"I am Rogal Dorn."
Dorn announced his arrival with this brief self-introduction. The previously aggressive Rahn Clan members instantly froze in place.
His name was unknown to them. His legend had not yet been told.
But his physique alone spoke of his greatness, towering, robust, his shadow enough to envelop even the most imposing Rahn warriors. Facing him, even the most fervent warriors involuntarily stepped back half a step.
Without any display, an unavoidable thought arose in everyone's mind, 'Can we win? We'll die!'
What kind of courage, or rather, what kind of folly, would it take to make an enemy of such a being?
"I am Fafnir Rahn."
The young chieftain suppressed the tremor in his heart and strode forward.
Others could be cowardly, but not him. He was the chieftain of the Rahn Clan, the spiritual pillar of his people. He had to face this giant, as if he had stepped out of a myth.
Dorn's gaze was calm. "Rahn, I am here to negotiate regarding your recent war atrocities."
"We are merely fighting for our due rights!" Rahn's voice deepened. Even a giant could not stop the Rahn Clan.
Dorn declared, "You will receive your due rights, but not on Inwit, nor by plundering from the Dorn Clan. It will be among the vast galaxy. The stars are the true destination of Inwitns."
Dorn disliked beating around the bush. Why make negotiation so inconvenient? He preferred to lay out the consequences directly to the enemy.
"You have my promise."
Rahn said, full of doubt, "Words are empty. Why should we trust you?"
"Then, a duel," Dorn said. "You and I, or anyone from the Rahn Clan. I am willing to accept consecutive challenges until the last warrior lays down their weapon."
"If I lose, I will leave immediately and never interfere with the Rahn Clan. If I win, the Rahn Clan will receive my promise. You will sign a peace treaty with the Dorn Clan, and I will lead you to the stars."
"Let's set a term of five years. If I fail to fulfill my promise after five years, the treaty is void."
"How about it?"
He gazed at Rahn. Beneath his calm tone lay an undeniable authority. His words showed no sharpness, no aggression, but his sheer presence was enough to command respect.
Rahn's heart was already wavering. How could they win against such a being?
Moreover, Dorn's terms were remarkably generous. If they still refused this proposal...
Dorn seemed to read his hesitation. "Refusing an honorable duel will be considered an insult by the Dorn Clan. Then, there will be only war."
The art of negotiation, in essence, involves two key elements, deterrence and compromise.
The strong can use absolute military deterrence to force the weak into unconditional submission. Compromise by the strong is mercy, not concession.
The weak, at the very least, must possess the resolve for mutual destruction. Otherwise, they will be at the mercy of the strong at the negotiating table
When the strong are convinced you would rather die than submit, you had better be capable of inflicting unacceptable costs on them. Only then will they truly consider making concessions.
Dorn possessed sufficient military deterrence, and he had offered generous terms. Haggling back and forth would only erode mutual sincerity and cheapen the promise.
Dorn had always disliked meaningless back-and-forth and despised hypocritical politeness.
The back-and-forth in negotiations often stems from at least one party being insincere, either asking for an exorbitant price to gain an advantageous position or never intending to truly negotiate in the first place, using talk as a smokescreen to delay or numb the opponent.
The so-called game is a process of continuously probing each other's limits to maximize one's own interests.
But if you already know the opponent's bottom line, there is no game. You hold fast to that final offer.
Dorn was not a god. He couldn't predict the future.
But he could judge from the Rahn Clan's frequent attacks over the past three years that they wanted to gain a lot with little investment but didn't want all-out war.
He had offered the Rahn Clan a dignified choice. The Rahn Clan had only two options, accept or refuse.
But Dorn wasn't being generous with others' assets. The Dorn Clan would not suffer any loss. His promise would only bind himself.
And he had absolute confidence in himself.
Even without his father's power, he could handle the Rahn Clan's threat.
Fafnir's gaze shifted from Dorn's mountain-like figure to his clansmen behind him, their expressions varied.
Even those warriors who had clamored for a decisive battle with the Dorn Clan now wisely remained silent.
"We can accept these terms."
Rahn looked up, meeting the giant's eyes. His own held complex emotions, unwillingness, awe, and a glimmer of hidden expectation.
If they could truly find a home among the stars, it wouldn't be a bad option. Either way, victory or defeat, the Rahn Clan would benefit.
"Come!" Rahn slowly raised his blade. "Warrior of the Dorn Clan, let me see if your strength is as fearsome as your physique!"
Dorn asked, "Here?"
Rahn was resolute. "Right here!"
"When do we start?"
"It has already started!"
Rahn was very honorable, waiting with his blade for Dorn to draw his weapon.
"Be careful." Along with Dorn's gentle warning came his body, pressing down like a mountain.
Rahn's pupils contracted. He instinctively swung his blade at the approaching giant, but missed because the giant dodged before the blade could touch his clothes.
Before Rahn could retract his blade to defend, Dorn's fist slammed into his chest like a hammer.
