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"Those machines may be impressive, but can they truly stand against absolute strength~?"

Oyaras's voice dripped with sadistic satisfaction as the elder djinn woman glided forward, her intricately carved staff tapping in a steady, deliberate rhythm against the ornate marble floor. Each strike reverberated through the ruined grand hall, where once-pristine marble lay molten, columns stood fractured, and rubble littered the space—a sanctum of peace now twisted into a stage for brutality, its cruel irony lost on those present.

"The arrogance of youth was always a spectacle—driven by impatience, they seized any chance to increase their power, convinced they held the world in their grasp." Oyaras's voice darkened. "I should punish them for their minor prank."

Though her steps were measured, an undeniable magnetism surrounded her—an eerie force that sent ripples of unease through the diminished crowd. They watched, transfixed, unable to look away from the unsettling calm that wrapped around her like an ethereal shroud.

"Pax," she halted before the young man, his severed legs sprawled beneath him, broken equipment scattered, and defeat etched across his face. "Like Lux, your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Oyaras raised her staff, the talismans shimmering as they pulsed in rhythmic waves, echoing like a distant tide. The resonance wove a hypnotic lullaby of dreams, lulling the senses into a trance. An intense [Energy] gathered around her staff—only to halt abruptly as a crushing pressure descended upon everyone, including Alexander. He became engulfed in a suffocating weight as though he was sinking into the depths of the ocean, his body ripping apart from limb to limb—pain and the subsequent panic shattered the illusion—he gasped and blinked rapidly, disoriented as if torn from a surreal dream.

"Old man," a voice laced with pure indignation rang beside him. It was familiar yet carried such overwhelming pressure that his ears flinched back—a killing intent not born from mere bloodshed but one steeped in relentless pain and suffering. "Will you do something or simply watch how that old hag will kill him?"

Alexander turned his head, the leftover void gradually fading away as if waking from a deep slumber. 'What happened,' his body felt simultaneously lethargic and pulled apart with unimaginable force.

Disbelief flickered across his face as he took in Oyaras, who remained utterly indifferent to his presence. Her unwavering focus was locked on Pascal, whose immense aura still pressed upon the room with suffocating intensity.

'Okay, I didn't expect this,' Alexander thought, scanning his surroundings as the weight of reality replaced his fading greed, making him disperse the sliver of mana from Lux's and Pax's gear he had analyzed before the hypnosis made him into a zombie.

'They... doesn't look much better,' Alexander immediately scanned his surroundings, looking for his guards—a sight that didn't lift his spirits. Lili stood unsteadily, her posture tense, likely still under the remnants of hypnosis. Meanwhile, Barry, though intensely focused and not fallen, struggled to maintain his defense—his fluctuating aura betrayed the strain of shielding Alexander from the oppressive heat.

Since being called to attend the forum, Alexander knew he stood no chance of resisting if someone truly wanted him dead, but usually, it was never a worry one had—on Orbis, like on Earth, there were customs to protect people like him, those invited with status.

But Alexander was a notch above; his demise would undoubtedly ignite a full-scale war, particularly given his status as a half-official heir. He had assumed only those with negligible influence would dare to target him, a common occurrence, yet that assumption had been woefully misguided.

Oyaras wasn't even attempting to act diplomatically, as she was sabotaging the discussion right from the beginning with her open hatred. At first, Alexander assumed that she was simply used as some scapegoat from her group of isolationists, trying to cease the broader support of the gathering and discarded if that hadn't worked. But the death and destruction, far from a heated skirmish, told another story.

Oyaras wasn't even trying to engage diplomatically; she was sabotaging the discussion from the outset with her overt hatred. Initially, Alexander thought she was merely a scapegoat for her group of isolationists, aiming to stifle broader support for him, and simply discarded once it was over. However, the death and destruction witnessed—far beyond a mere heated skirmish—revealed a different narrative.

"Urgh," Alexander groaned, staggering as Pascal's aura surged to an overwhelming intensity.

Oyaras wasn't holding back, either—shoving against the descending pressure of the ocean, smugness etched across her face. "Dear leader," she spoke without turning, her gaze fixed on Pascal while only briefly acknowledging Alexander as if he were beneath her notice. "As you've seen, more than half your people oppose your decision to align with such lowly races and even more resent your suppression of the most loyal clans." She turned to him, her locking his. "What will you choose? To eliminate the spirit of one of your most talented and loyal followers or to stand with those who are not even your kin?"

