The "Neutral Border" was a desolate strip of gray heathland known as the Silent No-Man's Land. For centuries, it had served as a jagged scar between the Argentine Empire's mystical autocracy and the Western Federation's technocratic meritocracy. As the Spectral Carriage—a vehicle of translucent bone and silver-threaded silk—glided silently over the frost-covered grass, the atmosphere shifted. The air no longer tasted of damp earth and ancient mana; it began to hum with a high-pitched, electric frequency that made the hair on Livius's arms stand on end.
Livius sat within the carriage, his silver-black hair neatly tied back with a leather cord. He wore a high-collared duster of charcoal wool, devoid of imperial gold, appearing more like a scholar of the void than a ruler of a nation. Opposite him, Cian was frantically reviewing a series of "Techno-Logical Briefs" provided by Nexus spies. The clerk's eyes were bloodshot, and he kept tapping a rhythmic beat against his knee—a nervous habit he only displayed when the stakes were higher than a simple tax audit.
"The Federation's border city, Aethelgard, is not built on stone," Cian whispered, pointing toward the horizon. "It's built on 'Logic-Grids.' They have harvested the ambient mana and converted it into 'Aetheric Steam.' To them, your Dragon blood isn't a divine gift; it's a biological anomaly they'd love to dissect."
Livius looked out the window. In the distance, a massive wall of shimmering blue energy rose toward the clouds—the Aegis Shield. Behind it, the spires of Aethelgard pierced the sky, but they weren't the graceful, organic curves of Argentine architecture. They were jagged needles of brass and glass, topped with rotating gears and humming conductors that bled white light into the atmosphere.
"They have traded their souls for efficiency," Livius remarked, his golden-silver eyes reflecting the artificial glow of the border. "But efficiency is a fragile thing, Cian. It relies on everything working exactly as intended. I am the variable they didn't calculate."
The carriage slowed as it approached a massive iron platform situated exactly on the border line. Standing there was a small delegation, dwarfed by a towering machine that looked like a brass spider with a thousand glass eyes. In the center of the delegation stood a woman who looked as sharp and cold as a diamond lens.
This was High Chancellor Sophia van Held. She wore a structured suit of midnight-blue velvet, and a monocle made of sapphire glass covered her right eye. As Livius stepped out of the carriage, he felt a strange, invasive sensation—a rhythmic pulsing against his mind. Sophia wasn't just looking at him; she was scanning him.