When the beasts of this world finally overwhelm your pathetic little wall, or when your crops fail and your people begin to starve, remember this day. Remember the benevolence you so foolishly rejected."

With a sharp jerk on his mount's reins, he turned, his back ramrod straight with offended dignity. The wagons were turned, and the caravan began its slow, silent retreat, leaving the four wagons of treasures sitting in the dirt before our gate — a final, tempting, and divisive monument to their offer. Quintus didn't look back.

The aftermath was immediate. As soon as the Kyorians were out of sight, a wave of arguments broke out along the palisade.

"He's right!" one man argued, gesturing wildly at the wagons. "Look at that! Medicine! Food! Are we so proud that we'd let our children go hungry?"

"It's a trap, you idiot!" a woman shot back. "That's not food; it's a down payment! The next time they come, it won't be with gifts!"

The council meeting that night was tense. The treasures had been brought in, and their presence was a potent, divisive poison.

"We should burn it," Silas said, his voice a low growl. "Every last scrap of it. It's a bribe. A symbol of submission."

"And throw away medicine that could save lives?" I countered, playing my part. "Refuse food that could see us through a hard winter? That isn't pride, Silas. That's foolishness. We can use their tools without accepting their ideology."

Lucas, looking weary beyond his years, agreed with me. We would distribute the essentials — the food and medicine — among the populace. The weapons and armor would be studied by Eliza and melted down by the Dweorg to be reforged into our own designs, stripped of the Imperial sigil.

But the conversation exposed a deeper truth. The Kyorian threat wasn't just a distant army; it was an active, insidious political force. They wouldn't just try to conquer Bastion with legions; they would try to win it with promises, to rot it from the inside with temptation. To fight them, we needed to understand them. Their strengths, their weaknesses, their true intentions behind the benevolent mask. Relying on second-hand information from traumatized survivors wasn't enough. I needed to see it for myself.

My decision was made. That night, after the council meeting ended, I found Lucas alone, staring out at the Kyorian wagons from the watchtower.

"I need to go again," I said softly.

He turned, his face etched with a familiar weariness. "Jack, don't. We need you here. Especially now."

"That's exactly why I have to go," I argued. "Not north this time. East. Towards Nexus Delta-7."

His eyes widened in alarm. "You can't be serious. That's the heart of their power in this region. It's suicide."

"Quintus and his men will be moving slowly with their empty wagons. I can follow them, unseen. I can get a look at their stronghold, their patrols, their defenses. We can't fight an enemy we don't understand, Lucas. Knowing how they think, how they operate, that's more valuable than a hundred stone walls. And as you said, 'I'm not a fighter.' I'm good at staying hidden. I'm the only one who could even attempt this without starting a war."

He stared at me for a long time, the internal conflict clear on his face. He hated the idea. But he couldn't deny the cold, hard logic of it.

"You and your damned secretive solo missions," he finally sighed, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. But he didn't refuse. He just nodded, the trust in his eyes warring with a deep-seated fear for my safety. "Be careful, Jack. Be a ghost. And for all our sakes… come back."

I promised I would. And as I looked east, towards the distant, unseen citadel of my enemies, I knew this would be my most dangerous mission yet. I would need more than luck. I would need a Glimpse. And I would need every ounce of power I possessed.

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