The leader of the Veteran Mercenary Band, a former officer of the Reikguard.
Rodrian's brow was furrowed deep enough to crush a sea crab. He stepped fully onto the second floor.
The rest of the band filed in behind him, occupying almost the entire floor.
The other patrons, though seeing no ill intent from the mercenaries who were following the rules, preferred to leave rather than share space with such a large, imposing group.
The floor was cleared. Only Rodrian and his men remained.
"Just now..." The man sat down, his brow still locked in thought.
"Did you see that?"
Stephanie unslung her saber and slammed it onto the table, raising an eyebrow. "See what?"
"A..." Rodrian opened his mouth but didn't know how to describe it.
The image of that fleeting figure was fading rapidly from his mind.
This anomaly instead drove Rodrian to keep thinking, trying to deepen the impression of that glimpse.
The man was in a mental struggle.
A strange power was eroding his memory of that figure, but Rodrian's senses were sharp enough to retain Al's image.
He seemed to have seen him before... yes! There! That battlefield, the place the Beastmen called "The Sacred Grove!"
Rodrian stood up from his chair.
Al walked down the stairs and headed back. He'd seen enough for today.
He needed to get back for dinner; Misha would be bringing a pile of government affairs to him.
He wanted to play truant, every single day.
But wanting and doing were different things. Like the "office workers" of the early century, unless forced by life, most people didn't want to crawl out of bed at seven or eight.
Al had seen plenty of memes about working. Though he hadn't experienced that complex stage of life, he could empathize with them a bit.
Especially now that he had a job of his own.
He ran into a few Beastman youngsters on the way. From their appearance alone, Al could tell they were his blood-scions.
He could even sense the faint connection radiating from them.
So Al gave his cubs a non-committal nod and hurried home.
A Minotaur, a Werewolf, and a Gor—three Sons of Al from the First, Third, and Fourth Legions respectively.
They were chatting as they walked. Because of the victory celebrations, the legions had few drills lately.
They were free. Even as extraordinary Sons of Al, they were like the Gors—militia and civilians in one, able to switch identities without a hitch.
Al wasn't close to them, and his voice wasn't loud; it was just like a casual nod between acquaintances. The three didn't notice a thing.
Only after Al had gone far did the Werewolf's mind go fuzzy for a second. He suddenly shouted:
"Father!"
Then he looked around frantically.
The other two brothers stared at each other, not yet realizing what had happened.
Al hurried back to the palace, canceling the spell only when he was close.
The guards respectfully pulled open the gates for the boy.
The maids were waiting in the Middle Hall with various tools.
Al walked over and spread his arms. The maids swarmed him, skillfully changing his clothes and cleaning him.
Inevitable physical contact occurred throughout.
Pairs of small hands roamed over his body, and the fragrant, soft bodies of the goat girls rubbed against him.
Comfortable as it was, Al was already used to it.
The current Al was no longer the cub who would blush and act shy upon seeing a female (Alina) naked.
Instead, it was the goat maids who, after their service, all had flushed faces except for the Head Maid, who was the most mature in both temperament and figure.
The other three little maids had crimson cheeks, and their movements were slightly shaky, their hands often sliding from one spot to another.
If the timing were right, the plot would head elsewhere, but dinner was approaching.
Since Al was home and in a decent mood, he was definitely going to attend.
Finally, Al put on his last coat and buckled his belt.
The goat girls retreated behind the boy, preparing to follow him to the Rear Hall, where the Goat Mom and the Centaur were ready for the meal.
Waiting for one Al.
The boy took two steps forward, then suddenly stopped.
The goat girls were confused, their little hooves coming to a halt as they stood in place.
Al took two quick steps back, turned, and wrapped his arms around the waist of the most mature goat maid.
His lips lightly kissed her collarbone.
The boy's sudden attack left the goat girl—who was older and more serious than her kin—at a loss.
She just stood there, letting Al have his way.
Though she looked mature and served as a head maid, Al knew the personality and preferences of every goat girl in his harem.
This mature, serious, and dignified Head Maid...
Actually preferred rough treatment.
Breathing grew heavy, near and far. The omens of an intense "battle" had appeared.
Continuing would make it inevitable, but Al timely withdrew his offensive.
The boy's lips gave the Head Maid's lips one final peck while his fingers released her fluffy white wool-hair.
In a voice neither too loud nor too soft, he said to the Head Maid—and effectively to all of them:
"Tonight, all of you..."
With that, Al turned and walked toward the Rear Hall.
The Head Maid, who was already starting to feel "flooded" from the sudden attack, felt a brief moment of loss as Al pulled away.
But it was immediately replaced by anticipation for the coming night.
She calmed her rapid breathing, quickly tidied her appearance, and looked back at the other little hooves—who were now clearly shy and horny from Al's words.
She gave them a serious glare, completely ignoring the flush on her own face.
The appointment with the maids was just an interlude. Al entered the "True Harem."
The servants bowed and moved aside for him. Al was used to it and felt powerless to stop it.
Early on, he had been annoyed by this formal hierarchy, repeatedly demanding they "Stand up! No kneeling!"
But to the Beastmen, Al was the Chosen, the Son of God, the Savior, the Beastlord, the Prophet...
The "Only One" who combined all these identities.
Their worship and respect for him came from their primal instincts and hearts. He had tried to force them out of it many times, to no avail.
He could reduce the formal acts through "orders" and "requirements" to avoid them where unnecessary.
But when it came to their spiritual, total submission—how was Al supposed to pull their souls back up?
Even the Four Mothers would likely find that difficult...
Al thought of the 13th Son [Roboute Guilliman], the Son of the Emperor, a living god-spawn, demigod, Regent of the First Empire, Second...
Because he detested the fanatical believers who worshipped him and the Emperor as gods, he had chosen a "rational" and "self-thinking" person as his Tetrarch.
In the end, he had picked a super-fanatic who was cold on the outside but burning on the inside, who believed:
"The Primarch is a god, He just hasn't realized He is a god yet. I need to guide Him to realize his and the Emperor's divinity."
Al eventually could only ask his servants not to be too obsessed with performing their fervor through actions to show submission and piety.
Since their souls already belonged to the Everchosen, let their bodies be slightly less fanatical.