The Sovereign System.

"Then it is settled," the City Lord declared, rising from his chair. His gaze swept across the room before settling on the two men before him. "Masters, I know you are both retired, but in this time of crisis, will you once more take up the post of General?" His tone was respectful, almost pleading.

Master Boyd merely nodded, his usual silence returning like a familiar cloak.

The old man Gale let out a weary sigh. "I knew the Kingdom would call upon my services at some point during this war, but I did not expect it to be under such circumstances," he admitted.

"I don't think any of us did, Master Gale," Viscount Diego added, his voice tinged with dry humor.

Minister Chao rose from his seat, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room before settling on Luke. "For your sake, you had better hope that Lhair is indeed marching here," he said coldly before turning on his heel and striding out of the meeting hall.

His words carried the weight of a threat, but to Luke, they felt no more substantial than a gust of wind. If anything, the Minister had only exposed the pettiness of his own mind during the discussion.

As the doors shut behind Chao, no one in the room looked particularly displeased to see him go.

"Father, Luke is still injured. May I take him to the guest room?" Kayson asked, concern evident in his voice.

Viscount Nero's stern expression softened. "We will handle the defenses. You two get some rest. Scouts will be sent west, as Master Gale suggested, though it may take a few days before we receive word. Once we have news, I will summon young Luke again. It would be a waste not to utilize such a sharp mind in our strategy meetings."

"Indeed. Though I hope he is wrong about the attack, he has provided us with valuable information," Master Gale acknowledged.

Luke bowed slightly, careful not to worsen his injury. "Thank you, City Lord. Master Gale."

With that, Kayson stepped forward and helped him to his feet. Pain flared through Luke's leg, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to show weakness in front of the gathered nobles and strategists.

Pain had never been his strong suit, not even back on Earth. The worst he had endured was getting his wisdom teeth removed in high school. Now, he had survived a dagger to the leg—an injury that still throbbed with every step he took.

The journey through the estate was slow and painful, but eventually, Kayson led him into a lavish guest room. The space was opulent, boasting a plush lounge, a polished mahogany table, and a grand four-poster bed draped in fine fabrics. The mattress looked firm yet inviting, a stark contrast to the harsh realities of war beyond these walls.

As the door clicked shut, Kayson guided Luke to the lounge—only to drop him onto it with more force than necessary.

Startled, Luke looked up, his gaze meeting his friend's stormy expression. The anger on Kayson's face was unmistakable, burning as bright as a wildfire.

Luke didn't need to think hard to understand why.

"Look, Kayson—"

"Before you speak," Kayson interrupted, his voice sharp and unwavering. "I will give you only one chance. If I detect even a hint of falsehood in your words, we will go our separate ways—and I will rescind our brotherhood."

Luke froze. He hadn't expected Kayson to take such a hard stance, not after everything they had been through—at the academy, on the battlefield, through blood and fire. For the first time, he saw Kayson in a new light.

'He is much purer than I first thought.' Luke mused.

He let out a slow sigh. "You're right, Kayson," he admitted. "I apologize for not telling you my theories sooner, but you have to understand—many of my deductions only became clear during the meeting. As for the information that led to them… I will tell you now."

Kayson didn't respond. He simply moved to the chair opposite Luke, his expression unreadable as he sat down.

So Luke spoke.

He told him everything. About meeting Victoria at the Academy, then again in Valand City. About her investigations, what she had uncovered, and how those discoveries had shaped his deductions in the meeting hall.

Kayson remained silent throughout, his only response coming at the very end. "We've spent plenty of time together since then. Why are you only telling me this now?" His voice held a note of irritation.

Luke shook his head. "I told you I didn't trust Pierce. And the men we took from William Nox could have been compromised—filled with informants. If I had mentioned Victoria, I could have exposed her cover."

Kayson leaned back, fingers resting against his chin in thought.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

For the first time, Luke felt genuine fear—not of betrayal or death, but of losing Kayson's friendship. Only now, when it was at risk, did he realize just how much he valued it.

Finally, Kayson gave a sharp nod, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Your words make sense. I'll forgive you this once," he said. Then, just as quickly, the smile faded. "But if you lie to me again, brother, I will not be so generous."

Luke exhaled, relief washing over him. "You've made your point, brother. From this moment on, no more lies. We share both victory and defeat—on and off the battlefield."

"Aye," Kayson agreed. "I'll have the servants prepare us a meal. And perhaps we can finally partake in that wine I promised you." He stood, flashing a grin. "Don't go anywhere."

Luke let out a dry chuckle. "I don't think you have to worry about that," he muttered, adjusting his leg with a grimace.

Kayson's laughter rang out as he exited the room.

***

Reeve Normann was a massive man who enjoyed three things: whoring, killing, and gambling. His broad frame and burly shoulders had earned him the nickname The Bear. At first, the name had irritated him, but over time, he grew to relish the fear it invoked in others.