Lavafist stood motionless, his silent gaze locked onto her, his aura still radiating with an overwhelming presence and heat. Yet, his true focus remained on Pax—the young man trembling beneath him, paralyzed by fear, unable to move or even utter a word.

'I can't believe this was their goal?!' Alexander frowned, realizing it was nothing more than a charade to incite conflict and expose the deep rift within the Eros Alliance, using him and Pascal for a deeper-seated hate to ignite a full-scale war.

Alexander had to act, even though fear made him want to retreat—he could not let her talk freely. "Half the people? Please," he scoffed, his gaze locked onto Oyaras, a smirk tugging at his lips—his arrogance unmistakable as he stepped forward. "All I see is a few clans clinging desperately to power like cowards terrified of your inevitable decline!"

Once Alexander spoke openly, he couldn't deceive or use cleverly worded sentences anymore—fear and anxiety crushed any attempt. It was a den of monstrous beings, and the little bravery he felt was already all he could do.

But what he feared even more, making this act even possible, was that the situation was no longer certain—if Lavafist heeded her half-truths and manipulative rhetoric, fear could easily take root. While drastic action seemed unlikely, the possibility remained that their diplomatic ties could crack, forcing the Alliance into submission under the threat of chaos sown by a determined minority.

"Oh, Mr. Alexander K. Leonandra," Oyaras's tone was condescending. "The Saint and bringer of prosperity to the poor."

Alexander opened his arms, his smile radiating confidence despite his inner turmoil. "That's who I am," he declared, his tone growing more prideful with each word as he began counting on his fingers. "Archmage Puppy, Golden Pup, Honorable Judge, and soon, Architect of Warfare." His golden eyes gleamed as he gazed down at her, casting aside the last bit of pretense of restraint as he needed every bit of energy to focus and even speak up.

Did Alexander truly desire war and death with the Pure-Steam Clan? No. But this was an opportunity—a chance to push his vision forward, to prove his ideals could work. A zone of free trade and liberty—a beginning, the very kind of society that had once taken him and his siblings in when they teetered on the edge of despair, provided them with everything they needed to survive and thrive.

"Does anyone truly believe you will honor your promises once I relinquish my people's ancestral ground to animals and those blue-skinned low-lives?"

Oyaras's point had merit, and he couldn't deny it—trust had to be earned and demonstrated. Yet, he was determined to replicate the system that had once given him and his siblings a chance to prosper. Was it flawless? Absolutely not. Was it convoluted and frustrating at times? Without a doubt. Did he occasionally feel the urge to set something on fire out of sheer exasperation? More often than he'd like to admit, but it could also be due to his integration into French society.

"Do you think everything I've done so far was merely a show? A charade to deceive you and a few wild-dwelling barbarians? How adorable~"

Had he ever attempted anything like this in his past life? Had he tried to break down the barriers that stood before him for the sake of others? No. He had been powerless and voiceless, seeking only peace for himself and those he held dear—simply to achieve stability and security was a blessing he fought for.

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"You're nothing more than the Count's puppet, a pawn in his insatiable thirst for conquest—a bloodthirsty beast wrapped in fine clothing." Her wrinkled smile widened. "Do you dare confront the truth of your soul? To gaze into the darkness of an unruly pet?"

Oyaras tapped her cane once, unleashing a mythical pressure—an aura that conjured monsters of the mind, specters of failure and despair tailored to his deepest fears.

Once Alexander felt something mystical and tribal descend upon his mind, he simultaneously felt multiple auras wanting to shield him, but with a wave of a hand, he stopped them, allowing the entity to invade his mind, drowning him in the weight of his own anxieties.

"What a short-sighted old hag!" Alexander's voice cut through the air as he advanced. The illusions clawed at his mind, whispering sweet nothings and cruel realities, wanting him to back down, retreat back to his room, and cry. "If you believe this was all the Count's doing, you're sorely mistaken! The choice to build a better world is mine alone, and if you stand in my way, so be it!"

Alexander reached the lifeless form of Lux, the young woman who had tried to kill him and paused. Before he could utter a word, Oyaras's voice cut through the tense air, trembling with suppressed fury. "Don't you dare to dishonor her, you filthy beast."

