Chapter 35

  ?The descent into the deepest subterranean holding cells of the High Elf Central Headquarters felt like walking down the throat of a buried beast.

  ?The air grew significantly colder with every spiraling revolution of the ancient stone staircase. The ambient, magically circulated breeze of the upper administrative tiers was entirely absent down here, replaced by a heavy, stagnant atmosphere that carried a highly specific, deeply unsettling cocktail of scents.

  ?Homer walked quietly behind the towering, blood-soaked frame of Knight Rod. The human’s highly augmented olfactory sensors instantly categorized the smells. There was the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood. There was the sour, acidic stench of terrified sweat.

  ?But beneath the carnage, there was something else. A rich, earthy, deeply roasted aroma that felt entirely out of place in a medieval fantasy dungeon.

  ?“Chemical analysis confirms the presence of 1,3,7-Trimethylxanthine,” Castor’s golden voice echoed in the neural link, sounding genuinely surprised. “That is coffee, Homer. Highly refined, perfectly roasted pre-cataclysm coffee beans. It appears the agricultural sectors of this era have successfully preserved the crop.”

  ?“The biological entity designated as Rod is currently exhibiting a resting heart rate of fifty-five beats per minute,” Pollux chimed in, its dark code completely unfazed by the beverage choice. “He is completely relaxed. The blood soaking his cuffs is fresh, yet his cortisol levels are completely baseline. He views the physical dismantling of biologicals as a mundane, administrative chore.”

  ?Homer kept his face impassive, but he immediately noticed a drastic change in the Vanguard members walking beside him.

  ?Mira the Silver Lioness suddenly stumbled, her hand shooting out to brace herself against the damp stone wall. Her golden feline eyes were dilated, and her breathing had become incredibly shallow. A few steps down, Ramel of Sucat let out a ragged, wheezing cough, leaning heavily on the haft of his gargantuan battleaxe as a thick sheen of cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

  ?Zord and Commander Elara, however, seemed entirely unaffected, marching forward without issue.

  ?Rod led the Vanguard down another flight of stairs, his polished dress shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone. He did not look back, speaking with the casual, breezy tone of a man discussing the weather rather than a high-level military crisis.

  ?"It truly is a shame we were deployed elsewhere when the rogue legend attacked the capital," Rod sighed, his deep baritone vibrating off the damp walls. He casually adjusted his crisp, blood-stained cravat. "If we had been present, the ascension ceremony would have proceeded without a hitch, and that apocalyptic artifact would never have been stolen in the first place. It has caused an entirely unacceptable amount of paperwork."

  ?Commander Elara cleared her throat. Even her deeply ingrained military discipline was heavily tempered by the sheer, terrifying presence of the old-world assassin.

  ?"If I may ask, Knight Rod," Elara inquired politely. "What exactly happened to your deployment? The High Council dispatched the Holy Knights to the northern peaks to intercept a massive demon army. How were you delayed?"

  ?Rod paused on the landing, glancing over his shoulder to ensure only the Vanguard was within earshot. His dead eyes swept over the group before he offered a smooth, completely humorless smile.

  ?"The northern front was absolutely brutal, Commander," Rod explained, resuming his descent. "The enemy forces were not standard Iron Remnant grunts. We engaged General Blare and his elite demonic shock troops. The combat was... intense. Even our leader, Knight Lumbria, was having a difficult time breaking through Blare's thermodynamic shielding."

  ?Homer’s internal alarms instantly flared. He had fought General Remoj Hopps and Remo on the savanna. He had fought the rogue legend Eliot Durand. Yet, according to Rod, there was another Demon General named Blare who was actively capable of holding off the entire squad of ancient, pre-cataclysm Holy Knights—the very monsters who had originally sealed Pollux in the ice.

  ?"We were locked in a massive war of attrition," Rod continued casually. "Then, a magical familiar bypassed our perimeter. A messenger bird woven from pure dark mana. It delivered the news that the northern army was nothing more than a highly coordinated diversion so Eliot Durand could strike the capital."

  ?Rod let out a soft chuckle that sounded like grinding tectonic plates.

  ?"Knight Kukla did not take the news well," Rod noted, shaking his head. "She was so incredibly angry about being tricked that she physically ripped a gargantuan chunk of the earth directly out of the mountain range and threw it at the retreating demon army."

