The Extra's Rise

The Twelve Great Guilds

Ferraclysm, one of the Twelve Great Guilds of the Slatemark Empire, stood as a titan within the Central Continent. For decades, its reach was unchallenged, its coffers endlessly filled, and its dominance unquestioned.

At its helm was Maxwell von Pontes, a man whose name was whispered with reverence and fear alike. A revolutionary alchemist and engineer, Maxwell had shaped Ferraclysm into an industrial colossus while climbing to the rank of mid Immortal-ranker. His brilliance in crafting weapons and military technology was matched only by his ruthless efficiency in eliminating competition.

But now, Maxwell faced a crisis unlike any he had encountered since taking the reins of Ferraclysm. A crisis he could not crush with intellect or sheer power alone.

He exhaled deeply, letting the sound of his breath fill the opulent silence of his private office. His fingers trembled slightly as he touched the edge of the holographic letter projected before him. Closing his eyes, he counted to five. When he opened them again, the contents remained unchanged, as immovable as stone.

A Decrease in Orders.

The words taunted him. Mocked him.

The Slatemark military—Ferraclysm's largest and most lucrative client—had slashed its orders. Not by a small margin. No, this was a seismic shift, a gaping hole in their projections that would bleed the guild dry if not addressed swiftly. Worse yet, intelligence reports confirmed what Maxwell had feared: the military had redirected those same contracts to a newer guild. To Ouroboros.

Maxwell's golden eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he leaned back in his chair. His mind churned, calculating, plotting, dissecting the implications. Ferraclysm's profits came predominantly from its ironclad contracts with the military, secured through decades of unparalleled service and unassailable innovation.

This wasn't just a blow to their finances. It was an insult.

A challenge.

A declaration of war.

The room was silent but for the faint hum of mana-powered devices. Maxwell's reflection glared back at him from the dark glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Behind him, the sprawling cityscape of the Central Continent's capital glittered—a testament to Ferraclysm's contributions to the empire's might.

'They can't be outsourcing,' Maxwell thought, his mind racing through possibilities. Breaking a contract of this scale would require the empire to pay Ferraclysm penalties so astronomical that even their vast coffers would feel the pinch. The military wouldn't dare. Not unless they had found something superior. Something that made Ferraclysm's weapons look obsolete.

Ouroboros.

The name surfaced in his mind like a shadowy specter. That upstart guild. That audacious newcomer led by Arthur Nightingale—barely twenty-one years old and already calling himself Guild Master. Maxwell had heard whispers of aetherite, of innovations that defied the known boundaries of mana and technology. But he'd dismissed them initially. A fledgling guild could hardly compete with Ferraclysm's centuries of dominance.

Now, though, doubt seeped in like a poison, followed immediately by volcanic rage.

"They dare," Maxwell muttered, his voice low and venomous. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists. "They dare attack us like this?"

His mind reeled at the sheer audacity. To challenge Ferraclysm was to challenge one of the foundational pillars of the empire itself. Aetherite or not, Ouroboros had no business encroaching on Ferraclysm's domain. Maxwell's lip curled into a snarl as he leaned forward, the glint of gold in his eyes turning to molten fury.

But even through his rage, the calculating mind that had built an industrial empire continued working. If Arthur Nightingale thought he could simply waltz into Ferraclysm's territory and steal their contracts without consequence, he would learn otherwise. The boy might be powerful, but he was young. Inexperienced. And right now, according to Maxwell's intelligence network, he was vulnerable.

Maxwell activated his holographic display, pulling up real-time intelligence reports. His network of informants was vast, spanning continents and social circles. It had taken less than six hours to track Arthur's location after he'd made the mistake of traveling publicly to the Southern continent.

"Pyrros," Maxwell read aloud, his golden eyes scanning the report. "The Singing Caves. How... quaint."

The irony wasn't lost on him. Arthur Nightingale, the supposed strategic genius who had outmaneuvered Ferraclysm in the political arena, had made the classic mistake of mixing business with pleasure. He was vacationing with his family—including a young daughter—in one of the Southern continent's most famous tourist destinations. Away from his power base. Away from his guild's defenses. Away from the political protections that had allowed him to steal Ferraclysm's contracts.