"How sad," Alexander muttered, rolling his eyes as he removed his blazer and draped it gently over her head. "Even if you and this poor girl have been deceived by whatever evil lurks behind all this, I will still act with dignity."

Oyaras's pressure mounted with an intensity that sent waves of anxiety, unease, and deep-seated fear through Alexander—an old companion. His simpleminded determination and unchecked ego had always driven him forward—a flaw when powerless, forcing him to drink through nightmarish nights as his fate wasn't his own, but a blessing when he possessed the strength to carve not just his own path but one for everyone.

"How dare you lay a hand on this child—"

Oyaras's wrathful voice was abruptly silenced by a burst of deep, rumbling laughter beside her. Lavafist's booming mirth echoed like rolling thunder, his ancient eyes gleaming with quiet approval.

"What a brash little punk," Lavafist growled once the laughter subsided. His formidable aura flared momentarily, pressing heavily on everyone present simply to disperse theirs. He turned toward Pax, lying on the ground before him, his despair visible. "What do you think, boy? Was it worth it to defend your ancestral land?"

Pax sat before him, his gaze hollow as he clutched the remnants of his mechanically modified hammer. His voice, barely above a whisper, carried the weight of regret and despair. "I made a mistake." His eyes shifted to Alexander, kneeling beside Lux, gently evening his blazer over her lifeless form. Tears welled up as he choked out, "I am sorry."

Who would fight for a piece of land at the cost of losing someone they loved? As a veteran, Alexander had often claimed he fought for his country as it came with pride and honor—an intoxicating sensation. But that was never the truth. It had always been a calculated choice—one driven by money and the hope of a better future. 'That's... fuck,' he grimaced, watching the young man crumble before him—a despair so well known to him, it felt like someone gripped his heart.

Oyaras's eyes blazed with fury as she thrust her staff toward Alexander. "You manipulative little bastard! This is your doing, and now, like a mere pet, you force them to apologize for your faults! Your sheer presence in these divine halls is a disgrace!" Her grip tightened on the carved shaft, her knuckles whitening with rage.

Could Alexander blame Pax and Lux for wanting him dead? It was a battle of ideals, shaping society, culture, and perception. There was no absolute truth in what was deemed better, for what one was ready to give their life—only personal visions of the future. All he could do was push forward, determined to show that the world he wanted to create was an undeniably better way of living. And for that, he couldn't afford to let any opportunity slip away to poison his dreams with untruths.

Before Lavafist could respond, Alexander stood up, his lips curling in anger. "Just shut the fuck up!" His voice thundered through the chamber as he stepped forward, his fury palpable. "Who cares about these halls or how red your wrinkled skin is? All you and your ilk have done is spread death and destruction!"

The last bit of Oyaras's composure shattered, her eyes burning with hatred as she fixed her gaze on Alexander. Her voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "You are nothing more than a pest, an invader—your words mean nothing here, not now, not ever—"

A sudden slicing sound shattered the moment, followed by a monstrous scream and the crumbling of the wall. A molten golem burst through, its massive form disintegrating as it collapsed into molten fragments. "Good choice of words, Mr. Alexander," a voice rang out through the swirling dust. The sharp clink of metal against stone followed, signaling an armored figure's approach.

John emerged from the haze—bruised, panting, and gripping a severed head by the hair. Blood seeped from a deep gash in his torn armor, and his once-elegant grin twisted into something more primal. Yet, despite the exhaustion, he managed a smug smirk as he cast a glance at Oyaras. "He may have no say, but I believe I do, right?"

Oyaras's eyes widened in shock. "Is this... the esteemed shaman of the Molten-Core Clan?!" Her posture wavered as her pupils shook in hysteria. "Murderer! You will pay for this—"

Before Oyaras could finish her threat, another presence swept in from the opposite side, shattering the walls and scattering debris in all directions. A powerful gust followed, clearing the lingering dust instantly.

"What a charming little pup~," Theressa purred, her crimson-stained lips curling into a lazy smile as she eyed Alexander. She fanned herself leisurely, unfazed by the half-dried blood marring her once-elegant attire. But her relaxed demeanor sharpened the moment her gaze flicked to Oyaras.

Behind her, half a dozen corpses lay smoldering, their forms twisted by searing heat. "I must say, I agree—this isn't solely your decision to make, old woman~."

