"Those are the rules. Resistance without the DPS to back it up? It's just a punchline."

Orion's final avatar lounged in the chair, his tone dismissive. He didn't care much about Isabella's apology.

To him, the earlier trash talk on the public channel was just that—trash talk. Locker room banter. But Isabella had taken it to heart. She was spiraling, her pride stung.

"It's simple math," Orion continued, his voice flat. "If you can't hold your own, you don't get a slice of the pie. Hell, you don't even get a seat at the table."

He glanced up as she turned away. The angle of the sun caught her slender figure perfectly, the backlight rendering her silhouette in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Orion squinted behind his sunglasses. Okay, I'm starting to become a believer in the lighting engine of this world.

"You jealous?" he called out to her retreating back.

"Then grind. Hit Arch Lord status. Stop sulking and start leveling."

"Until you hit that tier, you aren't qualified for cross-realm warfare. End of story."

Orion didn't sugarcoat it. It was the brutal truth of their existence.

He remembered his own early days, back when he discovered the cross-realm teleportation array beneath Blackstone City. His reaction back then had been pathetic, honestly. Paranoia had consumed him.

He had layered defense upon defense outside that gate—barriers, armies of Skeletal Knights, hordes of cave spiders. He would check on it obsessively, losing sleep, terrified of what might come through.

Why? Because back then, he wasn't an Arch Lord. He lacked the power to control the outcome.

"I'm going back," Isabella said stiffly.

Perhaps his words had cut through the noise. She didn't look back as she left Leonidas's palace, heading straight for her own territory.

She had work to do. No more tantrums. Just the long, hard grind to Arch Lord.

The Abyss, Second Layer: Vigil's Point.

Atop the obsidian ramparts, Makareth stood as the solitary pillar of the defense. With Orion in closed-door cultivation, the burden of command fell squarely on his shoulders.

Fortunately, Makareth was an Awakened, a true Survivor. Orion trusted him with the keys to the kingdom in a way he never would with Delilah.

It wasn't about affection; it was about competence. Makareth's power, his foundations, his ruthlessness, and his strategic vision were leagues ahead of Delilah's. He was a professional.

"Damn this Gray World… and these wretched Sin-Eaters," Makareth hissed through gritted teeth.

He maintained the protective barrier with one hand, his mind cursing the timing of this invasion.

If they had just waited… just a little longer.

If the invasion from the Gray World had been delayed, Makareth might have hit Arch Lord status by now. He could have been on the front lines, fighting alongside Orion.

If he were an Arch Lord, his avatar would currently be in the Silverwood Realm, sitting at the high table with Kraken, feasting on the spoils of war that the Deputy Commander was handing out.

Envy. Jealousy. It burned in his gut like acid. But that was the nature of a Demon.

Makareth didn't suppress it. He fed on it. It was fuel.

Keep it together, he whispered to himself, the mantra grounding him. Don't lose the plot.

My job is to manage the Godforsaken Land the Deputy Commander entrusted to me. I build this foundation, and then… then I ascend.

Competition within the Champions Alliance was fierce, but it was the healthy kind. It used to be the Orion and Kraken show. Now, it was Makareth versus Isabella for the next slot.

And Orion? He was competing too, but he was playing in the big leagues now, fighting his brothers for the choicest cuts of the continent.

Silverwood Realm, Staghelm City.

The reconstruction was miraculous. There were no scars left—no rubble, no broken walls.

Staghelm City had risen from the ashes, more vibrant than before. The streets were a riot of color and noise, packed with vendors hawking exotic wares.

Since the Champions Alliance had wrested control from the Cult of Four and purged the demonic monsters, the entire continent had taken a deep breath. Life was returning.

Civilization was blooming around three major hubs: Augurath Sanctuary in the north, Staghelm City in the center, and Gold City—Leonidas's territory—in the south. It was a golden age of trade and expansion.

***

"This place… it's unreal," Onyx muttered, walking side-by-side with Gronthar down the main promenade. They marveled at the architecture, a city grown from living wood and stone by the Moonwell and the Moon Elves.

Orion's wedding was happening here. As the elite officers of the Stoneheart Horde, they were dressed to kill—ceremonial armor polished to a mirror sheen.

"The mana density here," Gronthar grunted, sniffing the air. "I hate to admit it, but Stoneheart City can't compete with this."

He was actually underselling it. Stoneheart City was a fortress, barely out of its infancy. Staghelm City was ancient, steeped in centuries of magic. They weren't even in the same weight class.

The fact that The Demigod of the Moonwell had held this city against a siege by multiple Demigods from the Cult of Four spoke volumes. If a single Demigod had hit Stoneheart City, the place would have crumbled.

"Apples and oranges," Onyx shrugged. "The architecture reminds me of the Blood Elves' City of Blessings. Same aesthetic."

He wasn't wrong. Elven cities were usually grown and guarded by Tree Sentinels. They all shared that organic, flowing design philosophy.

"I don't care," Gronthar said stubbornly. "I still prefer Augurath Sanctuary."

"We've got the Black Tower. They don't."

Gronthar was old school. A former Troll Lord, his people had integrated into the Stoneheart Horde long ago. During the second phase of the Ten-City Plan, the Trolls had been granted their own city within the Tribe's territory, named in their honor.

It was their home. A gift from Orion. Loyalty ran deep.

"You're biased, brother, but you're not wrong," Onyx laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. "Come on. I heard there's a Druid running an arcane shop down the street. Let's see if we can find some loot."

On the other side of the city, the vibe was looser.

Inside a bustling mercenary tavern, Thundar and Dace were knocking back tankards the size of buckets.

The crowd was a melting pot: Stoneheart Giants and Minotaurs rubbed shoulders with Moon Giants, Wood Elves, and Mundo-strain mutants.

It felt like a vacation.

"New orders just came down," Thundar rumbled, wiping foam from his lip. "Once the wedding wraps, the Lord is leading us East. We're kicking the Nightwing race off the map."

"Here's hoping the Lord has a… productive wedding night first," Dace grinned, clinking his massive mug against Thundar's.

There was no one else within earshot, so they dropped the formalities. To them, Orion was just Lord, not My Lord.

"It's good business," Thundar nodded sagely. "That Eastern territory? It's going to be Stoneheart land."

"Every inch of dirt on the Moonlight Continent is gold," Dace added. He'd been with Orion long enough to know the value of real estate.

As long as the Forest of Nature and Staghelm City stood, the ley lines would heal. The elemental concentration would rise. This land was an investment that would pay out for centuries.

"True enough," Thundar said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the room. "I just wonder… when we march East, are the Staghelm troops coming with us?"

They were technically allies now—Staghelm and the Stoneheart Horde were supposed to be family. Thundar was curious if they'd actually act like it.

Family fights together, right?

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