With a dull sound of cracking bone, Rahn saw darkness, flew backward like a kite with its string cut, over a dozen meters, and crashed heavily onto the riverbank.
Dorn had knocked him out with one punch.
In both speed and strength, mortals were far inferior to him, even though he was still underage. He had still held back, afraid he might kill Rahn with his punch.
Dorn's gaze swept over the silent Rahn Clan warriors. "Next."
Fafnir was already the Rahn Clan's strongest warrior. If he was so easily defeated, the others had no chance. Yet they were still eager to fight, knowing they would lose but still willing to fight to the death.
The Rahn Clan could be defeated, but they couldn't surrender. If they surrendered without a fight, word would spread, and they would lose dignity.
Bang!
One warrior after another flew back like broken dolls, landing neatly beside Fafnir in a row.
Fafnir's consciousness was forcibly awakened by the pain. In his blurred vision, that mountain-like figure still stood tall.
"The Chosen One... What kind of Chosen One am I?" Fafnir coughed up blood, a self-mocking smile tugging at his lips.
In the Rahn Clan's ancient prophecy, a Chosen One would one day come downstream.
And that so-called Chosen One was now standing before him.
So it wasn't him. It had never been him.
...
"Who is he?"
When Dorn returned to the Dorn Clan's forward outpost, there was an extra person on the air car.
There was still fresh, undried blood at the corner of his mouth, probably just spilled.
Probus's gaze fell on him. He felt the man looked somewhat familiar.
Dorn answered, "Fafnir Rahn, chieftain of the Rahn Clan. I have convinced them to accept peace."
'Convinced?' Probus's eyelids twitched. 'I'm guessing you convinced them with your fists? But regardless, it's good that things are resolved.'
"Clear the way!"
Probus signaled the warriors to deactivate the automated weapons and watched the air car disappear from sight. He sighed softly, "The young are indeed to be feared!"
With Dorn's return, his succession as chieftain was all but certain.
He had the old chieftain's support and sufficient achievements. If anyone still wanted to oppose him, they would at least need achievements equal to Dorn's.
Probus was envious but not jealous. He knew his limits. If he had gone to the Rahn Clan, he definitely couldn't have convinced them to accept peace, unless he compromised and groveled endlessly.
But why would the strong grovel to the weak? The strong humiliate the weak. Even if he succeeded, what meaning would peace bought with endless compromises have? If he did that, old Dorn would disown him.
A chieftain leads the Dorn Clan. He doesn't need to be incredibly capable, but at least he must hold onto their foundations. Why would he willingly give them away? If such a person became chieftain, the clan would only decline.
Besides, the position of Dorn Clan chieftain wasn't hereditary. Only warriors who passed the trial were qualified to compete, which is why the Dorn Clan had always maintained its ruling position in the ice-hive.
...
Old Dorn listened to Dorn's account. His gaze slowly moved to the young man whose lips were still oozing blood.
"The Rahn Clan is willing to submit."
Fafnir Rahn knelt on one knee. Since he lost, he would lose cleanly. Hesitation would only make him look weak!
Old Dorn's gaze fell on his granddaughter. "Sapphire, someone needs treatment. Go find a physician."
"Don't worry about me. I won't die." Rahn stubbornly wiped the blood with the back of his hand, then winced as the movement irritated his broken ribs.
He had only received basic first aid when he arrived. Dorn had advised him only once and then stopped. Warriors like him had their pride. Nagging would be a waste of breath. Dorn disliked useless chatter. He was pragmatic. Since Fafnir insisted, Dorn indulged him.
This meant his injuries had been left untreated until now. Though Dorn hadn't used his full strength, the punch had still damaged Rahn's internal organs.
But since he wasn't dead, the injuries weren't fatal. If they weren't fatal, treatment wasn't essential.
Rahn endured the pain, looking up at old Dorn. "Dorn promised he would lead the Rahn Clan to the stars. Does the Dorn Clan recognize this promise?"
"Rogal Dorn's promise is the Dorn Clan's promise." Old Dorn replied solemnly. "When this matter is concluded, he will succeed me as the new chieftain of the Dorn Clan. The Dorn Clan will follow his will."
The old chieftain's personal promise made the weight in Rahn's heart lift. He finally relaxed. But as soon as he exhaled, the movement aggravated his wounds, and warm blood again seeped from the corner of his mouth.
Rahn raised his hand to wipe the blood, but it trickled down again as soon as he cleaned it.
Rahn swallowed the metallic taste in his throat and straightened his back before Dorn.
"My Lord, I think... I might still be salvageable..."
Rahn struggled to maintain a serious expression, but before he could finish, his head lolled to the side, his vision fading.
...
"A-Bo, you stayed up late again?"
Caelan pushed the door open, stepping around the scattered design drawings, and placed his personal cogitator on Perturabo's desk.
This contained the knowledge and data Perturabo had requested. Once he mastered the old knowledge, he would learn these new things. He spent his days immersed in the ocean of knowledge, tirelessly absorbing new power, knowledge is power.
