Chapter 132: Backstage
The council chamber smelled faintly of incense and old parchment. Dim lanterns burned along the walls, their flames bending shadows across the floor, making the air feel thick and heavy. Dozens of foxkin nobles sat in silence around a crescent table carved from dark, polished wood. Their many tails twitched lazily, a hypnotic sway of white, red, and silver fur, but their eyes stayed sharp, glinting like scattered jewels in the low light.
At the head of the table sat Lady Velara, the overseer of the Pentademonica cult. Her authority in the shadowy organization was undeniable, but even she lowered her head slightly when the elder lords and ladies spoke. Their power was centuries-deep, their influence stretching far beyond this hall and into the very roots of the continent.
Finally, one of the oldest elders, a male with a mane of coarse grey fur, tapped a long, curved claw against the table, the sound a sharp rap that cut through the silence.
"Let us begin," he rumbled. "The Lupen. How fare our proud little cousins?"
A lady with fur as white as snow and a voice like cracking ice scoffed. "The same as always. Barking loudly, but hungry for scraps. Their rivalry with the Ursaroks runs too deep for them to ever stand on their own. They beg for more enchanted steel just to match the bears. Without us, they’d already be crushed underfoot."
"Hmph. Prideful mutts," another elder spat, flicking his bushy tail in disgust. "But that is exactly why they’re so easy to guide. We give them a taste of power, and they think they’re kings. They’ll bite wherever we point them. They are easier to manipulate."
"Be careful, Lord Malachi," the white-furred lady warned, her eyes narrowing. "They may be dogs, but they are still wolves. If they sense our leash, they’ll tear free and turn on us. You must not underestimate their ferocity."
A ripple of low chuckles circled the table. Lady Velara, the overseer, finally spoke, her voice calm and even, cutting through the bickering like a honed blade.
"Trust is not required," she said, her gaze sweeping over them. "Dependence is enough. So long as they cannot match the Ursaroks without our tools, they will always return to us, tails tucked between their legs."
Murmurs of agreement followed. Then the topic shifted, the conversation flowing as smoothly as water over stones.
"And what of the Frogkin?" someone asked.
A younger noble smirked. "What Frogkin? They barely have a homeland. Just scattered swamps and lakes. Half of them are bandits, ambushing caravans like pests. If not for their croaking, people would forget they exist."
Another noble waved a dismissive hand. "That is precisely what makes them valuable. No territory means no pride, no strings. We can hire them, use them, and discard them with no consequences. Their kind can cross borders where armies cannot. Spies, raiders, smugglers—they slip through everywhere."
"But they cannot be trusted," an elder snapped back, his knuckles white against the dark wood. "Mercenaries always sell to the highest bidder. Today they raid for us, tomorrow they raid us."
"They don’t need to be loyal," Lady Velara said again, her tone sharp enough to silence the table. "They only need to be useful and we only need to use coins but we use middlemen. If the information gets out, the middlemen vanish. The Frogkin vanish. Problem solved." The nobles chuckled again, a cold, dry sound.
Then one leaned forward, his claws drumming against the wood. "And what of the news of the Alliance?"
An elder with golden fur grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "The Alliance is now in chaos, after that incident, many alliance have argued against each other who is connected to us and who is not. They’re still fraying. Splitting. Just as we wanted. The death of the high representatives and many officials left wounds that will not heal. They grow restless day by day. The Lupen sharpen their teeth. Even the Ramaris argue over who will take charge, but that meddling Silverfury clan appeared—considering they never joined the Alliance in the first place. They are likely pushed by that Gryphon priest, Altan. But it doesn’t matter. Distrust always spreads faster than fire. Even if they caught all some of our allies, the trace never goes back to us."
"That Gryphon won’t save them," another sneered. "The hatred between beastkin races is older than any temple. It will erupt again. All it needs is the right spark."
"So, who burns easier first?" a young noble asked with a hungry grin.
"The weakest," one elder said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Kobolds and Frogkin. For long have they been used unfairly. Although they weaker independently, they swarm in numbers that most of the population in the entire region is made of most of them. Of course, they will cling to the Lupen for protection. The Lupen, in turn will accept their alliance and will bare their fangs at the Ursaroks, believing they are finally strong enough. Then the bears will respond, as they always do—with blood."
