Theresis boarding the landship to Londinium meant the Regent who once held the reins of Kazdel had temporarily stepped back from the grand stage. Now, the sovereign guiding the nation was the Monarch herself, Theresa! By the time the various kingdoms of Terra caught wind of the news, Theresa was already firmly seated upon the throne. The revelation struck the foreign capitals with absolute shock; none of them had anticipated her triumph to materialize with such staggering speed.
They certainly hadn't expected Theresis to collapse so thoroughly. After all, when their emissaries had visited him previously, the man had exuded absolute confidence, acting as though every single factor lay entirely within his palm.
Yet now, he had been battered so severely he didn't even possess a single city to his name, vanishing completely into the wind. "Did all the aid and resources we channeled into his banners just disappear into a dog's belly?" the foreign ministers muttered in frustration. "Are these two siblings simply playing us for fools?"
A vast majority of the nations across this wide earth harbored zero desire to see Kazdel prosper. If anything, they desperately wished for the territory to rot in endless, perpetual chaos. This malice stemmed partly from their deeply ingrained arrogance regarding the Sarkaz, a stubborn belief that those horned people had no right to a stable, peaceful existence.
But it also grew from a profound dread of the Sarkaz race itself. This ancient, terrifying lineage possessed raw martial power that forced neighboring empires to view them as a permanent threat—and a convenient villain to unite their own citizens against.
In truth, the latter reason was far weightier than the former. Under the current landscape, mighty empires outfitted with advanced landships held no genuine fear of the fractured Sarkaz; they simply required a permanent justification to keep their boots pressed firmly against the race's throat.
Now that the country had achieved a sudden, unified state under a single ruler, every global power shifted its gaze toward the sector, waiting to see what the newly crowned Monarch would attempt, their standing armies preparing corresponding counters.
Yet, deep down, the global strategists recognized that the current Kazdel lacked the sheer muscle to stir up a massive tempest. Though far more advanced than isolated enclaves like Kjerag, the land had been thoroughly ravaged by decades of civil strife; it desperately required a massive window of rest and healing to rebuild its broken foundation.
This vulnerable transition offered a prime opportunity for medium-sized nations backed by grand empires to swoop in and extract a quick profit. However, no single state was willing to act as the reckless vanguard; they all hovered on the periphery, waiting for someone else to strike first so they could eagerly swoop in to lap up the remaining broth.
The nation everyone expected to make that first move was Laterano.
The burning hatred and bloody vendettas shared between the Sankta and the Sarkaz were vast enough to fill a library of tragic chronicles. The immediate consensus across Terra was that Laterano would absolutely never sit idly by while Kazdel restored its complete borders; the angels would unearth some holy justification to launch an immediate crusade.
To the collective astonishment of the world, however, the grand halls of Laterano remained strangely, eerily quiet upon receiving the intelligence from the wastes. Were the holy executioners truly planning to ignore their eternal rivals? Aside from heightening the watches along their own borders, the holy city initiated zero aggressive maneuvers.
What the outside world completely failed to realize was that Laterano's hesitation was driven by a simple fact: their own supreme figure was currently loitering inside the Kazdel capital and hadn't come out yet! No matter the political pressure, the Pope was fiercely resolved to ensure Jeanne's absolute safety before even thinking about how Laterano should react.
When the news of Theresa's swift reclamation of the capital first reached the Pope's private office, the shock had been so intense that the holy leader had accidentally swallowed an entire cupcake whole—paper lining and all.
But his brilliant mind had instantly deduced that Jeanne's hand was behind this rapid resolution. Recalling the wild rumors of the mysterious beast-tamer who had shattered Theresis's lines, the Pope realized he had zero need to authorize any extreme, volatile actions. The Saintess would absolutely never compromise the security of Laterano, would she?
Armed with that comforting certainty, the current administration in Laterano adopted a remarkably relaxed, almost indifferent attitude toward the Sarkaz restoration. Of course, the Border Guard columns still maintained their rigorous patrols; at the very least, they had to project a flawless display of hostility for the public eye, didn't they?
Otherwise, suspicious eyes would begin to wonder if the sudden unification of the Sarkaz was somehow orchestrated by Laterano itself! And how could a holy city possibly be linked to such a dark affair? This was a matter that belonged strictly to the horned devils!
"I wonder when Her Holiness will finally establish contact to brief me on the situation?" the Pope mused, sitting behind his grand desk and thoughtfully stroking his silver beard. "I remain intensely curious regarding her personal safety... and those extraordinary creatures she commands."
Meanwhile, back within the capital walls, what was Jeanne occupied with? She was currently confined to a quiet chamber, casting a stern, vigilant eye over the Doctor resting beside her. This stubborn tactician simply possessed zero capacity to sit still; she had insisted on forcing herself to analyze the municipal reconstructions yesterday, nearly collapsing into a dead faint as a result.
Kal'tsit had completely exploded with fury upon witnessing the Doctor's reckless display. Though the ancient feline recognized the woman's stubborn meddling was born of pure goodwill, her temper had been spectacularly foul while administering the emergency stabilization treatments.
