The roads that led to Laguge were not on any map.

They wound through forests untouched by axe, crossed bridges formed by nature rather than stone, and passed through valleys so deep that the morning mist refused to rise. Few traveled this way—not because they could not, but because they dared not.

But Jared traveled it anyway.

Two carriages moved steadily through the rugged trail, their wheels reinforced and enchanted, courtesy of Sikone's newly acquired forge. At the front rode Lucy, reins in hand, her sharp eyes scanning every bend of the path. Jared sat beside her, arms crossed, face blank, his mind calculating.

Behind them, the second carriage rumbled forward, pulled by heavy-breathing horses. Inside were supplies, weapons, and two lizard men dressed in partial armor—green-scaled, tall, silent. Riding beside the wagon, keeping a perimeter, were the mechas—golemic titans of steel, powered by energy stones recovered from Jared's world.

Paimon floated invisibly above, her astral form shimmering faintly like heat haze, unseen to anyone who wasn't Jared.

Their group moved like a spearhead—not massive, not loud, but unmistakably dangerous.

They reached Laguge before nightfall.

The village was unlike anything Jared had seen in the north. It wasn't walled, nor did it need to be. No banners flew, no merchants lined the roads, and yet everything about it felt... secure. A pressure hung in the air, not magical, not divine—something older. Like the earth itself had sworn to protect it.

Structures were carved into the cliffsides and built from dark stone, each shaped with precision but no vanity. There were no towering buildings or flashy towers, but the presence was undeniable. Everything had weight.

A man in grey robes met them at the boundary—quiet, polite, nameless. He bowed low and spoke only once: "The Assembly welcomes you."

No fanfare. No declarations.

Jared didn't speak back.

He simply nodded.

They were escorted to a quiet dwelling built into the base of the hills. It was simple but large enough to hold the entire group, including the lizards and the two mechas, which now stood silently outside the lodge, like giant statues guarding an unseen treasure.

That night, Jared did not rest.

He sat alone on the edge of the veranda, a cup of herbal brew cooling beside him, watching the stars ripple across the black sky. Paimon drifted beside him, barely a whisper.

"You sure you want to do this?" she asked, her voice faint, tone uncharacteristically subdued.

Jared didn't look at her. "I didn't come here to ask."

I came here to take.

Paimon didn't say anything else.

Morning arrived with mist blanketing the village like a shroud.

Jared, Lucy, the lizard men, and Paimon—now disguised in her human form and seated silently at his left—followed their escort to the central hall.

It wasn't a hall in the traditional sense. No gold, no velvet, no towering throne.

Just twelve stone seats arranged in a circle around a shallow fire pit, each seat engraved with the emblem of its village. Eleven of them were occupied.

Jared was led to the center.

He stood.

The council watched.

Each representative bore the weight of their people. Some wore ceremonial garbs; others, like the elder from Korrinhold, came armored. A few were young, most were old, but all of them carried the same guarded expression Jared had seen in every seasoned warrior, merchant, and opportunist since he'd begun building Sikone.

Caution mixed with calculation.

One of them, a woman draped in silver chains, finally spoke.

"You are Jared of Sikone."

He didn't respond.

She continued, "You've done what few have. Built a trade hub. Maintained order. Forged alliances without bloodshed. The North watches, and it remembers."

Jared's gaze swept across them, sharp but silent.

Another council member leaned forward, an old man with skin like weathered bark and a voice like falling gravel. "We offer you a seat. The Twelfth Seat. Yours, if you accept it."

Jared was quiet.

Still.

Lucy, standing just behind him, remained unreadable. Paimon, next to her, watched the firelight flicker in Jared's eyes.

The room waited.

Jared tilted his head slightly, as if considering.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"No."

The word echoed through the stone chamber like a slap.

Murmurs erupted. A few leaned forward. One even stood.

But Jared's voice didn't rise.

"I don't want a seat," he continued. "I want the table."

Silence. Cold and immediate.

The silver-chained woman's eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"I've seen how this council governs," Jared said flatly. "You wait. You calculate. You move slowly, like a creature afraid of its own shadow."

Someone scoffed.

Jared ignored it.

"You speak of unity but trade only favors. You let the North rot for years while you argued over lines on a map."

His eyes moved to each of them.