"But remember," another elder cautioned, "the Ursaroks are no common foe. Every one of their knights is a wall of muscle, a one-man army. They were born for war. If the clans unite under them, even the Lupen will crumble."
That was when Lord Yamashiro, his many tails flowing like a cloak of midnight velvet, slowly rose to his feet. His robe whispered against the stone floor as he stepped forward, a patient smile on his lips. With a deliberate motion, he set down a staff on the table.
The wood groaned under its weight. It was a weapon of black metal, veins of light running along its shaft like glowing circuits. At its head were five smooth crystals, each a different color and pulsating with its own power: crimson for fire, azure for water, emerald for nature, pale white for wind, and an earthen brown for the earth itself.
The nobles fell silent, the soft murmur of their tails ceasing. Dozens of eyes, sharp and predatory, fixated on the weapon.
"This," Lord Yamashiro said softly, his voice a low hum that filled the chamber, "is our latest creation. A staff of five elements. No training. No special bloodline. No noble talent. Even the lowliest Frogkin could wield it." He gestured to the staff. "From two hundred yards, even a Kobold could strike down an Ursarok knight."
The nobles whispered in shock. "Unthinkable..." one breathed. "A commoner wielding all five elements?" another marveled.
Lord Yamashiro let their voices settle before he smiled, a faint, chilling expression. "Yes. That is the point. The balance tips in our favor. The weak will fight the strong. The strong will bleed the weak. And when all of them claw at each other for scraps of power..." He rested his hand on the glowing staff, the light of the crystals reflecting in his eyes. "...the foxkin will rise above them all."
The staff hummed softly, as if agreeing with his words. The chamber fell into a profound, anticipatory silence once again.
The staff still hummed softly on the table, a small halo of light over the crystals. A conversation began to buzz just under the surface, a low murmur of curiosity and a deep, hungry ambition. One of the foxkin nobles, a male with a neatly trimmed beard of red fur, cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
"It’s an impressive piece, Lord Yamashiro," he said, his tone dry and practical. "But I have to ask, who is the customer for this? A magic staff that does everything... is that not too powerful for the common folk? And too simple for the nobility? It seems to be a product without a market."
Lord Yamashiro’s smile was a thin line that did not reach his eyes. "Everyone with coin, and everyone without it who desires power. We will sell these like a high-end sword—fifty silver per unit. That’s affordable enough that a local lord or a prosperous caravan master can buy one, but not so cheap that the market collapses. It will start an arms race among the lower ranks of the beastkin."
Another noble pushed, his voice laced with skepticism. "I recall the plan was to sell these at five gold originally. Did the priorities shift? A four hundred and fifty silver difference is no small change."
"Planned, yes," Yamashiro said, the smile finally fading. "But indeed, priorities shift. cultivating raw mana crystals into their own specific elements is hard enough and A-grade components are not cheap, and production costs are real. We will still make a small but healthy profit, but we’ll subsidize it through partnerships and—if needed—through credit schemes for the more desperate buyers. Controlled scarcity, installment plans... it will all be part of the strategy."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the room. Credit schemes, installment plans, controlled scarcity—the words were like music to their ears. Profit, they thought, masked as strategy.
Lady Velari, a female elder with a face like a porcelain doll, folded her hands and leaned forward. Her voice was quiet but carried a chilling weight. "There’s another pressure we must consider. The Rakoum Empire started pushing their borders into our territory. Their imports of war material have increased. The own council has been forced to raise our demonic pearl quota by tenfold."
For a moment, the room went completely silent. Even Lord Yamashiro blinked, his composure faltering for a second.
"Tenfold?" someone breathed, the word a gasp of disbelief. "That’s impossible, even for us."
Velari’s face didn’t change. "Not by normal means, no. That is why the council has ordered a mass harvest."
A female elder’s voice cracked like old wood. "If you mean mass harvest in the field sense, it will take generations. Reseeding the entire population of spinebride takes time. At least a hundred years before we could reach a minimum yield and if it would turn out that the demonic pearls we produced aren’t enough then we would have no chance of winning."
"If the Rakoum Empire moves with haste," Yamashiro said, his voice low and quick, "our kin on the lowen plains will be slaughtered—or worse, enslaved before we can even send the pearls. We cannot wait with this volatile situation. We need a solution that shortens the timeline to a matter of months, not generations."
Velari’s smile sharpened, a predatory glint in her dark eyes. "Which is why I have a more... direct suggestion."