  ?Ramel of Sucat, already struggling to breathe, suddenly missed a step, his heavy iron boot scraping loudly against the stone.

  ?"She... she threw a piece of the mountain?" Ramel gasped, his loud voice dropping to a horrified, raspy whisper.

  ?"Yes," Rod confirmed smoothly. "She threw it with such extreme kinetic velocity that it overshot the enemy lines completely. It was on a direct trajectory to obliterate the nearby civilian city of Sucat."

  ?Ramel’s face drained of all color, turning a sickly shade of pale gray beneath his thick dwarven beard. His hometown had nearly been wiped off the map simply because a Holy Knight threw a temper tantrum. He swallowed hard, entirely unwilling—and physically unable—to talk back or complain.

  ?"Fortunately," Rod added, "Knight Cyril was present. Cyril is our primary tactical mage. The same mage who originally wove the indestructible sealing spells around the containment artifact eons ago. Cyril deployed a massive, wide-scale kinetic barrier over the city just in time. The earthen projectile struck the shield and shattered into dust. It was a very smart move on Cyril's part. Filing an incident report for the accidental obliteration of an entire Imperial tax-paying city is a bureaucratic nightmare."

  ?"And the demon general?" Zord asked quietly, his ancient eyes narrowed in thought.

  ?"They escaped," Rod admitted, a rare flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his handsome, aristocratic features. "General Blare utilized an incredibly complex mass-displacement spell. Even Cyril could not dispel the spatial tear in time. They are a truly powerful bunch, these ancient mutants."

  ?The heavy reality of the power scaling settled over the Vanguard like a suffocating blanket. The Holy Knights possessed enough raw physical power to casually throw mountains, and the Iron Remnant possessed generals capable of fighting them to a standstill.

  ?Finally, the narrow staircase opened up into a massive, cavernous subterranean chamber.

  ?The interrogation room was entirely devoid of the elegant, blinding white marble of the upper administrative tiers. It was a brutal, utilitarian slaughterhouse constructed from dark iron and heavily enchanted obsidian. The harsh glare of magical arc-lamps illuminated the center of the room. Lined up neatly against the left wall were four bodies covered in simple white sheets.

  ?Homer’s eyes tracked across the room, moving past the dead spies to the far edge of the chamber.

  ?Chained heavily to the obsidian wall, suspended by thick iron shackles that bound his wrists and ankles, was a single, diminutive figure. The prisoner was battered, heavily bruised, and covered in dried blood, but still breathing in ragged, shallow gasps.

  ?It was a Goblin.

  ?But it was not just any Goblin. Homer recognized the sharp, pointed ears, the specific shape of the jawline, and the tattered, blood-soaked remains of a merchant's tunic.

  ?It was Griphook. The black-market information broker who had sold Homer the books back in the walled trade hub of Carmona.

  ?Rod walked casually over to a small iron table near the torture rack. Resting on the cold metal was a delicate, steaming porcelain cup. The giant Elf picked it up, taking a slow, highly appreciative sip.

  ?As the steam wafted across the room, the rich, roasted scent intensified dramatically.

  ?Behind Homer, Mira let out a strangled groan. The Silver Lioness’s knees finally buckled, and she collapsed against the stone floor, her chest heaving as if she were breathing through a wet cloth. Ramel dropped his axe with a loud clang, falling to one knee, clutching his throat as his incredibly efficient respiratory system completely failed him.

  ?Rod did not even glance at the collapsing adventurers. He simply turned his dead eyes toward Homer, holding his coffee cup in one hand.

  ?"He was captured attempting to flee the capital through the lower aqueducts an hour ago," Rod explained, gesturing to the battered Goblin with a blood-stained cuff. "He is a primary node in the rebel communication network. But more importantly, when we searched his person, we found a highly encrypted magical ledger."

  ?Rod took another casual sip from his cup.

  ?"The ledger documents his transactions," Rod continued smoothly. "And it mentions a human matching your exact physical description. It states that an unregistered wind mage named Homer purchased a collection of specific reading materials from him in Carmona. A textbook on... what was it? 'Smells and Ergonomics'?"

  ?"Spells and Economics," Homer corrected automatically, keeping his voice carefully neutral, desperately playing the part of the confused turnip farmer.

  ?"Ah, yes. Spells and Economics," Rod chuckled, the sound deep and terrifying. "A thrilling read, I am sure. Tell me, turnip farmer... did you know you were buying literature from an active Iron Remnant spy? Or are you part of his intelligence network?"