"You think peace came because you permitted it? No. Peace came because someone built it. I built roads. I stopped bandits. I put swords in the hands of people who had only known hunger."

The gravel-voiced man leaned forward. "And now you want to rule us?"

Jared didn't blink. "I want to lead."

"Semantics."

"No," Jared said simply. "A ruler sits above. A leader walks ahead."

His hand dipped into his coat. From within, he drew a small crystal disc and held it forward. With a soft pulse, it lit up—projecting a flickering map of the north across the chamber floor. Roads. Trade routes. Guard posts. Supply hubs. Even weather patterns.

Gasps whispered through the room.

"This is what I built. And this is only the beginning."

The map shifted, displaying possible expansions—outposts in the east, safe zones through the frostlands, direct paths to Ravana and beyond.

"You're clinging to a structure built for war. That war ended decades ago. Now we need a system that builds. One voice. One direction. One north."

He stepped forward once, letting the firelight cast long shadows across his face.

"I don't want your chair. I want to restructure the council. Twelve can remain. But there will be one above."

He let that linger.

Then finished: "Me."

Silence returned.

But this one was different.

He had thrown a stone into a still pond—and the ripples had begun to spread.

The silver-chained woman stood, not angry, but curious.

"And what happens if we say no?"

Jared looked at her.

"Then I keep building. With or without you. And soon enough, I won't need this council at all."

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then smiled faintly.

"…Ambitious."

"No," Jared said. "Necessary."

The meeting didn't end with a vote.

There was no gavel strike or closing speech.

Jared turned and walked out of the chamber without asking for permission, his entourage falling into step behind him. The council remained behind, some speaking in low voices, others still staring at the map flickering silently on the floor.

Outside, the wind had picked up.

Lucy finally broke the silence. "They didn't reject it."

"No," Jared replied. "They didn't."

Paimon grinned. "That means they're scared."

"No," Jared said again. "That means they're thinking."

He climbed into the carriage, and the lizard men resumed their positions around it.

"Let them think," he said softly. "We're already two steps ahead."

And with that, the convoy turned and began the journey back to Sikone—leaving behind a council that had governed for generations…

…and now faced the possibility of a future they could no longer control.

…..

Back within the council chamber, silence still clung to the air long after Jared's departure. The flickering projection of the North remained, suspended mid-air above the firepit, casting strange shadows on the stone walls.

The silver-chained woman, Elder Yvenna of the Frost Bough Tribe, remained standing.

Her eyes were locked on the map, studying its contours—its clarity.

"That man…" she murmured. "He speaks as if he's already one of us."

"He speaks as if he's more than us," grunted Elder Drevan, the bark-skinned man from Korrinhold. "That isn't a proposal. That was a challenge."

A younger voice chimed in—soft, calculating—Elder Venn, from the Moonlight Sect. "Challenge or not, he's not wrong. Sikone has risen faster than any village in the last fifty years. He controls the only secure trade artery to Ravana, and now he's routing east."

"Exactly," Drevan snapped. "A man like that doesn't need a council. He needs a leash."

Yvenna tilted her head. "No… he needs a mirror."

Some of the elders turned to her.

"He said he doesn't want to rule. He wants to lead. That's different. And if we're honest," she paused, folding her hands neatly, "none of us have truly led in years. We maintain. We prevent collapse. But he's building something."

"Or preparing for conquest," another elder said, an old woman with blind eyes and a raven feather in her hair. "The young often mistake ambition for benevolence."

Elder Venn shrugged lightly. "Is that such a terrible mistake? If his ambition benefits the entire North, perhaps it's a gamble worth taking."

Drevan let out a low snort. "So what, we hand him the council's reins like a coronation? After all our years holding balance?"

"No one said that," Yvenna countered. "But maybe it's time we ask why we still sit in balance while the world outside this chamber shifts. Perhaps a new center is needed."

The elders fell silent again.

For years, the council had relied on tradition, consensus, caution. And now a man had walked in and laid out the future like it was already written. And the worst part?

It wasn't bluster.

Jared had evidence. Roads. Maps. Soldiers. Order.

Influence.

"Even the gods whisper in his name now," muttered the blind elder. "Have any of you noticed? The rituals are quieter. The signs fainter. It is as if the gods are listening elsewhere."

"A mortal with divine backing… dangerous," Drevan muttered.

"Or chosen," Yvenna said.

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