Maxwell's dark grin widened as he continued reading. "Traveling with minimal security. Staying at a civilian hotel. Taking his time to enjoy the local attractions." He laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "You've grown complacent, young Nightingale. Fatal mistake."

Rising from his seat, Maxwell began pacing, his mind already formulating the attack. A guild war would be the perfect solution—legal under imperial law, justifiable given the economic assault Ouroboros had launched, and most importantly, it would send a message to the other ten Great Guilds that Ferraclysm was not to be trifled with.

The beauty of targeting Arthur in the Southern continent was that it could be framed as a precision strike against Ouroboros leadership rather than an attack on Southern sovereignty. The Viserion royal family maintained neutrality in inter-guild conflicts, and Maxwell's lawyers had already confirmed that guild war declarations extended across continental boundaries when pursuing legitimate targets.

Maxwell reached for his communication device, his fingers moving with predatory precision as he began issuing orders.

"Marshal Thorne," he said as the line connected to his chief military officer. "Initiate Guild War Protocol Seven. Target: Arthur Nightingale of Ouroboros. Location: Pyrros, Southern continent. Authorization: Maxwell von Pontes, Guild Master of Ferraclysm."

"Understood, sir," came the crisp reply. "Estimated time to deployment?"

"Two hours," Maxwell replied, consulting his chronometer. "I want overwhelming force. This ends tonight."

"Sir, what about civilian casualties? Pyrros is a tourist destination—"

"Acceptable losses," Maxwell cut him off coldly. "Nightingale chose to hide among civilians. Their blood is on his hands, not ours. Focus fire on the target location, but I want everyone to know that crossing Ferraclysm has consequences."

As Marshal Thorne began barking orders in the background, Maxwell activated additional communication channels. His media team would need to craft the narrative—Ouroboros had conducted an unprovoked economic assault on Ferraclysm, forcing a defensive response. His legal team would handle any international complications. His intelligence division would ensure that Arthur had no advance warning of the attack.

"Sir," came another voice on the tactical channel. "Orbital strike platforms are positioning over the Southern continent. Mana-enhanced weapons are charged and ready. We have visual confirmation of the target location."

Maxwell pulled up the tactical display, watching as his forces moved into position like pieces on a chess board. Three strike teams equipped with Ferraclysm's most advanced combat technology. Orbital bombardment platforms. Enough firepower to level a small city, all focused on one hotel in Pyrros where a young guild master thought he was safe.

"Visual confirmation of Arthur Nightingale?" Maxwell asked.

"Affirmative. Target is currently on the hotel's terrace with three companions. Minimal security presence detected."

Perfect. Maxwell's golden eyes gleamed with savage satisfaction. Arthur was exactly where intelligence had placed him—relaxed, unguarded, surrounded by the people he cared about most. The boy had made himself vulnerable, and Maxwell intended to exploit that weakness completely.

"All units, this is Guild Master von Pontes," Maxwell announced on the general tactical frequency. "Arthur Nightingale and Ouroboros have declared economic war on Ferraclysm by stealing our military contracts. Tonight, we respond with the full might of our guild. This is not just retaliation—this is a lesson. When you challenge one of the Twelve Great Guilds, you face the consequences."

He paused, watching the tactical display as his forces completed their final positioning. In the distance, he could see the peaceful lights of Pyrros, unaware of the destruction bearing down on them.

"Remember," Maxwell continued, his voice carrying across the communication network to hundreds of Ferraclysm operatives, "we are not murderers. We are defenders. Ouroboros struck first. We are simply ensuring they understand the price of their aggression. All units, prepare for coordinated assault."

Maxwell settled back into his command chair, watching the tactical display with the cold satisfaction of a predator about to strike. Arthur Nightingale had played his political games brilliantly in the comfortable halls of the imperial capital. Now he would learn what happened when those games spilled into the real world.

"Begin the assault," Maxwell commanded.

On the display, the first explosions bloomed like deadly flowers across the peaceful city of Pyrros. The Singing Caves, famous for their harmony and beauty, erupted in fire and thunder as Ferraclysm's weapons began their deadly song.