He lived by a simple yet thrilling routine. He would raid farms, steal their cattle, and sell them at the markets for a hefty sum. Once his pockets were full, he spent his time in town—visiting every brothel, gambling until he was broke, and then returning to the mountains to earn more coin.

On an otherwise ordinary day, Reeve and a few of his men set out to raid a farm on the western side of the mountain. This particular farm belonged to a priest, though the owner was absent. Reeve, despite his brute strength, was not a fool—he avoided raiding lands owned by the church. The clergy held immense power in Lhair, and crossing them was a dangerous game. However, he had already plundered the other farms in the region, leaving slim pickings.

After careful consideration, he made his decision.

The raid began as usual, but it took a sudden, disastrous turn.

A large man stood waiting for them, clad in a red tunic and scale armor. His iron helm obscured most of his face, save for the two narrow slits where his eyes gleamed coldly. A strip of metal hung from the brow, covering the bridge of his nose.

A Redeemer.

Reeve's blood ran cold. The Redeemers were the holy knights who served directly under the Bishop of Lhair—men whose brutality was spoken of in hushed whispers.

Before Reeve could react, the knight drew his longsword and struck. The blade sliced through one of his men from the shoulder down, cleaving him in two with terrifying ease. Blood and viscera splattered the dirt as the severed halves of the man crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

Panic seized the raiders. Despite outnumbering the knight, their courage shattered. They scattered like rats, fleeing for their lives.

Only Reeve Normann remained.

Why? He didn't know. His body refused to move.

The Redeemer took a step forward. "Our lord wishes to meet with you."

Reeve's breath caught. The Bishop? How could he have known about this raid? And why would he want to see him of all people?

"And if I refuse?" he asked, licking his dry lips.

The knight nudged the mutilated corpse at his feet with his boot. "Then your fate will be the same as his."

Reeve had no doubt the man spoke the truth. He could feel the knight's strength, an overwhelming presence that dwarfed his own. Even with his size advantage, he knew that he stood no chance.

"I will gladly meet him," Reeve said, swallowing hard.

The Redeemer gave a curt nod. "Very well. Follow me." Without another word, he turned and strode toward the farmhouse.

He's inside? Reeve's mind reeled. The Bishop resided in the Holy Capital. What in the gods' names was he doing in a remote farmhouse?

Stepping inside, Reeve's breath hitched at the sight before him.

A young man sat casually in the lounge, legs crossed, posture relaxed. At a glance, he barely looked older than a teenager. His smooth, unmarked face and the almost bored expression he wore seemed entirely out of place for someone of his supposed status.

Yet, despite his youthful appearance, an undeniable presence hung in the air.

It wasn't until the boy lifted his gaze and their eyes met that Reeve felt true fear.

Those cold blue eyes—majestic like the snow-capped mountains—held something else beneath their beauty. A deep, unfathomable bloodlust.

Reeve's knees buckled for a brief moment, but he forced himself to remain standing.

"Reeve Normann, the one they call The Bear…" The Bishop spoke, his voice soft—almost delicate—yet carrying an undeniable weight. "I want you to become a knight under my banner. Accept, and I will grant you power."

Reeve swallowed. "With all due respect, Bishop… I have no use for power or riches." He lied. He wanted nothing to do with the church or its fanatical warriors. The Holy Knights were zealots, every last one of them.

The Bishop laughed, a sound so grating it sent shivers down Reeve's spine.

"Your heart's desires are laid bare before me, Reeve Normann. Come, kneel before me, and I shall grant you the power you so desperately crave."

The words coiled around his mind like a snake. Before he knew what was happening, his body moved on its own—his legs folding beneath him, his head bowing.

It was only when his knees hit the ground that he realized what he had done.

Then, a hand touched the top of his head.

"By the power of the gods, I bless you."

A surge of energy exploded through Reeve's body, coursing from his head to his toes. It was painful—like molten iron being poured into his veins—yet at the same time, euphoric. His wounds burned as they closed, his muscles pulsed with newfound strength, and a force beyond comprehension filled him to the brim.

For ten agonizing, intoxicating seconds, he felt as though something divine had descended into him.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the Bishop withdrew his hand and leaned back into the lounge, as if nothing had happened.

Reeve exhaled sharply.

He would never forget that moment for as long as he lived.

Now, standing at the mouth of the Maxis River, that memory tugged a grin to his lips. His mood lifted—if only for a moment.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, staring at the rushing waters. "Why didn't these bastards build a bridge?"

"General, what should we do?"

Reeve turned to the soldier beside him. The man regarded him with a mixture of reverence and fear.

General.

The old him would have never imagined holding such a title, yet here he was.

He exhaled, shaking off his thoughts. "Send some men along the river. Find a place to cross." He waved a hand dismissively.

"Yes, sir!"

Reeve turned, his gaze sweeping over the massive army behind him—thirty thousand strong, including five Redeemers, himself among them.

The Bishop had said that Clayton City would be defended by half this number at most.

He turned eastward, licking his lips. Excitement bubbled in his chest. Once they breached Clayton City, he could kill and rape to his heart's content—all in the name of cleansing the world of evil.