William swirled the empty scotch glass in his hand, the imaginary clink of ice cubes echoing in his mind.

  His memory leaped backward a few hours, to the parting moment on the veranda of the Sagara Temple.

  At that time, amidst the rising dust of the helicopter rotors, Rajendra pulled his shoulder close. The old man's grip was surprisingly strong.

  "Go, Prince. House Sagara supports you completely. Our blood is your shield, our breath is your wind."

  The whisper was sincere. A sacred oath of loyalty.

  Yet here, at 40,000 feet, that oath felt like a bitter, heartbreaking joke.

  William smiled grimly.

  "Complete support..." he murmured cynically to the darkness.

  If this had happened 300 years ago, that sentence would have made the kingdom's enemies tremble in fear.

  In the history books he studied, the name Sagara once stood equal in the legendary trinity of power without territory.

  There was Sanjaya, the ruler and owner of vast combat power.

  There was Rahessa, the priest maintaining the kingdom's spirituality.

  And there was Sagara, the spiritual guardian and feared ancient master of arts.

  Three pillars supporting the throne without needing land or a duke's crown.

  "But now?" William snorted roughly. "Sagara is reduced to... remnants."

  That past glory was now mere ash. The pillar had crumbled, leaving pathetic ruins.

  "Complete" support from House Sagara today meant the support of two people.

  Only two lives.

  "What does it mean..." William sighed, despair seeping into his voice.

  He didn't doubt Rajendra. The old man was a monster. His way of defusing the tension between Lenn Dyora and Prince Wang proved he was a True Patriarch. The last remnant of a golden age.

  But his heir?

  Arka’s face appeared in his mind. His stupid grin, the towel around his waist, his babbling about glowing skin and pocket money from the snake-wall-guarding grandmother.

  William massaged the bridge of his throbbing nose.

  That was the greatest irony. The future hope of Sagara—the future hope of Carta’s spiritual fortress—lay in the hands of that boy.

  "Barbarian mountain kid," William cursed softly, a mix of annoyance and resignation.

  How could the fate of the world depend on someone who cared more about marbled beef than kingdom politics?

  William leaned his back roughly against the seat. He felt Sagara’s support didn't give him wings, but rather an extra dead weight.

  "We are all going to die," he concluded grimly. "And we will die listening to that kid's unfunny jokes."

  "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ramsas International Airport. Local time is 04:30 AM. Outside temperature is 12 degrees Celsius."

  The pilot's voice broke the cabin silence, followed by a slight jolt as the landing gear kissed the runway asphalt.

  Screeeech...

  The sound of screeching tires and the roar of reverse thrust braking the plane marked the end of his flight in the sky. The jet slowed, moving sluggishly through the labyrinth of taxiways illuminated by blue and green lights, before finally stopping at a VIP apron far separated from the public terminal.

  The plane door opened. Automated stairs descended.

  William stepped out.

  The air of Ramsas instantly assaulted him. Different from the Crownbelt air smelling of ozone and faint magic, or the Sagara mountain air smelling of pine and incense. The air here smelled of oil, burnt rubber, and static electricity. The thick smell of industrial ambition.

  Below the plane stairs, a matte black limousine sedan with thick bulletproof glass was waiting. Its engine purred soundlessly, the hybrid stealth technology signature of Salomos.

  However, it wasn't the advanced car that caught William’s attention.

  His eyes fixed on a small flag fluttering stiffly at the end of the right hood.

  A small pitch-black flag. In the center, embroidered with silver thread forming two crossed swords.

  The emblem of war.

  "Heshawara," William murmured softly.

  It was the royal flag, the ancient military banner of the Kingdom of Carta. A banner only flown when the King or his heir was on a "Conquest Mission" or in a "State of War."

  Who put that flag there? Randa? Or Theodore?

  Was this an implicit message that his arrival here wasn't to diplomatize, but to fight on the roundtable battlefield?

  William snorted, straightened his expensive suit, then got into the car.

  "Drive," he ordered briefly to the unseen driver behind the dark glass partition.