Perturabo said, "I just got up early."
"How is Dorn now?" Perturabo didn't want to dwell on this matter, nor did he want his father to worry. He was more concerned about his brother's current state.
Caelan, "Dorn has passed the Dorn Clan's trial and convinced the Rahn Clan to accept peace. He is now old Dorn's successor."
Perturabo was happy for his brother's achievements, but not surprised. That's what a Primarch should be like.
But Perturabo soon felt a sense of loss. "Dorn is ahead of me."
He was the older brother, yet falling behind his brother inevitably brought a sense of disappointment and unwillingness.
"Inwit's situation is different from Olympia's. You have to admit Dorn is luckier than you."
Perturabo shook his head, revealing a relieved smile. "No, I don't think so."
"Olympia may not be as powerful as Inwit, but my luck is no worse than his."
"Everything he has, I have too. And I had it earlier."
"I have no complaints. My luck surpasses his!"
Dorn had a grandfather, a father, and a sister. Perturabo had them too, and two fathers.
Olympia couldn't give him the same technological level as Inwit, but their father's love for them was equal.
In terms of relative scale, the Dorn Clan and Lokos were similar.
Perturabo had to unify twelve city-states; Dorn also had to unify Inwit. Even if Dorn didn't need to resort to war, persuading other clans would still be a lengthy process.
"Father, father invited us to a play this afternoon."
"Why the sudden interest in a play?" Caelan asked.
"My tyrant father is worried about becoming estranged from his children. He's feeling insecure and wants to use a family gathering to strengthen our bond."
Caelan sighed, "Twistedness is indeed a contagious disease!"
Perturabo shot back, "I am not twisted."
"Will you come?" he asked again, harboring a hidden hope.
A faint smile appeared on Caelan's face. "Why not?"
He wouldn't complain about being too close to the Primarchs. That couldn't be bad, could it?
...
The theater hall was packed with Olympians.
Lochos's nobles reclined on circularly arranged couches according to their rank. The air was thick with the fragrance of spices and wine. Tables were laden with delicacies.
With the melodious music, dancers in light veils flitted among the guests like butterflies.
They expertly waved long silk ribbons, gliding gracefully over guests' heads and above the dining tables. Whenever a ribbon playfully blocked a noble's hand reaching for food or teasingly brushed the face of a pleasure-seeking guest, they might be pulled into a noble's embrace for some public entertainment.
At such moments, the reveling crowd would cheer, applaud, and laugh heartily. This was always the way of the Olympians.
According to Lochos's laws, as long as social order wasn't disrupted, public fornication was not a crime. There were even temples that provided sexual services to citizens in the name of religion. The only exception was adultery.
If caught in the act, the offender could be killed on the spot, regardless of gender, and the killer would not be held responsible.
Nobles indulged in debauchery tirelessly. It wasn't illegal. It wasn't even considered shameful; some even used it as a point of pride.
Calliphone stood on tiptoe, affectionately resting her chin on Caelan's shoulder as if showing off.
Perturabo frowned slightly. 'Too presumptuous. Didn't father discipline her?'
Dammekos's gaze lingered on Caelan and Calliphone for a moment, then he calmly looked away. He pretended not to see their intimacy.
Calliphone was his daughter, but her close relationship with Caelan was no secret in the Lokos palace. In name, they were teacher and student, but in reality, Caelan was more like a father to her than Dammekos was.
What right did he, a mere tyrant, have to interfere?
The tyrant's private seat was in the center of the theater, on a pure white marble dais that was higher than the other seats.
This dais symbolized the royal family's noble status and allowed Dammekos to survey the entire circular theater.
"Ennan, Mondak, please sit." The tyrant smiled and waved to the Wise Men and nobles who had risen to greet him.
All twelve Wise Men had come. They were all looking forward to the performance.
Dammekos swirled the wine in his golden goblet. "Caelan, you don't seem very interested in the performance? I suppose not. You almost never come here."
Over the past few years, Caelan's life had been very routine. Besides the palace, he went to the Anvil Camp, occasionally accompanying Calliphone to the market when she begged.
By Lochs's standards, Caelan was a typical low-desire person. Besides the Primarchs, he seemed to want for nothing. But this was undoubtedly a pure form of devotion.
"Compared to theater, I prefer the eighth and ninth arts."
Dammekos looked confused.
Caelan explained, "Human aesthetics constantly change, and the ways art is expressed evolve with the times. The traditional seven arts are painting, sculpture, architecture, music, poetry, dance, and theater. The eighth art is film, and the ninth is gaming."
Saying this, Caelan also seemed thoughtful.
Perhaps, in the Golden Age, Fenris and Nocturne were also unique forms of art. They offered true immersion, something no other art could match.
And the Emperor's golden corn-and-jade figurines could also be considered an art form.
Similarly, Commorragh might also be an art form. But that art was still too advanced for humanity, and too specialized.
Then, wasn't Caelan's nurturing of the Primarchs also a form of art?
....
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