  ?Homer looked at the giant Holy Knight, then at the battered Goblin on the wall. He needed to keep this as mundane as possible.

  ?"I had absolutely no idea he was a spy, Knight Rod," Homer answered honestly, letting a perfect note of anxiety bleed into his voice. "I am just a guy from the agricultural rings trying to learn how the modern world works. He was just a merchant in an alleyway. I gave him gold, he gave me the books. That was the entirety of the exchange."

  ?Rod stared at Homer for a long, agonizing moment over the rim of his porcelain cup. His ancient eyes searched the human for any sign of deception. Finally, the giant Elf lowered the cup, a small, polite smile returning to his face.

  ?"I believe you," Rod stated simply. "The Goblin has already confessed to the transaction under... extreme physical duress. He maintained that you were just a clueless tourist. I simply wanted to verify his story with you directly."

  ?Homer let out a slow exhale, relieved that his cover remained intact. But as he looked down, he saw Mira struggling to keep her eyes open, her golden fur matted with sweat. Ramel was practically hyperventilating on the floor.

  ?"Knight Rod," Homer said, abandoning his facade of perfect obedience for a moment. "What is happening to them? Are there toxic fumes in this room?"

  ?Rod blinked, genuinely surprised. He looked down at the paralyzed dwarf and the gasping beastkin, then looked at his steaming porcelain cup. A sudden look of realization dawned on the giant Elf’s flawless face.

  ?"Oh, my absolute apologies," Rod chuckled, sounding exactly like a host who had forgotten to offer his guests a chair. "I completely forgot to warn the lesser races."

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  ?Rod swirled the dark liquid in his cup, taking a deep inhale of the rich aroma.

  ?"It is coffee," Rod explained calmly. "A truly magnificent, highly stimulating beverage harvested from ancient seeds. The bean is still widely available in the modern markets, though you must seek out highly specialized, regulated cafes to acquire a cup."

  ?Homer frowned. "Why would a beverage do that to them? Zord and Commander Elara are perfectly fine."

  ?"Because Zord is Human, and Elara is an Elf," Rod replied, taking another sip. "Coffee is perfectly safe for Humans, Elves, and Demons. Our biology processes the complex caffeine compounds as a delightful stimulant. However, due to their specific evolutionary mutations, it is highly toxic to Beastkin, Dwarves, and Goblins."

  ?Rod gestured lazily toward Mira and Ramel with his free hand.

  ?"To them, it is a potent neurotoxin," the Holy Knight said, his voice completely devoid of empathy. "If they were to drink it, they would fall into an irreversible, lethal comatose state within minutes. Even the scent of a freshly brewed cup alone is enough to severely weaken their nervous systems and bring them to their knees. It is a highly effective, completely passive interrogation tool when dealing with rebel Beastkin."

  ?Homer stared at the giant, blood-soaked operative sipping his coffee while his friends suffocated on the fumes. The sheer, casual arrogance of the old world was staggering. They didn't even need to draw their weapons to cripple their allies; their breakfast beverages were literal biological weapons.

  The heavy, earthy scent of the roasted brew hung in the stagnant air of the interrogation chamber, a completely incongruous aroma amidst the blood and iron.

  ?Rod’s accusation hung heavily over the room, freezing the blood in Homer's veins. The towering Holy Knight, holding his delicate porcelain cup, waited with the terrifying, patient stillness of an apex predator expecting a confession. The giant Elf suspected Homer of actively participating in the rebel intelligence network alongside the battered Goblin chained to the far wall.

  ?Homer needed to kill that suspicion instantly. He needed to prove this was nothing more than a highly mundane, utterly forgettable transaction between a clueless tourist and an opportunistic merchant.

  ?"I have proof," Homer blurted out, forcing his voice to pitch slightly higher, perfectly capturing the panicked, defensive tone of a frightened peasant. "He gave me a card! A business card for his storefront!"

  ?Homer frantically patted down his dusty linen tunic, playing the bumbling fool flawlessly. He reached into a deep pocket, his fingers quickly locating the small, slightly crumpled piece of heavy parchment. It was the exact calling card Griphook had pressed into his hand back in the bustling, sun-baked market alleyway of Carmona.

  ?With a trembling hand, Homer pulled the parchment out and held it forward.