  The car glided smoothly, leaving the airport and entering the elevated highway heading downtown.

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  They sliced through Ramsas.

  The view outside the car window was truly dizzying.

  If Crownbelt was a city growing upward gracefully, Ramsas was a city exploding in all directions brutally.

  The skyscrapers here weren't made of alabaster, but of black steel and reflective glass soaring to pierce low clouds. Giant fifty-story hologram advertisements danced in the air—displaying winking female models, fizzing soda drinks, and fast-scrolling stock news.

  The streets were multi-tiered. Flying cars and maglev trains zipped on upper lanes, while the ground traffic below crawled densely like a river of molten metal.

  Neon lights blinded the eyes at every corner. This city knew no sleep, knew no dark. Everything was bright, noisy, and fast-moving.

  William felt alienated.

  Amidst this concrete jungle and digital circuits, the black Heshawara banner on the front of his car felt like a relic from the stone age. He was an ancient prince lost in a cold future.

  "Monster's nest," William thought, staring at the reflection of his tired face clashing with purple neon light from outside.

  William stared at the thick stack of papers in his hand—diplomatic speech scripts neatly compiled by the foreign ministry, filled with empty sweet words and sickening political pleasantries.

  Riiip!

  Without hesitation, William’s hands tore the document in two. Then four. Then eight.

  "To hell with briefings," he hissed coldly.

  He threw the paper shreds onto the sheepskin carpeted car floor, leaving them scattered like worthless trash. He didn't need a script. He didn't need to be dictated by Theodore on what to say.

  He looked away, staring out the window as the car slowed.

  The limousine stopped smoothly in the courtyard of a building that made humans feel the size of ants.

  United Nations Headquarters.

  The building was a glass and titanium steel monolith towering arrogantly, piercing the gray sky of Ramsas. Its design had no soft curves; all sharp angles and firm asymmetrical lines, as if the building itself were a giant crystal weapon fallen from orbit.

  Its prismatic glass walls reflected city lights, yet allowed no one to see inside. In the front yard, hundreds of member state flags fluttered stiffly blown by artificial wind, yet the Carta flagpole appeared to stand slightly taller and separate—a deliberate architectural arrogance.

  The car door opened automatically.

  William stepped out. He adjusted his suit collar, straightened his back, and put on the face he usually used when looking at troops about to be executed.

  He walked toward the giant revolving doors.

  Two female receptionists in futuristic attire and a burly security guard stepped forward immediately, mouths open to ask for ID or standard security procedures.

  "Sir, please show..."

  William didn't even glance. He kept walking, his footsteps steady and rhythmic, as if they were mere transparent ghosts. The cold aura radiating from him made the guard's sentence choke in his throat.

  He breached into the main lobby.

  The room was vast, with a cathedral-high domed ceiling displaying a slowly rotating hologram world map. Hundreds of diplomats, military staff, lobbyists, and journalists from various countries filled the room. The buzzing sound of their conversations was like bees in a jar.

  However, when the sound of William’s leather shoes echoed on the marble floor—clack, clack, clack—the sound slowly died.

  One by one heads turned.

  William stopped right in the middle of the lobby, under the hologram of the Carta continent.

  He didn't smile. He didn't wave.

  He swept the room with a gaze as sharp as a razor. The gaze of an apex predator entering a sheep pen. The gaze of an Ironseat heir carrying conqueror's blood in his veins.

  Silence gripped the lobby. Heavy and suffocating.

  Those usually arrogant diplomats felt their knees go weak. Their primal instincts recognized danger. Without command, as if an invisible hand pressed their napes, those people bowed their heads.

  Not a polite diplomatic bow of respect. It was a bow of fear. Submission to absolute dominance.

  William snorted softly seeing the sight. The corners of his lips lifted slightly, forming a thin cruel grin.

  "Good," he thought satisfied. "Good that you still consider Carta."

  A senior receptionist in a gray suit uniform approached with careful steps, a glowing tablet in her hand.

