The ultimate one of Gaia

"The fight has been cancelled." Belisarius' voice cut through the quiet of Martin's workshop.

Martin didn't turn immediately. He continued carving runic channels into a small cylindrical core, his engraving stylus flickering with blue light. Only after completing the final stroke did he set it down, his eyes narrowing.

"Why?" he asked flatly.

"The Crown ordered it," Belisarius replied. His tone was unhurried, almost bored, but his eyes tracked Martin's reaction with hawk-like precision.

"As in the Marlo twins?" Martin interlaced his fingers and rested his chin atop them, gaze cool and assessing.

"Yes. Apparently, word of your upcoming duel spread to every noble seat within five hours." Belisarius' lips twitched faintly. "The CLL's challenge was seen as something that would have destabilized the academy's political equilibrium. The twins did not appreciate such a risk to the empire's greatest magical institution."

Martin blinked, bemused. "A twelve-versus-one would destabilize the academy?"

"No," Belisarius said, his smirk ghosting across his lips like passing moonlight. "They think your victory would."

Martin tilted his head, dark hair falling to partially shadow his eyes. "Is the Marlo Empire that unstable?"

Belisarius dodged the question with ease. "You're not disappointed?"

Martin leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful frown crossing his face. "A bit," he admitted, eyes flickering with an unsettling curiosity. "I was looking forward to seeing how twelve little prodigies break under high-frequency mana splicing."

Belisarius didn't comment on that. He merely stepped forward, arms crossed behind his back. "The twins have summoned the CLL leadership for reprimand. Your name came up in the report as well."

Martin scowled. "Do I have to?"

"They didn't request your presence," Belisarius corrected. "They demanded it. You will appear in the Council Chamber at noon."

"Fine," Martin sighed, rising fluidly from his chair. The stylus flicked back into his sleeve as he reached for his coat, shrugging it on with an almost lazy grace.

Noon – The Council Chamber.

The chamber was designed to intimidate. Blackstone pillars veined with gold soared upwards like monolithic sentinels. Mana-flooded chandeliers cast sterile white light over thrones carved from obsidian and lined with thin rune-silver in pulsing circuits. Each throne radiated lineage glyphs, like beating hearts of ancestral authority.

Martin walked in alone. No retinue. No entourage. No banners proclaiming his house or heraldry.

When he reached the center of the floor, Cordovan Marlo leaned forward from his elevated seat, golden eyes glittering with mirth beneath thick lashes.

"So… this is the little necromancer everyone's so terrified of," he drawled, voice melodic yet edged with poisonous amusement.

"Necromancy is a limited field," Martin replied coolly, meeting Cordovan's eyes without flinching. "I prefer generalist designer."

Cordovan barked a laugh that echoed through the silent hall. "Sister, can we keep him?"

Letra Marlo, seated beside Cordovan in dark iron robes trimmed with imperial sigils, regarded Martin with expressionless eyes of cold silver. Her voice, when it came, was like chilled iron drawn across silk.

"Martin Kaiser," she stated, each syllable ringing with quiet command. "Student of Varncrest. Independent mage with no House or Kingdom allegiance. Slayer of Bloodhand."

"That's it?" Martin asked blandly, his face devoid of any particular reaction.

"You are dangerous," Letra said simply.

"Yes," Martin agreed, unbothered.

"You have no respect for hierarchy."

"No," Martin confirmed again, voice steady and indifferent.

"You act without considering the consequences to imperial order."

Martin's lips twitched into a small, humorless smile. "Order is maintained with power."

A faint flicker of approval ghosted through Letra's eyes, though her expression remained still as carved iron. "The duel is cancelled," she said coldly. "The CLL will issue a public apology to you and rescind all challenges indefinitely."

Cordovan leaned back in his throne, amusement curling his lips. "And you, little deathmaker, will participate in the upcoming Wargames."

Martin's eyes sharpened with sudden focus. "I was going to," he replied.

Letra stood smoothly, her robes rustling like quiet thunder. "Dismissed."

Martin turned and walked away without bowing, without hesitating, his footsteps echoing across polished blackstone. The twins watched him go, silent save for Cordovan's faint chuckle trailing after him like a mocking echo.

Outside the chamber.

Martin walked calmly through the golden hallways, ignoring the rows of armored sentinels lining the path. Their helmets tracked him with dead, expressionless visors, each spear inscribed with overlapping rune formations that could cut mana, life, or soul with equal precision.

His mind flickered with calculations, ideas, possibilities.

The Wargames.

A chance to display power. A chance to test his newest theories. A chance to watch the empire squirm under the knowledge that its children were so woefully unprepared for what lay beyond their borders.

A low chuckle escaped his lips, growing into a smile. That smile twisted into something else—a sharp, depraved grin that flickered across his face like lightning across a storm front.

"Stop that," Bellarine's voice snapped, cutting through his thoughts like a blade.

Martin didn't even flinch. "How the hell do you spawn everywhere?" he asked without turning, slowing his pace only slightly.

"Belisarius called you," Bellarine said, striding up beside him, her robes billowing faintly with each step. Her presence radiated command and subtle exhaustion.

"Don't you mean, my hubby?" Martin asked, eyes gleaming with playful malice.

"Shut up," Bellarine growled, her voice edged with irritation as she turned down a side corridor. "Follow me."

"Okay, granny," Martin replied with faux cheer, hands tucked in his coat pockets as he fell into step behind her.

Elsewhere, in the Council Chamber's shadowed antechamber.

Cordovan was still laughing softly, fingers tapping against the blackstone armrest in idle rhythm.

Letra watched the doorway where Martin had exited, her expression unreadable.

"He didn't flinch," she said finally, voice almost contemplative.

"He's not from here," Cordovan replied, amusement fading into something sharper. "He's not bound by the same illusions."

Letra's silver eyes narrowed. "And if he turns those illusions to ash?"

Cordovan smiled faintly, golden eyes distant. "Then perhaps… it is time the empire learned what burns beyond its borders."