  ?Rod did not snatch it. The giant Elf casually transferred his coffee cup to his other hand and reached out, delicately taking the crumpled parchment between his blood-stained, impeccably manicured fingers.

  ?Rod’s dead, ancient eyes scanned the card. It bore a crude ink drawing of a badger and a ledger, outlining the Goblin's legitimate—if highly sleazy—business front as an antique book appraiser. It was a perfectly mundane, entirely verifiable piece of civilian marketing material.

  ?Rod slowly turned his gaze toward the far wall.

  ?Griphook, barely conscious, lifted his heavily bruised head. The Goblin's breathing was incredibly shallow, his tattered merchant tunic soaked in fresh crimson. Yet, as the battered information broker looked at Homer, there was absolutely zero recognition of divinity, rebellion, or grand conspiracy in his eyes.

  ?To Griphook, Homer was not the legendary Architect of the old world. He was not a Titanium hero or a god. He was exactly what he appeared to be: a remarkably clueless, overly tall human who had eagerly paid premium gold for dusty, completely useless academic texts without even attempting to barter.

  ?"He... he just bought the economics text," Griphook rasps out, a thin line of blood bubbling at the corner of his swollen lips. The Goblin's voice was weak, completely stripped of the sharp, fast-talking energy he had possessed in the Carmona alleyway. "Paid full price in solid gold. Didn't even try to haggle down the margin. A complete, utter fool. He is not a spy. Just a tourist with too much coin."

  ?Rod stared at the crude calling card, then at the dying Goblin, and finally locked his terrifying gaze onto Homer.

  ?The giant Holy Knight's dead eyes narrowed infinitesimally. The sheer, crushing weight of an ancient assassin actively analyzing its prey settled over the Architect. Homer forced Castor to maintain his heart rhythm at a panicked, erratic pace, allowing a cold sweat to visibly break out across his brow. He stood perfectly still, letting the terrifying Elf search for a lie that simply wasn't there.

  ?Rod lowered the card, placing it neatly on the iron torture table next to his steaming porcelain cup.

  ?The Holy Knight accepted the factual evidence. The interaction was demonstrably mundane. Yet, the shadow of deep, ingrained suspicion did not entirely leave his gaze. Rod looked at Homer as if observing a particularly strange, highly irritating insect that hadn't quite earned the physical effort required to crush it.

  ?"Very well," Rod murmured smoothly, his deep, rumbling baritone vibrating with absolute apathy. "A foolish tourist making exceedingly poor financial decisions in a trade hub. It seems your immense, baffling luck continues to hold, turnip farmer."

  ?Rod turned his back on the Vanguard, picking up his coffee cup once more. He waved a dismissive, blood-stained hand toward the spiraling stone staircase leading back toward the surface.

  ?"Take your fragile companions and leave my interrogation room," Rod commanded, his tone completely devoid of remorse or basic empathy. He did not even glance at the dying adventurers on the floor. "Their pathetic, rasping gasps are ruining the quiet ambiance I require for my work. If they happen to expire on the stairs, ensure you drag their heavy corpses all the way to the surface. I detest unnecessary clutter in my workspace."

  ?Homer did not hesitate. He dropped the bumbling persona entirely, his silver eyes flashing with urgent, kinetic focus.

  ?"Help me grab them," Homer snapped quietly at Zord and Elara.

  ?The elderly shadow wizard instantly moved to assist, looping his frail arms under the dense, iron-clad shoulders of the paralyzed dwarf. Commander Elara, her face a rigid mask of suppressed horror and strict aristocratic discipline, hoisted the violently shivering Silver Lioness, draping the beastkin's limp arm firmly over her pristine mythril armor.

  ?Homer took Ramel's other side. The dwarf's immense, compressed physical density made him feel like a solid boulder of forged lead. Ramel's face had turned a terrifying shade of ashen gray, his eyes rolled back in his head as his highly efficient respiratory system completely shut down. Mira was faring no better; her golden feline eyes were entirely dilated, and a thin line of foam gathered at the edge of her mouth. The neurotoxic fumes were aggressively executing their lethal biological override.

  ?The ascent up the spiraling, claustrophobic stone staircase was physically agonizing.

  ?The air grew marginally clearer the higher they climbed away from the subterranean dungeon, but the internal damage to the dwarf and the beastkin had already been initiated. The lethal caffeine compounds were aggressively binding to their neural receptors, systematically shutting down their vital organs.