  "Your Highness," she said politely yet slightly nervously. "The Presidential Suite at the Intercontinental Ramsas Hotel has been prepared. The luggage transport car is waiting in the side lobby. You must be tired after the long journey, perhaps you should rest for a mo—"

  "No," William cut in briefly. His voice was flat, killing all forms of pleasantry.

  "B-but, Your Highness..."

  "Take me to the assembly hall," William ordered. "Now."

  The receptionist swallowed, nodded quickly, then turned around. "This way, Your Highness."

  They left the crowded lobby, entering the sterile inner corridors of the UN headquarters.

  William walked in silence. The corridor was long, lined with thick carpets dampening the sound of footsteps, yet to William, this silence felt noisy with his own thoughts. Glass walls displayed views of the busy city of Ramsas, but here, the air was cold and controlled. Like walking toward a very luxurious execution room.

  Arriving before giant double doors of black mahogany wood with golden world map carvings, the receptionist tapped her access card.

  Beep. Click.

  The heavy doors opened automatically without a sound.

  Cold air blasted out.

  William stepped inside.

  Before him, stretched the General Assembly Hall.

  The room was empty. And its emptiness felt crushing.

  Its domed ceiling soared high like an artificial sky, with spotlights currently turned off, leaving dramatic dim lighting. Thousands of tiered seats were arranged neatly forming a semicircle, facing one focal point: the main stage.

  Without the sound of humans, this room felt like a giant tomb. A place where the fate of millions of lives was decided with the bang of a gavel and ink signatures, not with blood.

  "Your desk... in the front row, on the right, Your Highness," the receptionist whispered, not daring to enter further, as if afraid of disturbing the diplomatic ghosts residing there.

  William walked alone down the sloping blue-carpeted stairs.

  He reached a long curved desk. There, a thick crystal plaque bearing golden capital letters: KINGDOM OF CARTA.

  William pulled the heavy leather chair, then threw his body down to sit. The chair was cold. The desk in front of him was shiny clean, reflecting his tired face.

  He leaned back, then his eyes looked up toward the stage.

  There, lined up tall, proud poles. Hundreds of member state flags hung still, limp without wind. However, William’s eyes immediately found the targets of his hatred.

  In the center, in the most strategic position, fluttered the Black Banner of Heshawara. Two crossed swords over a cracked shield.

  The emblem of war was placed side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder with the flags of other major powers.

  There was the flag of the Republic of Salomos with its Golden Gear emblem—the symbol of industry and money.

  There was the pitch-black flag of the Nigras Empire with the Red Eye emblem—the land of shadow controllers.

  There was the flag of the Larrus Federation with the Silver Horse emblem—the cunning highland rulers.

  And the flag of the Latham Theocracy with the blinding Sun Cross emblem—religious fanatics always wanting to burn "infidels" in the name of their god.

  William snorted, corner of his lip curling in disgust.

  "Trash," he cursed softly. "Wolves, Sharks, and Vultures. Gathered at one table with Carta as if we are equals."

  William’s gaze shifted slightly to the left wing, to the row of flags of "problematic" countries. Countries often considered crazy, wild, or too dangerous to talk logic with.

  He saw the Lhassa flag with its ancient alphabet emblem.

  The Shadowwood flag with its Inverted Tree emblem.

  The Draka flag with its Red Dragon symbol.

  The Garahan flag with its Iron Fist emblem.

  The Bougendarm flag full of wheat stalks.

  The stinging Solara flag.

  The Eldoria flag full of ancient magic mystery.

  And the gloomy Maladan flag, an archipelago nation in the southern ocean.

  "Equally crazy countries..." William mumbled. "A bunch of psychopaths given sovereignty."

  His eyes then swept the rest of the other flags—hundreds of small countries, puppet states, poor agrarian nations, unnamed island nations.

  William turned his face away. He ignored them all.

  To the eyes of Carta's heir tonight, the rest of those flags were merely decoration. Wall hangings. Grass to be trampled when the elephants in the front row started fighting.

  In the silence of that majestic assembly hall, William stared at his own Heshawara war flag with a bleak gaze.

  "Very well," he whispered to the flag. "Let's see who burns first."