The tavern was louder than usual tonight.
The tables were crowded with fresh recruits and curious onlookers, all drunk on excitement and ale in equal measure. The air carried that feverish hum only victory brings—the kind that makes even the beaten smile for a few fleeting hours. Somewhere near the back, beneath the smoke-thick rafters, Himmel and Texan sat in their usual corner. Their table was cluttered with plates, mugs, and the kind of half-eaten food no one remembers ordering.
Texan looked rough but radiant—bandaged forearms, a faint bruise under his jaw, and a grin too wide to hide. He raised his mug high."Level three, baby. You hear that? Level three!"
Himmel lifted his own drink, smirking. "Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first six times."
"No, seriously," Texan said, leaning forward. "I felt it. Like a weight came off my chest. Everything's sharper now—reflexes, aura, hell, even colors look brighter. Level three's got flavor."
"You sound like a drunk philosopher," Himmel said dryly, though his smile betrayed the affection behind the jab. "I hit level three too, remember? Feels less like flavor and more like… breathing clean air for the first time."
They clinked mugs. The sound cut through the chaos like a small, perfect note.
For a moment, they just drank in silence, watching the crowd. The tavern light flickered golden across Himmel's armor, and Texan's reflection shimmered faintly in his ale. Both were exhausted, both proud—but neither said what sat at the edge of their minds until Himmel finally did.
"Been a month now," he said. "Still no sign of Recon."
Texan's grin faltered. "Yeah… I was trying not to think about that."
"He's stubborn," Himmel said. "He'll crawl out of whatever hole he's in. He always does."
Texan stared into his mug for a while, then smirked faintly. "If he doesn't, I'm gonna drag him out myself. I owe him a punch."
Himmel chuckled. "You owe everyone a punch."
"Yeah, but his'll be special."
The tavern emptied slowly as night thinned into morning. By the time the last mug was drained and the last song slurred to silence, Himmel and Texan were already gone—moving through the sleeping streets with quiet purpose.
The Spire loomed ahead, black and silver in the pale moonlight, its shadow cutting the capital clean in two. At its base stretched a wide training field, damp with morning dew and ghostly fog. That's where they stopped.
"Dawn speech, huh?" Himmel said, eyeing the empty expanse. "You sure this isn't a little much?"
Texan shrugged, setting down a few planks and a crate. "You can't start a revolution without a good stage."
Together they built a crude platform—just high enough for Texan to stand over the crowd. Himmel worked in silence, driving stakes into the dirt while Texan muttered half his speech under his breath, pacing like a street performer before curtain.
When the wind shifted, they heard the soft thump of a wooden crutch behind them.
Marth approached slowly, framed by the fog.The old orc looked worse than before. His right arm was gone to the shoulder, and what remained of his left leg ended mid-thigh, wrapped in fresh bandages that bled through faintly. But the fire in his eyes was the same. His crutch struck stone like a drumbeat—measured, unyielding.
"Didn't think I'd see you again so soon," Himmel said, stepping forward with a grin. "What, hopscotch—couldn't rest?"
Marth barked a laugh that ended in a cough. "Rest is for the dead, kid. I'm just visiting early."
Texan blinked. "You shouldn't even be standing."
"Standing's overrated," Marth said. "I came to see if you meant what you shouted last night. If you're building something worth dying for."
He limped closer, propping himself near the stand as Himmel adjusted one of the posts. "You got a crowd coming."
"How many?" Texan asked.
Marth's grin widened. "Fifty level threes. Twenty-five level fours. Seven level fives. Most of them heard your speech. Some of them just want to punch you. Either way, they're coming."
Himmel whistled low. "That's… a lot of fire in one place."
"Then I'd better not waste their time," Texan said, pulling himself up onto the makeshift stand. He cracked his neck once, then waited for the first silhouettes to emerge from the fog.
By the time dawn began to tease the horizon, the Spire's training field was no longer empty.
They came in waves.First a trickle of silhouettes through the mist—then dozens. Orcs, beastmen, even a few humans wrapped in scavenged armor. Some came out of curiosity, others for glory, and more still because hunger had carved their morals down to bone. The air buzzed with restless energy, with the kind of tension only large crowds of armed strangers could produce.
The fog glowed pale orange under the first cut of sunlight, and the ground trembled faintly beneath heavy boots. Himmel stood beside the half-built stand, cloak drawn close against the morning chill, while Texan adjusted the crates and planks that served as his stage.
Marth leaned against his crutch nearby, the sound of wood thudding against stone marking each slow step. His missing arm and half-gone leg did little to dampen the authority in his stance. The old orc scanned the horizon, muttering numbers under his breath.