  ?“Administrator, the biological entities designated as Ramel and Mira are actively entering terminal systemic failure,” Pollux’s icy, synthetic voice echoed through Homer's neural link. “Their cardiovascular functions will cease entirely before we reach the upper landing. The Holy Knight's passive biochemical attack is highly efficient.”

  ?“We are absolutely not letting them die on a staircase because of a morning beverage!” Castor’s golden code roared in response, instantly projecting a microscopic, highly detailed anatomical overlay of the dying adventurers directly into Homer's optical nerves. “Homer, initiate the Sanctum Vitalis. I am isolating the specific molecular structure of the neurotoxin right now. Target the 1,3,7-Trimethylxanthine compounds and eradicate them completely!”

  ?Homer focused his absolute biological willpower. As he gripped Ramel's thick, armored forearm and pressed his shoulder firmly against Mira's back to help hoist them up the jagged stone steps, he silently disengaged a microscopic fraction of his internal limiters.

  ?A completely invisible, hyper-dense swarm of silver medical nanites flooded out from Homer's pores.

  ?The swarm passed effortlessly through the dwarven iron armor and the beastkin leather, sinking directly into the failing bloodstreams of his companions. Homer's eyes flashed with a brilliant, hidden silver luminescence in the dim, flickering light of the stairwell. Guided by Castor's flawless chemical telemetry, the microscopic machines actively hunted down the lethal caffeine molecules, systematically dismantling them atom by atom, forcefully converting the deadly neurotoxin into harmless, easily metabolized proteins.

  ?The effect was completely silent, yet undeniably miraculous.

  ?Halfway up the seemingly endless ascent, Ramel suddenly violently inhaled, drawing in a massive, ragged gasp of air. The sickly, terrifying gray pallor began to recede from the dwarf's face, rapidly replaced by a healthy, flushed warmth. On Elara's shoulder, Mira’s feline ears twitched sharply. The beastkin let out a weak, sputtering cough, her golden eyes slowly focusing as the paralyzing, suffocating fog finally lifted from her nervous system.

  ?Neither Zord nor Elara noticed the microscopic, divine intervention. They attributed the sudden, miraculous recovery to moving further away from the toxic fumes of the lower dungeon.

  ?By the time the Vanguard finally burst through the heavy, arched doorway and stumbled out into the bright, magically circulated air of the upper military courtyard, Mira and Ramel were breathing heavily but entirely independently.

  ?Homer let go of the dwarf, allowing Ramel to collapse onto the pristine white cobblestones. The massive warrior dropped his battleaxe with a deafening clang, clutching his broad chest as he greedily gulped down the fresh, untainted air. Mira leaned heavily against a sun-warmed marble pillar, shivering violently as her hyper-attuned survival instincts slowly, agonizingly calmed down.

  ?"By the deep earth," Ramel rasps, his legendary booming voice reduced to a hoarse, terrified whisper. "My lungs... it felt like my lungs were turned to solid stone. I couldn't pull a single breath."

  ?Mira spat on the pristine cobblestones, her feline tail lashing angrily behind her. "It was the scent. Just the scent of whatever dark magic he was brewing in that little porcelain cup. It was literally melting my brain."

  ?Commander Elara stood perfectly still in the center of the courtyard. The Elven High Guard stared down at the heavy wooden door leading to the interrogation dungeons, her beautiful, aristocratic face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated revulsion.

  ?Her entire existence had been defined by absolute, fanatical devotion to the Elven Empire and the divine grace of the Light. The Holy Knights were supposed to be the ultimate, pristine defenders of that holy mandate. Yet, she had just witnessed an ancient, revered operative utilize a casual, mundane morning beverage to passively suffocate her squadmates without an ounce of pity or physical effort. The casual cruelty of the old world was entirely sickening.

  ?"A beverage," Elara whispered, her voice trembling with suppressed rage and deeply shattered faith. "They did not even draw a blade. They utilized a simple morning drink as an execution method. What kind of monsters rule this Empire?"

  ?"The kind that survived the end of the world, Commander," Zord replied quietly, leaning heavily on his wooden staff. The ancient shadow wizard's eyes were deeply sorrowful. "The old world did not possess our magic. They possessed cold, calculated efficiency. We are merely seeing the architects of our suffering in their true, unvarnished form."