All heads turned to her, their tails once again still. Yamashiro inclined his head, a silent command. "Go on."
"I have discovered the tomb of the Twelfth Demon General," she said. The words landed like a stone, creating a heavy ripple of shock and a soft, eager clapping that rose and fell.
"You mean... the General?" an elder whispered, the name itself a mixture of fear and reverence. Several others echoed the name in worried excitement.
Velari nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "Yes. His bones are intact enough. Resurrection is possible—if we have the stockpile of dark mana to fuel it, and if the region’s population is sufficient to harvest. In short: if we can feed the Harvester devices with enough souls from the coming war and channel the dark mana, we can resurrect the General."
A silence thick as fog descended on the room. Then someone laughed—too loud, too full of a strange, dark glee. "So we slaughter one-fourth of the population to win? How... lovely."
Velari’s eyes glinted in the dim light. "It’s not so crude. But yes—resurrection would require massive input. The Harvester devices are ready and waiting. The mechanism works. We can force a boom in dark mana production simply by inciting a war. The General would be a force multiplier like nothing else we could create. It would flip the war with the Rakoum Empire."
"Is it safe though?" another elder asked. "What about the Gryphons? They just won’t stand as the entire population of Spinebride gets slaughtered. Won’t they intervene?"
Velari spread her hands, a gesture of absolute confidence. "They won’t intervene if the war looks internal. If we dress it as a territorial dispute among beastkin—if it appears the Gryphons are busy defending certain temples while tearing at their own—then their hands will be tied. A civil war distracts them from all outside threats."
A younger foxkin smirked. "And what of Master Altan’s child? We have had reports that the orcs have him. That sleazy Minur himself and with the recent incident in Hearthglen, I’m sure Master Altan is looking for us by now."
A quiet murmur passed through the council, a low hum of concern and worries.
"Don’t worry. I’ve scattered some of my men who knows about the location of his child. With that, his focus will be towards the orcs and Minur will not give up the child without a price," someone said quietly. "He’s not an easy orc to be bargained with. I would assume he will want to gryphons under his wing in exchange. A desperate parent will make desperate choices. Altan will move heaven and earth for his child even if it meant declaring war against his own kin."
"That’s useful," said a councilwoman, her tone casual as she toyed with a silver bead on her sleeve. "If the Gryphons fracture, their interference dies. We can stage the conflict so the Gryphons split and fight one another. The entire region’s watch will collapse into chaos."
They began to talk more freely then, their voices overlapping in a flurry of plans layered over plans. Some wanted to push the staves into the market quickly: seed a few to low-ranked captains, create a perceived advantage, and watch the arms race accelerate. Others argued for secrecy: sell to both sides covertly and let them bleed until the council decides which side wins and which collapses.
"How fast can we scale production if we confiscate—or buy—supply lines?" someone asked practically.
"The forges in the Dark Quarter could be rerouted," Yamashiro said. "We can redirect elemental node access. It will be messy. We will need—" he paused, "—the Harvester devices online to keep the mana throughput high. That means more bodies being cycled. More war."
Heads nodded. They were comfortable with the arithmetic of lives when it was expressed as throughput and yield.
A quieter concern rose then. "What about the undead variable?" The voice belonged to a minor noble—more cautious, less hungry. "They are unpredictable. They aren’t just merchants. They have secrets we don’t fully know."
One foxkin noble waved a hand lazily.
"These rumors about skeletal merchants and their... marketplace," he scoffed, "are nothing but children’s stories dressed in rags. Undead cannot build, they only rot. Whatever they’ve scraped together will collapse the moment real pressure is applied."
Another chuckled, fanning his tail smugly. "At best, they’re a novelty. Shiri’s report mentioned aggressive skeletal warriors, but even that reeks of desperation. The purity of their bones was laughable. Hardly fit to power a lantern, let alone a weapon."
Lady Velari tapped her finger against the table, eyes glinting. "Inferior, yes. But inferior tools can still be melted down. If they keep trading, their essence can be harvested into pearls. Let them play at being merchants — in the end, they are only stock."
"Exactly," Lord Yamasoemthing said with a thin smile. "Undead have no future. They are remnants clinging to scraps of mana. What matters is how we use that remnant, nothing more."
Their laughter echoed through the chamber, dripping with the certainty of those who thought they knew the world’s order.