"That makes forty-eight… no, fifty. Two more level threes on the ridge there," Marth said, squinting one good eye. "Twenty-something level fours, and I count six—no, seven—level fives."
Himmel nodded, running his hand along the edge of the stand to test its balance. "Fifty threes, twenty-five fours, seven fives," he repeated, mostly to himself. "That's a small army."
Marth gave a dry chuckle. "Small, but hungry. You can make something out of that. If he doesn't screw it up."
Texan smirked, overhearing. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hopscotch."
Marth snorted. "Just don't trip over your own words, kid."
A murmur rippled through the crowd—low, uncertain, like the rustling of leaves before a storm. Some orcs were laughing, others sizing up the people beside them. Himmel caught fragments of conversation drifting in the morning air:
"Who's this siren talkin' big?""Looks soft to me.""Bet he doesn't even last one swing.""I heard he fought the Crier barehanded.""No way—that guy buried people alive."
Texan could hear it too. Every doubt, every half-joke, every tone dipped in skepticism. But instead of bristling, he smiled. That was his favorite kind of silence—the one just before he shattered it.
He stepped up onto the stand. The planks creaked beneath him, a hollow drumbeat that drew all eyes forward.
For a moment, he said nothing. He just looked at them—at the scarred faces, the crooked teeth, the weapons dulled from too many battles fought for someone else's cause. He saw desperation. He saw strength. He saw pieces of himself.
Then, when the murmurs died completely, he began.
"You all look like you've been fighting your whole damn lives," Texan said, voice carrying just enough gravel to cut through the crowd. "Fighting for kings who never learned your names. For lords who drink wine while you drink dirt. For commanders who leave you bleeding in mud just so they can polish their medals."
A few heads nodded. Others grunted in agreement. The first hook was set.
He spread his arms wide. "Well, I ain't one of them."
His tone sharpened, his accent thickening with purpose. "I'm Texan. No title. No family banner. No noble blood to stain my hands. I fought my way here just like you—one bruise, one broken bone, one bad gamble at a time."
The crowd was listening now. Himmel stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with quiet pride. Even Marth's lips twitched upward.
Texan's voice grew louder, steadier, cutting through the dawn like a blade through fog.
"You wanna know why I follow the First Prince?" he asked, pacing across the stand. "Because he doesn't give a damn where you came from. Because he doesn't want dogs—he wants wolves. And wolves don't beg for scraps. They take the whole damn meal."
The orcs stirred. A few growled their approval. One slammed the butt of his spear against the ground, a metallic thud that echoed through the ranks.
"You think you're weak? You think you're low-level? Good. That means you're hungry. That means you need this more than the pampered bastards sitting in marble halls."
He pointed toward the Spire's looming silhouette behind them."You see that tower? That's where power hides. And me?" He slammed a fist against his chest. "I'm done hiding."
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried even stronger."If you want to fight above your level class, like I did—if you're tired of the world deciding how far you can climb—then join me. Not as soldiers. As killers. As survivors. As wolves under the First Prince's banner."
The field erupted.
Orcs roared. Swords were raised. The sound rolled like thunder down the valley, scattering the morning birds from the nearby rooftops. Some shouted Texan's name. Others just shouted to shout, their blood caught in the fever of it all.
Marth slammed the butt of his crutch into the ground once, firm. "You've got them," he muttered to Himmel.
"Yeah," Himmel said, smirking faintly. "Now let's see what he does with 'em."
Texan raised his hand again, letting the noise die down into a simmering growl.
"At dawn tomorrow," he said, "we meet here again. The Spire's field. I'll be standing right here. You want in on something bigger? You want to earn a name that means something? Show up."
He gestured toward the rising sun. "The world's gonna change soon. The question is—who's gonna be standing when it does?"
The crowd erupted again—cheers, roars, the clashing of weapons against shields.
Texan hopped down from the stand, landing beside Himmel and Marth as the mob began to disperse in scattered groups.
Marth grinned, leaning on his crutch. "Well, damn. That was a speech."
Himmel gave a small nod. "He's got the kind of voice people remember."
Texan wiped sweat from his brow, grinning wide. "Yeah? Maybe I should start a church."
Marth snorted. "Careful. You might just get worshipped."
When the last echoes of the crowd's cheering faded into the morning haze, Himmel and Texan walked toward the Spire. The sun had just broken the horizon, spilling long gold streaks across the wet cobblestones. Behind them, Marth hobbled along with a grin that looked carved from iron. His crutch clicked with every other step.
"You counted right," Himmel said quietly. "Fifty level threes. Twenty-five fours. Seven fives. All yours now."
Texan exhaled, half in disbelief. "Kinda makes me sound important, huh?"