  ?Before Elara could respond, the heavy, rhythmic clanking of armored boots approached from the main causeway.

  ?High Councillor Nero strode briskly into the courtyard. The immortal Sovereign had discarded his heavy travel cloak, his pristine, formal armor gleaming brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight. He moved with his characteristic, arrogant grace, but as his golden eyes swept over the gasping, recovering Vanguard, a flicker of genuine concern broke through his stoic facade.

  ?Nero stopped in front of the group, raising a single hand to sharply signal the perimeter guards to maintain their distance. He looked directly at Homer.

  ?"Are you entirely intact?" Nero asked, his tone dropping to a low, urgent murmur meant only for his inner circle.

  ?"We survived the descent," Homer replied smoothly, rolling his broad shoulders to release the lingering, heavy tension of the encounter. "Knight Rod possessed a rather lethal choice of brew for his morning routine. But we managed to avoid any permanent casualties."

  ?Nero let out a long, heavy breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The old guard possesses... highly archaic methods of hospitality. But that is no longer our immediate concern."

  ?The Sovereign straightened his posture, projecting an aura of absolute, undeniable command.

  ?"The primary objective is complete," Nero announced, his voice ringing with quiet, monumental triumph. "High Councillor Tamara and Knight Kukla have successfully transported the carriage into the deepest subterranean containment vault. The heavy blast doors are sealed, and the primary kinetic wards have been fully activated. The High Council firmly believes the apocalyptic weapon is perfectly secured beneath our feet."

  ?A profound, collective wave of sheer relief washed over the exhausted Vanguard. The incredibly stressful, continent-spanning lie had actually held. The counterfeit box—woven from Homer's nanites and meticulously inscribed with fake religious runes—was locked securely in the heart of the Empire. The true apocalyptic threat, the dark AI Pollux, had been neutralized, and the Elven Empire was completely none the wiser.

  ?"Then it is finally over," Ramel grunted, utilizing the thick haft of his gargantuan battleaxe to pull himself up from the cobblestones. "We did it. We can collect our Titanium bounties, visit a tavern that doesn't serve toxic bean-water, and sleep for a solid week."

  ?"Not yet," Nero interrupted, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. The Sovereign's expression grew entirely grim, casting a dark, heavy shadow over their momentary victory.

  ?The Vanguard fell silent, sensing the sudden, dangerous shift in the Sovereign's demeanor.

  ?"High Councillor Tamara is not a politician who allows a monumental victory to pass uncelebrated," Nero explained, his voice laced with heavy political dread. "She wishes to firmly cement her absolute authority and project the Empire's infallible strength to the entire continent. She has formally lifted the city-wide lockdown."

  ?Nero looked directly at Homer, the crushing weight of the ancient world resting entirely on the Sovereign's shoulders.

  ?"Tamara has mandated a grand, Imperial victory banquet for this evening," Nero revealed, the words falling like heavy iron anvils upon the exhausted adventurers. "It will be held in the grand ballroom of the upper administrative spire. The entire High Council will be present. The elite military commanders will be present. And, most dangerously, every single active Holy Knight will be in attendance."

  ?Nero paused, letting the horrifying reality of the situation fully sink into the minds of his Vanguard.

  ?"As the legendary heroes who supposedly recovered the artifact, the Titanium Vanguard is legally, entirely required to attend as the guests of honor," Nero stated firmly. "You cannot decline. You cannot hide. You will sit at the high table, surrounded by the most paranoid, lethal executioners in history, and you will smile, eat, and maintain your fabricated stories flawlessly for the entire evening."

  ?Hope you enjoyed Chapter 35!

  ?Yes, I took my absolute favorite morning drink—the only thing that gets me out of bed—and turned it into a horrifying biological weapon.

  ?Why weaponize coffee? In our mutated world, while Humans, Elves, and Demons process caffeine normally, the specialized biology of Beastkin, Dwarves, and Goblins turns those same compounds into a paralyzing neurotoxin.

  ?I wanted to highlight the terrifying, casual cruelty of the ancient Holy Knights. Knight Rod doesn't even need to draw a blade or cast a spell to break his prisoners; his standard breakfast brew is enough to bring the current era's greatest adventurers to their knees just from the scent. It shows exactly how massive the power gap is between the old world and the new.

  ?Grab your own (safe) cup of coffee, because the Vanguard is heading to a massive Imperial banquet next! Thanks for reading!