We stood in the sterile white of the translocation chamber, the simulated dust of the battlefield a ghost on our clothes, the adrenaline of combat slowly receding into a bone-deep weariness and a thrumming, giddy triumph. The chamber doors hissed open, but they didn't lead back to the stands. They led to a place designed to awe, a room the Kyorians called the 'Victor's Armory'.

It was less an armory and more a high-tech museum of power. The room was a vast, silent rotunda, its walls made of the same flowing, self-repairing obsidian material as the main concourse. There were no racks, no dusty chests. Instead, a dozen platforms floated in the air, each one containing a single, perfect artifact held in a shimmering, blue-white stasis field. The light was soft, reverent, casting long shadows that made us feel as if we had stepped into a king's private collection. The other top-ranking teams were already there, their faces a mixture of greed, exhaustion, and stunned disbelief.

Amos stood in the center of the room, his smile as bright and cold as the stasis fields. "Behold, aspirants," he proclaimed, his voice echoing in the hushed space. "The spoils of war. This is a mere taste, a sampler of the resources the Empire can provide to those who prove their worth. Each of you has fought with courage. Each of you has bled for your victory. This is your reward. And your incentive."

He gestured around the room. "The Prime Conclave in Akkadia is the true proving ground. The interim six months are your crucible. What you see here are the tools to hone your strength, to forge yourselves into champions worthy of the capital. Consider this your first investment from the Kyorian Empire. We have identified your potential. Now, we will empower it."

His words were a masterstroke of psychological manipulation. He wasn't just giving us loot; he was giving us a mission, a deadline, and a sponsor. He was framing our entire future as a product of their benevolence.

"The selection will be in order of final placement," Amos announced. "The Crimson Vultures, for their first-place victory, shall have the first pick."

Volkov, his usual boisterous arrogance amplified by victory, strode forward. He bypassed platforms holding intricate skill scrolls and defensive amulets without a glance. His eyes were locked on a single object: a colossal, two-handed battle axe held in the largest stasis field. The weapon was a masterpiece of brutal artifice. Its head was forged from a single piece of dark, pulsating metal that seemed to drink the light, and its edge glowed with a faint, crimson energy. Even from across the room, my Gaze could feel the raw, chaotic, hungry power signature radiating from it. It was a weapon that fed on violence.

"That one," Volkov grunted, pointing. "The Blood-drinker's Maw." He claimed his prize with a roar of triumph that was both impressive and deeply telling. It was a choice of pure, ego-driven power, a tool that would make him stronger but no smarter. His group followed, choosing several different items and skill scrolls.

"Fine choices," Amos said smoothly. "Now… Team Bastion."

All eyes turned to us. A palpable tension fell. We had fought with tactics and synergy; what would we choose? Lucas stepped forward, his expression solemn. His eyes swept over the collection, and my own Gaze followed his, analyzing the artifacts on his behalf. I felt the sharp, cutting energy of a pair of crystalline daggers, the deep, stable power of a heavy shield, the intricate, complex hum of a rune-crafter's focus crystal.

Lucas walked past the weapons and stopped before the shield. It was a tower shield, larger than a Dweorg's, forged from a gleaming, silver-grey metal I didn't recognize. Intricate, swirling patterns were etched into its surface, not for decoration, but as part of a complex energy-distribution matrix.

I focused my Gaze. The shield felt… deep. It was a fortress wall, yes, but more than that. It was a reservoir. I could identify its core ability: to absorb a portion of incoming kinetic and elemental energy, store it, and then allow the wielder to release it in a concussive blast.

"This," Lucas said, his voice filled with a quiet reverence I had never heard from him before. He placed a hand on the stasis field, and the shield pulsed with a soft, golden light that resonated with his own Aegis-focused aura. He, a man from a dusty, backwater settlement, was claiming a piece of technology that was likely worth more than all of Bastion combined. For a moment, I saw not a tired commander, but a knight claiming his birthright.

Next was Silas. He moved with his usual predatory silence, his eyes scanning, assessing. He stopped before the crystalline daggers. They were beautiful, lethal things, their blades seemingly carved from solidified shadow, their edges so fine they seemed to vanish into the light. My Gaze told me their secret. They didn't just cut flesh; they cut the ties between a person and their mana, causing a temporary, localized disruption of energy flow with every strike. For a rogue-type fighter like Silas, they were perfect. He simply nodded, his eyes gleaming with a cold, sharp satisfaction.

Eliza was practically vibrating with excitement. She ignored the weapons and armor entirely, making a beeline for a platform that held what looked like a simple, pulsating sphere of silver light the size of a fist. It was a Stabilized Aetherium Core. To everyone else, it was a component, an engine without a chassis. To Eliza, it was the key to a thousand new, impossible inventions. I could feel the clean, limitless power humming within it, a miniature, captured star. Her hands were clasped before her as if in prayer, her eyes shining with the light of pure, unadulterated discovery.

Then it was Mavia's turn. Nyx played her part to perfection. She strode to a platform displaying a longsword. It was simple, elegant, its scabbard unadorned black lacquer, its hilt wrapped in pristine white ray-skin. Its beauty was in its flawless simplicity. But my Gaze could feel its true purpose. The entire blade was a single, flawless mana conduit, designed to channel a wielder's energy with zero loss and amplify the cutting power of even the most subtle blade-arts. It was the perfect weapon for her 'Mana-Blade' cover. She assessed it with a cool, professional eye, gave a single, curt nod of approval, and stepped back.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Finally, it was my turn. As 'Jack,' I ambled forward, making a show of squinting at the powerful artifacts. My heart wasn't in it. These were fine pieces of Tier 3 and early Tier 4 equipment, masterfully crafted, but they were trinkets compared to the treasures Leoric could forge. My true reward was the writ. This was just part of the performance.

