After his rousing speech that had set his soldiers' blood ablaze and made them hunger to tear their enemies apart, Vargas turned and left the platform, stepping into his lavish tent erected at the heart of the encampment. Inside, the tent was another world entirely, insulated from the harshness of the exterior by thick red carpets imported from the eastern territories, and curtains of royal velvet that swallowed all sound. Sturdy wooden tables bore detailed maps of Falus Forest, and golden candelabras bathed the space in a warm light.
Yet all that opulence and warmth could not conceal the unnatural cold that had taken up residence in the tent's darkened corner. The moment Vargas entered, the temperature dropped, and the atmosphere shifted abruptly, from the clamour of blind loyalty and military spirit to the cold of hidden conspiracies and political betrayals.
Vargas removed his helmet and dropped it carelessly onto one of the tables, then settled into his plush leather chair and poured himself a cup of deep red wine. He knew he was not alone.
In that darkened corner, where the tongues of the torches' flames dared not reach, as though something there frightened them, stood a shadow. This was no mere metaphor; it appeared as though a piece of the night itself had taken solid form. An extremely slender man wearing a long black robe that absorbed light, and most terrifying of all was his face, or rather, the complete absence of one. He wore a white mask bearing no features whatsoever: no slits for eyes, no opening for a mouth or nose, only a smooth and dreadful surface reflecting a lethal emptiness.
From this entity emanated a strange and nauseating smell that cut through the scent of the wine and the burning incense in the tent, a suffocating blend of chemical formalin and the rot of ancient graves. This was the Delegate, the enigmatic representative of the Shadow Organisation, the covert network that pulled the strings of the game from behind the continent's curtains.
"A moving and passionate speech, General…" the masked figure spoke. The voice did not come from behind the mask, it seemed to form directly in the air of the tent itself, a distorted and cold sound, resembling the hiss of venomous serpents sliding between dry rocks. "Lord Silvester will be very pleased with this enthusiasm of yours, and with your loyalty… to our cause."
Vargas's hand froze as it gripped the cup, before it reached his lips. The mention of Dex's uncle, Lord Silvester Williams, in this context was no accident. It was a reminder of the sordid deal he had struck.
The Delegate continued, his voice growing more glacial: "Lord Silvester awaits good news, General. We in the shadows have executed our part of the agreement with great skill. Poisoning Marcus Williams with Beelzebul's Tear was merely the beginning, the first step toward breaking the Western Army's backbone and dismantling the power of that arrogant family."
The masked figure took one step forward, he did not walk so much as glide across the red carpet as though floating, making no sound from his footfall whatsoever. "The poison was planted with precision, and Marcus's mana is crumbling from within at a measured pace. However, eliminating Okonnorr today and recovering the Sacred Nectar is the true decisive blow in our plan. The moment Marcus inevitably dies, the Williams family will be left without a strong leader and without any hope of reclaiming its glory. At that point, the entire family, and with it the command of the Western Army, will fall completely under Lord Silvester's control. And then, you will receive the prize you were promised."
Vargas brought his massive fist down on the wooden table before him, and blue mana energy erupted from his hand, shattering the sturdy wood into splinters scattered through the air. The wine cup fell, and a stain spread across the carpet like blood.
"Do not speak the Lord's name here, you wretch!" Vargas snarled, his falcon eye blazing with a fury that nearly set the tent alight. "Walls have ears, and I do not permit the alliance's secrets to be leaked within my encampment."
Vargas rose to his full and terrifying height and advanced toward the masked Delegate, showing no fear of the dead aura that surrounded him. "And do not tell me what must be done, you masked rat! I am no puppet in your hands." Vargas pressed each word out as though it were a sharp blade. "I am an Imperial general, a war hero, and commander of the victorious Sixth Legion. I am not a hired killer executing your dirty games, nor a tool for settling the Williams family's private scores."
Vargas stepped closer still, until his angry breath nearly touched the white mask: "My cooperation with you occurred only because our interests converged at this specific point. I want the head of that rebel Okonnorr who has tarnished my reputation, and I want the glory of returning the Nectar to the Emperor, while you and Silvester want power, the fall of Marcus, and the marginalisation of his heir. Do not think for a single moment that I am too dim to see the full picture. I know you are using me as a legitimate front. But remember this well, the moment this battle concludes and Falus Forest is levelled to the ground, I will purge my Legion of your filth, and I will not permit the Shadows to interfere in my military affairs again."
The Delegate remained perfectly still, he neither retreated nor trembled. Instead, a cold, quiet, and provocative laugh escaped him, the laugh of someone who sees the naked truth the other is desperately trying to conceal.
"Do not attempt to deceive yourself with words of honour and nobility, Vargas," the Delegate whispered, his words seeping into the General's mind like lethal venom. "The title of 'war hero' no longer satisfies you. We know it, and you know it, that your insatiable ambition, your personal interests, and your desire for a permanent seat on the Supreme Council are what drove you to ally with us. You are no purer than we are. You simply prefer to commit your crimes in the light of day and beneath the Empire's banner."
Before Vargas could erupt in fury once more, the Delegate turned with fluid smoothness to drift back toward his dark corner, shifting the subject with a lethal detachment: "In any case, results are what matter, General, not buried intentions. Delivering Okonnorr's head and the Nectar is what guarantees you the promised seat. Only, one final piece of advice: do not underestimate Okonnorr."
The Delegate paused before the shadows swallowed him entirely: "The intelligence reaching us from our eyes in the field confirms that he is not alone in that forest. There are new variables that were not accounted for."
"I don't care who is with him, and I don't care about your variables!" Vargas spat the words with contempt, turning back to stand before the forest map, his military composure fully restored. "Whether he has a group of rebel Elf at his side, or even if he has allied himself with the devils of hell itself, my army will pass through here, and I will crush them all beneath the hooves of my horses."