Oyaras stared at the corpses, her lips trembling with distress, only for a sharp clack of heels against the marble to break the moment. Pascal strode forward, effortlessly aligning herself beside Alexander. With a bored flick of her fingers, she brushed her hair aside, her expression detached, as if the carnage before her was nothing more than an inconvenient spectacle. "What an entertaining display," she mused. "But, regrettably, I'm not here for theatrics. I'm here to discuss the division of your island, Dame Oyaras of the Pure-Steam Clan." Her polished smile widened as she spoke, and in that instant, Oyaras's composed façade shattered entirely.

Oyaras turned sharply to Lavafist, her eyes narrowing with contempt. "Is this truly the path you choose? Siding with this filth will be the undoing of your own kin!"

Lavafist let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes before his molten form gradually receded into a more humanoid shape. He eyed everyone still standing, stopping at Pax, his gaze heavy with sorrow and understanding of a veteran looking at a distressed young soldier. "The world is changing," he said, his voice carrying both resignation and certainty. "Races rise and fall. Once, elves reigned these lands in great numbers. Ancient djinns, too, believed themselves untouchable. Each thought their dominance eternal, only to be swallowed by time and their own arrogance. Change is inevitable. If I don't ensure my kin adapts, we'll be nothing more than another forgotten legend."

He leaned forward, reaching for the boy, but a sharp, resonating clack of Oyaras's staff froze him in place. "Then so be it!" she hissed, her voice slithering through the chamber like a curse. "The fae have spoken, and I would sooner entrust the immortals than submit to the whims of a barbarian and traitor like you!"

The staff's intricate carvings pulsed with a faint glow, yet after a tense moment, nothing happened. Oyaras's brow furrowed in confusion as she tapped it a second time, her eyes darting around in growing panic—only to land on Alexander, who stood smiling in quiet triumph.

"Hahaha, so the gear wasn't faulty," Alexander said, the corners of his mouth lifting. With a snip of his fingers, he conjured a pair of magical hands, floating toward Pax and Lux, each one retrieving a part of their gear—one in the hammer, the other in the gears. "But you planned a detonation to take everyone out at once, didn't you? Very clever~ Too bad there is someone present who's actually decent with magic—the Archmage Puppy himself~."

While Alexander was disabling Lux, he also attempted to dismantle Pax's gear or at least discern its function. The process was frustratingly complex, even with his array of skills, including [Parallel Thinking]. However, after meticulously mapping out the entire structure, he identified several faulty components—ones that would've forced the armor into an overload state, drained all [Energy] from the wearer, and triggered a catastrophic overheating sequence.

It was the same brutal mechanism found in certain anti-mana and slave collars—designed to decapitate anyone who attempted to tamper with them. Alexander had never dared to wear one himself—he wasn't that reckless—but he had hacked them from a safe distance before.

To preserve the gear as much as possible, Alexander quickly disabled any of those functions. Later, he planned to barter with Lavafist for it, but apparently, he accidentally prevented a disastrous attack, as the explosion could even massively injure Lili.

Theressa exhaled in amusement and interjected in a sultry tone, "Once you reach your mating season, I'll be sure to give you a nice discount, little pup~."

John shook his head and let the severed head drop unceremoniously, landing with a wet thud. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "You preach about preservation, yet you turn around and slaughter your own."

Lavafist gave a curt nod to Alexander and, with a swift kick, sent the djinn boy into unconsciousness, sparing him from the torment yet to come. What would happen with Pax was to be seen, but Alexander would be dammed if he wouldn't attempt to find out where they have their gear from.

A sharp, almost gleeful chuckle echoed through the chamber—Oyaras. But as quickly as it came, her laughter died, replaced by a heavy sigh. Her shoulders trembled, not with mirth, but with barely contained fury.

"Fine," she said, tapping her staff once more. "My age may not hold much value, but I will not stand by and watch you lead my people to ruin—not without the true leader's voice being heard."

Another echo from her staff resonated ominously—a crack, sending a shiver through the chamber. Alexander's vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges like ink seeping into water. His body wavered, knees buckling as if an unseen force had drained the very essence from him, pulling him into the abyss.

'Just perfect,' he thought as darkness spiraled around him. 'Just let me not have a mental breakdown for once, Fu—'

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