I shook my head at the remaining weapons. "Incredible," I said with a weary chuckle. My eyes landed on a small, unassuming case on a side platform. Inside was a set of pristine alchemical instruments — beakers made of self-cleaning crystal, a heating element that ran on pure ambient mana, and a series of finely-calibrated implements for grinding and mixing reagents. Next to it was an item that would be far more useful: a preservation satchel. An expanded-space container with a powerful stasis rune woven into the lining, capable of keeping even the most volatile alchemical ingredients perfectly fresh for months.

"Now this," I said, my voice filled with a convincing, enthusiasm, "will change how we do things."

The trip back to Bastion was a strange, triumphant procession. We were no longer just a team of hopefuls; we were champions. The mood was lighter, but a new, focused intensity had settled over them. The six-month deadline loomed, a finish line and a guillotine all in one. Our arrival in Bastion was met with a joyous, riotous celebration that went on for a full day, lifting the spirits of the entire settlement and serving as a potent piece of counter-propaganda against the Kyorian's subtle influence. We were victors. And our victory was their victory.

A few days later, after the celebrations had died down and a semblance of normality had returned, I retreated to the Sanctum. The cool, quiet air of the Strategic Observatory was a welcome balm after the chaos. My Anima were waiting.

First, I went to Leoric. His forge was a symphony of roaring fire and ringing steel. I had quickly retrieved the multi-ton carcass of the Chitin-Scale Matriarch, placing it in a massive, reinforced containment bay, its coppery chitin still radiating a faint, necrotic chill.

Leoric stopped his work, his hammer falling silent. He approached the corpse with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. His golden eyes were wide, tracing the intricate patterns on the armor plates. "Master…" he breathed, his voice a choked whisper of pure awe. "This chitin… it's a near-perfect energy dampener and dissipator. The molecular structure is a crystalline lattice I've never even theorized! And this venom… it's not just a biological agent; it's a conceptual blight designed to unravel a soul's connection to its own life force. The secrets this creature holds… this could revolutionize our armor plating, our shield technology… everything!"

His mind was already working, his joy a palpable, crackling energy in the forge. I left him to his masterpiece, confident he would produce wonders.

Next, I convened a meeting in the Observatory with Jeeves and Rexxar. I laid out the situation: the unclaimed Sanctum, the Chitin-Scale Weald, a prime piece of strategic real estate sitting just a few days from a major Kyorian hub.

"A forward operating base would be a considerable asset," Jeeves stated immediately, holographic maps already forming around him. "It would enhance our intelligence gathering capabilities by a factor of twelve and provide a nearby safe haven."

"Then let's claim the blasted thing!" Rexxar boomed, slamming a massive fist on the console. "Another fortress to call our own!"

"There's a complication," I said, raising a hand. I explained what I had discovered, a detail I had prompted Jeeves to investigate in the deeper codices of the Prime System's public rule-sets. "The System has something called a 'Veiling of Confluence'. For the first ten standard years after a world's initial integration, certain high-value, reality-anchoring assets, like unclaimed Sanctums, are 'veiled' to off-world entities. It's a protection mechanism, a way to prevent established interstellar powers from simply sweeping in and seizing all the core assets of a new world before its native population has a chance to develop."

Jeeves' silver eyes took on a distant, calculating light. "Indeed, Master. My analysis confirms this. The Core Nexus of the Chime-Grass Weald would not respond to us nor to the elves, as they are a 'translocated entity'. Their soul-signature does not match the base resonance of this planet. The same is true for Kaelen."

The room fell silent. Rexxar frowned, the complex politics clearly irritating him. "So the new fortress is a dud? We can't have it?"

"I can't have it unless I give up [The Veiled Path]," I agreed. "But the Veiling only applies to off-worlders. It is specifically designed to be claimed by a native… someone born on this world."

Jeeves' head snapped up, his expression, for the first time, showing a flicker of genuine surprise before smoothing back into his usual perfect composure. His mind moved at the speed of light, arriving at the same conclusion I had. "A native… bound to you by a System Oath of absolute loyalty. A native who has already proven his leadership and his commitment to resisting the Kyorians. A native who you could trust implicitly with such a powerful asset."

The answer was so obvious, so perfect. It wasn't just a gift. It was the ultimate strategic move. It would give Bastion its own hidden fortress, its own source of power, inextricably linking its future with my own, but in a way that would be invisible to the Kyorians. It would give Lucas the tools he needed to truly lead, to truly fight back.

My decision was made. I used the Ghost Road, stepping from the sterile perfection of my Sanctum into the bustling, dusty reality of Bastion. The celebration was over, and the hard work of building a community had resumed. I saw Lucas near the aqueduct, deep in discussion with the Dweorg foreman. He looked tired, but his eyes burned with a new, fierce hope, the hope we had brought back from the Gauntlet.

I waited for him to finish. He saw me and gave me a warm, genuine smile.

"Jack. Good to see you. Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing like that," I said, keeping my voice low. I looked around, at the busy settlers, at the distant, gleaming shapes of the Kyorian outposts. "Lucas… do you have a moment? There's something we need to discuss. In private. Something that could change things around here, for good."

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