The immediate consequence of that scare was Jeanne shadowing the patient's every single step, permanently stationed at her flank to ensure the invalid didn't execute any further rogue maneuvers. Cut off from the active restructuring efforts, the two women were left with nothing to do but engage in idle, tedious conversation within the room, as every other pillar of Babel was far too overwhelmed with work to afford them a single thought.
"If my calculation is correct, today should be the hour Theresa has summoned the grand Royal Court to assembly, yes?" the Doctor murmured, shifting slightly in her seat. "The primary opening session should be drawing to a close by now. Why don't you slip away to witness how the high Court members are adapting to the new order?"
Just as the words left the tactician's lips, Jeanne felt a sudden, violent eruption of several terrifying pressures detonating near the grand palace sector, casting a suffocating, heavy silence over the surrounding blocks.
These titanic waves of intent slammed against one another in the distance, providing absolute proof of how fiercely volatile the debate within the grand hall truly was. The ideological rifts separating the ancient sub-races were clearly monumental—though within that chaotic storm of presence, Jeanne could detect zero trace of Theresa's personal aura.
It was glaringly obvious that the Sarkaz Kings were the ones locked in a vicious standoff, while the Monarch herself likely sat serenely upon her throne, calmly observing the display without any intention of wading into their petty squabbles.
"There's no purpose in going," Jeanne replied, making zero effort to rise from her chair. "They won't actually come to blows over there. Besides, the city still harbors an intense, deep-seated rejection toward anyone who isn't a Sarkaz. I have zero desire to wander out there just to invite a wave of hostility."
"True, I understand that reality," the Doctor sighed, her voice trailing off. "I simply cannot shake this lingering unease..."
Before the tactician could expand on her thoughts, a completely different sensation rippled across their minds. Unlike the suffocating, hostile friction of the previous heavy pressures, this new presence swept through the air with the absolute gentleness of a warm spring breeze—yet it carried an undercurrent of absolute, unyielding command.
In an instant, every single competing aura vanished into nothingness. The volatile atmosphere within the palace sector reverted to absolute serenity. Theresa had clearly intervened to force the bickering lords to heel; had they pushed her a single step further, the Monarch would have undoubtedly resorted to raw force.
The ordinary citizens navigating the streets below had certainly endured a grueling trial today. Had Theresa not stepped in to soothe their frayed nerves with her Arts, the sheer terror radiating from those Court members would have left the populace entirely incapable of sleeping tonight.
Knock, knock, knock!
The crisp, sudden rap against the wooden door shattered the quiet conversation between Jeanne and the Doctor. Jeanne's posture instantly stiffened, a sharp spike of vigilance taking hold of her senses. At an hour like this, who on earth would be seeking out a secluded chamber housing herself and an invalid tactician?
The sudden escalation of tension within the room caught the attention of Fafnir, who had been contentedly munching on an apple in the corner. The young dragon instantly prepared to spring forward to smash the door! Terrified that the chaotic child would launch a reckless assault, Jeanne immediately lunged to pin the creature down, only shifting her focus back to the threshold once the dragon was securely restrained.
"Who is outside?"
The Doctor was the one who voiced the question, her tone deliberately projected to sound frail and thoroughly exhausted. If the entity beyond the wood harbored treacherous designs, this display of extreme vulnerability would act as the ultimate bait, offering them what appeared to be a perfect window to strike.
"It... it is a servant, sent under the express command of Her Highness," a hesitant, trembling voice filtered through the wood. "I have been instructed to deliver a selection of refreshments to the honored guests..."
The voice sounded genuinely nervous, perfectly mimicking a low-ranking palace attendant tasked with menial chores. Yet, to Jeanne's sharp instincts, the explanation was riddled with a spectacular degree of suspicion!
It was common knowledge within their circle that Fafnir's monstrous appetite resided entirely outside the boundaries of normal comprehension. Providing sustenance for the dragon child had once been Jeanne's absolute greatest headache—at least, until the discovery of those unique, space-warping box.
Now, Fafnir's dimensional box remained packed with an immense reserve of rations. Kal'tsit was fully aware of this detail; the ancient feline would absolutely never authorize an attendant to disrupt their sanctuary simply to deliver a handful of redundant treats.
Furthermore, Theresa was currently completely consumed by the crushing administrative burden of wrangling the hostile lords of the Royal Court. Given that Jeanne had already easily resolved their dining logistics, the Monarch possessed zero mental bandwidth to fret over their afternoon snacks.
Consequently, the entity lingering in the corridor carried an entirely unknown motive, their true allegiance completely hidden. Jeanne and the Doctor exchanged a swift, meaningful look. The Saintess gently patted Fafnir's small horns, signaling the young dragon to maintain absolute readiness.
With a smooth, deliberate motion, Jeanne pulled the heavy door open. Standing in the dim corridor was a petite Sarkaz maiden, her fragile frame dressed in the simple attire of a palace maid. She looked the part of a thoroughly terrified, low-ranking servant tasked with navigating a grand estate.
Yet, as Jeanne's eyes locked onto the girl, an undeniable, jarring wave of wrongness washed over her senses. It was the distinct impression of a lethal operative expertly disguised as a menial worker; though the performance itself was flawless, the underlying reality was saturated with malice.