"You are important," Marth rasped, leaning on the crutch. "If only half of 'em show tomorrow, that's still an army worth paying attention to."
The Spire's gates opened for them without a word. Inside, everything smelled of incense and smoke—the perfume of power. Light poured through narrow stained-glass windows, painting the floor in streaks of crimson and violet. Texan's boots echoed like drumbeats on marble.
The same two orcs from the interview chamber waited by the door. They said nothing, only motioned toward the throne-hall beyond.
The silence there was different now—heavy, deliberate, oppressive.
At its center stood the First Prince.
Illusorisch looked exactly as Texan remembered him: beautiful in a way that hurt to see. The faint glimmer of his coat caught the dawn-light and fractured it, scattering color across the polished floor. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, posture relaxed but impossible to read.
"You've been busy," he said at last, voice smooth enough to make the torches flicker. "I counted seventy-seven souls who shouted your name this morning."
Texan forced himself not to bow. "Seventy-seven fighters ready to bleed for the First Prince."
Illusorisch's smile was small—too precise to be warm. He stepped closer. Every motion felt rehearsed, like the world itself adjusted to his pace. "You've done well. Consider this your reward."
From a lacquered chest, he produced a single bloom—its petals shifting between ivory and black like two possibilities folding over each other. The stem was faintly translucent, pulsing with slow light.
Texan took it carefully. The flower felt alive, heartbeat faint under his fingertips.
"It's called the Probability Flower," the Prince said. "Fifty-fifty. Eat it and you may die on the spot. Or, if you survive, you'll ascend beyond your level's limits. A gambler's gift for a gambler's soul."
Texan turned the blossom in his hand. "So I've basically got a coin flip between glory and guts splattered on the wall."
Illusorisch's grin widened. "Exactly. Keep it until you're ready to wager everything."
He pivoted toward Himmel, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And you, dark one—what do you want for following him?"
Himmel met his gaze without flinching. "Not reward. Just access."
A pause stretched between them like drawn wire. Then Illusorisch nodded once. "Then you'll have it. The Spire's archives are open to you for seven days."
Marth, still in the background, whispered to himself, "Seven days in a library, ten months in a forge—boy's gonna build gods."
Texan tucked the flower into a reinforced pouch at his hip. "Appreciate the trust, your Highness."
"Trust?" Illusorisch mused, turning away. "No. Curiosity."
He gestured faintly, and an attendant appeared—tall, silent, armored in cloth that shimmered like shifting smoke. "He will accompany you," the Prince said. "To ensure your ambitions remain aligned with mine."
The attendant bowed once, vanishing instantly as though folded out of the air. Himmel's eyes narrowed; he felt the faint pulse of invisibility magic dissipate near the doorframe.
Texan's jaw tightened. "Level five," he muttered under his breath. "Figures he'd send someone that strong."
Illusorisch's smile returned. "You've built something promising, Texan. I'd hate to see it die too early."
Then he waved them off—dismissal, blessing, and warning all in one graceful motion.
Outside, the daylight felt too bright. The Spire's shadow still clung to their boots. Himmel exhaled slowly. "He's watching us now."
Texan nodded, glancing back once over his shoulder. "Yeah. I can feel it. Like breathing with a dagger at my spine."
They didn't speak again until they reached the tavern near the edge of the merchant district—the same one where their journey in the capital had begun. The smell of grilled meat and sour ale met them like an old friend.
Inside, noise filled the air: laughter, tankards clinking, boots stomping against warped planks. The new recruits were already there, celebrating, shouting Texan's name like a chant. Seventy-seven souls drunk on hope.
Texan raised a mug, grin wide and easy. "To the First Prince!"
The crowd echoed him, voices thunderous.
But when he lowered the cup and sat beside Himmel in the corner booth, his grin faded into something sharper.
Himmel leaned close. "They believe you."
Texan's voice dropped. "Good. Because tomorrow, they'll believe her."
He meant the Seventh Princess.
"Half of 'em will stay loyal to the prince," he said quietly, watching the men and women laugh. "The rest… we steer. Bit by bit. No one suspects a man who shouts the loudest."
Himmel nodded, the faintest smile tracing his lips. "You really have become a wolf."
Texan took a long drink, eyes never leaving the crowd. "Nah," he said softly, setting the mug down. "Just learned which way the pack runs."
The tavern roared again as another toast went up. Outside, unseen, a faint shimmer of distortion hovered near the window—the invisible attendant, silent and watching.
And above it all, the Spire stood tall against the blood-red dusk, its glass catching the dying sun like a blade ready to fall.
Tomorrow, the war of factions would begin—and the wolves were already among them.