Alfred's voice flowed through the Guild Hall with the smooth cadence of a man reciting facts he had lived through rather than recorded.
"…—southern patrol routes were adjusted to compensate for abyssal pressure variance. No incursions were detected. Resource equilibrium within the inner district remains stable. Population growth has plateaued by design, as per your last directive."
Ethan nodded occasionally, one elbow propped against the throne's armrest, chin resting in his palm.
He was listening.
Mostly.
But his attention kept drifting—not to the words themselves, but to everything around them.
The way the hall felt… attentive.
Not tense. Not alert.
Attuned.
Like a space that wasn't waiting for instructions so much as watching for intention.
"…Marshal rotations continued uninterrupted," Alfred concluded calmly. "All standing orders remain active."
"Mm-hm," Ethan replied absently.
He straightened slightly, eyes narrowing with thought.
"Hey, Alfred."
"Yes, my lord?"
Ethan turned his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"After being offline for that long… my Guild Master permissions are still active, right?"
There it was.
The real reason he'd been letting the report run.
Alfred did not hesitate.
"Authority does not expire, my lord."
Ethan chuckled.
"Good," he said. "I'd be pissed if fifteen years of progress got wiped because of some dumb inactivity clause."
He rose from the throne in one smooth motion.
The instant his weight left the seat, the hall reacted.
Not dramatically.
Not obviously.
But the pressure in the air shifted, subtle as a breath being drawn.
Ethan didn't consciously register it. He was already walking.
His boots carried him toward the edge of the dais, toward a vast open balcony that overlooked the inner district of the Black Guild Realm. From here, he could see spires and towers stretching into a perpetual twilight sky, roads carved in deliberate patterns, distant structures that housed monsters he'd designed one by one.
A kingdom he'd never ruled in person.
Until now.
He stopped at the edge.
Folded his arms.
And spoke casually, almost lazily.
"Open the eastern gates," he said. "Full access."
No emphasis.
No ritual phrasing.
No system syntax.
Just words.
For half a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
The realm obeyed.
Far beyond the hall, past districts and spires and layers of shadow, massive black gates shuddered. Locks the size of siege engines disengaged in perfect unison—not with clanging metal or dramatic effects, but with a deep, resonant release that echoed through stone and space alike.
The gates swung open.
Smoothly.
Cleanly.
As if they'd never been closed.
Ethan blinked.
"…Huh."
He hadn't doubted it would work.
That wasn't what surprised him.
What caught him off guard was how natural it felt.
There was no sense of issuing a command and waiting for execution. No awareness of a system processing input. No mental note of a task being completed.
It felt the same way flexing a finger felt.
He turned slightly, glancing back at Alfred.
"That was… immediate," he said. "Was that command routing, or direct system authority?"
Alfred had already knelt.
One knee to the floor. Head bowed. One hand pressed lightly to his chest.
Ethan stiffened.
"…You didn't need to do that."
"The realm shifted," Alfred replied softly. "It would be inappropriate not to respond."
Ethan frowned. "I just opened a gate."
"Yes, my lord."
"That doesn't usually—" He stopped, then shook his head. "Never mind. Answer the question."
Alfred lifted his gaze.
"The realm obeyed," he said carefully, "because you wished it to."
Ethan stared at him.
"…That's not really a technical explanation."
"It is the only accurate one."
Ethan laughed.
A genuine, easy laugh that echoed across the balcony.
"Wow," he said, amused. "Okay. That's… top-tier immersion scripting."
He turned back toward the open city, eyes gleaming with curiosity now.
"They really went all in on making this feel intuitive."
He lifted one foot and tapped it lightly against the stone floor.
"Let's push it a bit."
Alfred's posture tightened almost imperceptibly.
Ethan didn't notice.
He didn't speak this time.
He didn't gesture.
He simply imagined.
Not vividly. Not forcefully.
Just a passing thought—the stone here should be smoother.
The floor responded.
No cracks.
No grinding.
No visual flourish.
The rough texture beneath his boot softened, the minute imperfections evening out as if the stone itself had decided to correct a flaw. It happened quietly, seamlessly, stopping the instant the idea left his mind.
Ethan froze.
His breath caught—not in fear, but in surprise sharp enough to demand attention.
"…I didn't say anything."
Behind him, Alfred dropped fully to both knees.
The sound was soft, but final.
"My lord," he said, voice low with reverence. "The realm has acknowledged your will."
Ethan turned slowly.
"Alfred."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Did you… do something?"
"No."
"Did the system auto-correct terrain around the Guild Master?"
"There is no system acting independently in this matter."
Ethan's eyes flicked back to the floor.
Then to his hands.
Then back to Alfred.
"…So you're telling me," he said slowly, "that the environment just… adjusts. On its own."
"Yes."
"Because I want it to."
"Yes."
Ethan exhaled sharply, then laughed again—short and incredulous.
"Okay," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's new."
He paced a few steps, boots echoing lightly.
"This is… way beyond what they advertised."
He stopped suddenly.
"Can anyone else do this?"
Alfred answered without pause.
"There is no one else."
The certainty in his voice was absolute.
Not pride.
Not devotion.
Fact.
Ethan searched Alfred's face for hesitation.
Found none.
"…Not even the marshals?"
"They act within authority delegated by you," Alfred replied. "They do not possess it."
Ethan's lips curled into a satisfied smile.
"Well," he said, turning back toward the throne, "good."
He walked up the steps and sat again, posture relaxed, one leg draped casually over the armrest.
The hall settled around him once more, like a loyal beast curling at his feet.
"At least they didn't break the core mechanics."