The war table was littered with ink-stained drafts and folded maps, each one marked with Kael's meticulous handwriting. Emberleaf's old council chamber—once a refurbished grain hall—had become the nerve center of a very different kind of kingdom. Its windows remained open, letting in the morning breeze and the scent of fresh-forged metal from the nearby smithy.

Kael stood at the head of the table, cloak half-draped over one shoulder, his eyes locked on a map of Virelion's border territories. Red runes glowed softly along its edges—active scry protection placed there by Great Sage earlier that morning.

"These five towns," Kael said, tapping one after the other. "Each has a reason to listen. Old border conflicts, food shortages, taxed harder than the inner cities. They don't love the capital. Not really."

Nana leaned forward, arms crossed over her armor. "You're gambling their discontent is louder than their fear of Pride's wrath."

Kael didn't look up. "They're already afraid. We just need to remind them that fear cuts both ways."

Behind him, Rimuru pulsed in midair—first in the shape of a squishy orb, then rippling into a perfect miniature version of Kael, complete with tiny boots and a dramatic swirl of mana-cloak.

"Do you want serious voice or smoldering leader voice?" she asked in a pitch-perfect imitation of him. "Because I can do either. Or both. I call it 'charismatic doom.'"

Kael smirked, but kept his tone focused. "Stick to serious. Add some hesitation when you talk about wrath—it'll feel more human."

Great Sage's voice chimed in the back of his mind.

"Optimal delivery style confirmed. Adjusting dialect profiles to regional variants. Slime clones prepared for speech dispersal across three provinces."

On the table, tiny rune anchors began to glow—each one tied to a different Emberleaf scout team already in position near Virelion's roads and villages. The infrastructure had been building in secret for weeks. Now came the spark.

Kael stepped back, arms behind his back. "We're not burning cities. Not yet. We're whispering."

Rimuru bowed with exaggerated flourish as five more clones of Kael shimmered into being beside her, each with distinct posture, tone, and subtle magical tweaks to match regional expectations.

Nana shook her head. "You're poking the lion."

Kael's expression didn't change.

"No," he said softly. "I'm baiting it into a mirror."

The clones dispersed with flashes of golden-blue light, zipping through Emberleaf's air wards like sparks leaping from a fire.

And with them, Kael's voice began to move through the borderlands—without Kael ever leaving his chair.

The town of Velmire, a sleepy outpost clinging to the edge of Virelion's southern forests, rarely saw nobles. It saw tax collectors, enforcers, and once in a while a caravan guard who thought himself better than the rest—but barons? Never.

So when Baron Thalric of Eastspire strolled into the Gleaming Tankard that evening, alone and wrapped in travel dust, heads turned.

He wore a double-breasted coat with gilded buttons and bore the unmistakable accent of the northern courts. His boots shone, but his voice was quiet. Calm. Measured. He ordered a dark ale, sipped once, and turned to the barkeep with a casual remark:

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"You ever hear the one about the Scourge of Wrath building a city of gods?"

The room hushed.

A few farmers glanced at each other warily. One muttered something about the mines in Daskhold being shut down last week. Another about caravans going missing near the Emberleaf border.

Thalric took another sip and smiled—just enough to be unsettling.

"They say it's all fire and savagery," he said, voice a low hum. "But that's not what I heard. I heard the Scourge has schools. Architects. He's laying roads that glow at night, building towers that bend mana like rivers bend stone. And he's naming towns after virtues, not sins."

A miner leaned forward. "You're saying Wrath is acting… noble?"

"I'm saying," Thalric said, "that Virelion says purity matters more than survival. And Wrath's Scourge? He says survival matters first. Then dignity. Then choice."

Someone laughed nervously. "Sounds like rebel talk."

Thalric finished his ale and placed the cup down carefully.

"Maybe it is. Or maybe it's prophecy. Depends on how loud you're willing to listen."

And with that, he stood, adjusted his coat, and walked out without a glance back.

Behind the counter, the barkeep stared at the half-empty mug for a long time—then whispered to himself, "...City of gods, huh?"

The war tower chamber pulsed with soft light—glowing strands of red, orange, and blue magic tracing through a massive map of the surrounding territories. Mana-threaded pins floated above it, each one representing a town, a watchpost, a mine, or a crossroads.

Kael stood at the center, arms folded, brow furrowed.

Great Sage's voice echoed in the room, analytical as ever.

"Twelve Pride outposts have shifted their enchantment arrays. Seven have doubled border patrols. Four are attempting anti-scrying fog spells… all failed."

"Failed?" Kael asked.

A faint ripple of amusement entered the Sage's tone.

"Our illusion slime relay nodes are not being targeted. They still believe your speeches are broadcasts from within Virelion. They suspect an internal leak—not us."

Kael smirked. "Good. Let them chase shadows."

Nana entered with a slate in hand. "Velmire just sent a supply request to Virelion's capital, citing growing civil unrest. And three towns in the eastern corridor have sent quiet word—they want to talk. Off the record."

Kael turned toward Rimuru, who floated lazily over a glowing emberplate like a bored court mage.

"Think you can impersonate a bishop next?"

Rimuru's glow pulsed. "Do I get a staff?"

"You get a hat," Kael said. "A really tall one."

"Done."

Kael refocused on the map. The pins in Virelion's borderlands were flickering now—unstable in color, wavering between neutral and orange.

Not yet allies.

But no longer loyal.

He placed a finger on one town—Crestweld, a mining hub known for its reinforced mana steel.

"They're watching. But they're listening too. One more push."

Great Sage: "Recommend amplification node deployment. If ten more towns hear your 'city of gods' pitch, we increase the probability of defection by 36%. Virelion's faith model is brittle. Their pride will not let them adjust."

Kael's eyes narrowed.

"Then break their pride before they can use it."

Far to the northeast, past the glimmering Emberline rails and across a hazy border lined with glowing wards, the city of Virelion sat in a crescent of polished stone towers and ivory walkways.

But the towers were no longer calm.

In the central council spire, a dozen nobles bickered in overlapping voices. Crystal panels flickered with intercepted broadcasts—Kael's illusions preaching about unity, resilience, and a rising city of gods where magic and survival met as one.

"He's in Crestweld, I tell you!" shouted one baron, jabbing a jeweled finger at the glowing map. "No illusion could mimic that miner's chant—he spoke like he'd grown up there!"

"That's what makes it work, you fool!" snapped another. "The man's not teleporting—he's subverting our own people to speak for him!"

A third noble—pale, with a streak of gold-dyed hair and a long silk coat—rose quietly. His voice was soft, but cold.

"We're losing the border. And not to an army."

Silence fell.

Then, a new voice—higher, tremulous—entered from the shadowed rear of the chamber.

"Virelion has been declared vulnerable," said the messenger, holding up a silver rune-scroll. "The Outer Court wants to form a Watcher's Circle… they believe the Scourge of Wrath is attempting ideological subversion."

A heavy stillness pressed down like fog.

Pride was being tested.

And it wasn't by fire or steel—but by rumors, mimicry, and the unsettling idea that somewhere out there, a city of gods was rising from ash and unity—and it wasn't theirs.

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