The melody drifting from Nyssa’s lips was a spell all on its own. Renji stood perfectly still in the shadows of the silver-leafed willow, captivated by the surreal beauty of the moment. The sunlight, the swirling violet silk of her incredibly expensive gown, the raw emotion in her voice—it was a scene crafted for a hero.

  For a few seconds, the Supreme Overlord of Gazen Dazardiyak forgot about his missing sleep, his eccentric generals, and the impending war. He was just a man, watching a beautiful woman sing in a magical garden.

  Then, he felt a tickle.

  It was a faint, scratchy sensation, right on the bridge of his nose.

  Renji slowly, carefully crossed his eyes to look down.

  Resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose, its segmented, spiky little legs gripping his skin, was a bug. It had a shiny, dark-brown carapace. Two long, hair-thin antennae were waving lazily in the humid air of the conservatory.

  It was a cockroach.

  Renji’s heart stopped. Not metaphorically. For a fraction of a second, his cardiovascular system simply ceased operations.

  In his past life, he had fought off muggers. In this life, he had punched a legendary dragon to death with his bare hands. He had stared down Lich Lords and armies of the undead. But there was a primal, deeply encoded phobia written into his DNA that no amount of leveling up could erase.

  System, Renji thought, his internal voice vibrating with a pitch that could shatter glass. System! Activate Emotional Suppression! Max Level! NOW!

  The silence in his mind was deafening. There was no blue holographic popup. No sudden, cooling wash of apathy. Nothing. The System, whether due to a glitch, the non-combat nature of the threat, or simply to spite him, completely ignored his command.

  Renji stood there.

  One second passed.

  Two seconds passed.

  Three seconds passed.

  To the outside world, the Overlord appeared perfectly calm, a statue of absolute stoicism evaluating a minor nuisance.

  In reality, Renji was experiencing a total psychological meltdown.

  The roach twitched its antennae, taking a tentative step toward his left eyelid.

  The spell of the moment broke. Renji’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

  He didn't scream. He didn't swat it. He simply pivoted on his heel and exploded into motion.

  Leaving a cloud of disturbed dust and scattered willow leaves in his wake, Renji sprinted out of the conservatory. He didn't look back. He ran like a man fleeing a collapsing dimension.

  Behind him, Nyssa paused her singing mid-note. She blinked, lowering her arms, entirely confused as the heavy glass doors swung violently on their hinges from the draft of his abrupt departure.

  Renji tore down the corridor, swatting wildly at his own face, slapping his cheeks, his nose, his hair. He didn't care who saw him. He just needed to be as far away from the garden as physically possible.

  He rounded a corner at top speed, his heavy leather boots skidding on the polished stone—

  WHAM.

  He collided with what felt like a solid wall of granite. Renji bounced back, stumbling slightly.

  "Oho! My Lord!" a booming voice echoed.

  Renji looked up, still batting at his hair. It was Grakkor. The High-Warlord was out of his black armor, wearing a simple linen tunic that stretched precariously over his massive, scarred muscles.

  "Vigorous morning cardio!" Grakkor laughed, completely misinterpreting Renji’s panicked sprint. "A true warrior never rests! But even the strongest engine requires fuel! Come, my Lord. You are just in time."

  "Fuel?" Renji gasped, his chest heaving, scanning his own shoulders for any sign of a brown carapace. "Grakkor, I need to—"

  "No excuses!" Grakkor beamed, clamping a hand the size of a shovel over Renji’s shoulder and effortlessly guiding him down the hall. "My grandmother has taken over the royal kitchens this morning! It is a momentous occasion. You must eat!"

  Renji, still in a state of post-roach shock, found himself unable to resist the Orc's sheer enthusiastic momentum.

  They were led into the Royal Dining Hall. It was a cavernous room featuring a single, immensely long table carved from the heartwood of an ancient World Tree.

  Standing at the head of the table was an elderly female Orc. She was hunched over, leaning on a wooden cane, but her arms were still thick with muscle. She wore a dainty, floral-print apron over a set of rusted chainmail.

  "Ah! The Supreme One!" Granny Murg croaked, bowing as deeply as her old spine allowed. "I have prepared a feast worthy of your recent conquest!"

  She gestured to the center of the table.

  Sitting on a massive silver platter was a chunk of meat the size of a small car. It was charred black on the outside, oozing a thick, viscous grease that popped and sizzled.

  Renji stared at it. It looked terrible. It looked like a dinosaur thigh that had been dropped into an active volcano.

  "The flank of Vorgath, the Ashen King!" Grakkor announced proudly. "Granny Murg marinated it in volcanic ash and crushed spice-root for twelve hours!"

  The smell hit Renji’s nose. It was incredibly rich, smelling of sulfur, iron, and burnt pepper. His stomach, which had barely survived the exotic fruit from the night before, did a violent somersault. The very thought of eating the dense, magical flesh of the boss monster he had just slaughtered made bile rise in his throat.

  I will vomit on this table, Renji realized. I cannot eat this.

  He had to pivot. He had to sound majestic while simultaneously refusing his general's hospitality.

  Renji straightened his posture. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at the steaming meat with an expression of solemn reverence.

  "Grakkor," Renji said, his voice dropping into its deepest, most commanding register. "Granny Murg."

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  Both Orcs stood at attention.

  "This meat," Renji continued, gesturing to the burnt monstrosity. "It is steeped in the essence of the Ashen King. It is a bounty of raw, unadulterated power. To consume it is to consume the strength of a calamity."

  "Yes, my Lord!" Grakkor nodded eagerly.

  "Therefore," Renji said smoothly, "it is wasted on me."

  Grakkor blinked. "Wasted?"

  "I am already at the pinnacle," Renji lied flawlessly. "But think of the men and women in the outer courtyards. Think of the logistics team. They toil in the freezing morning, loading the wagons, prepping the wyverns. They bear the heavy, unglamorous weight of our impending march."

  Renji looked Grakkor in the eye.

  "Take this meat to them. Let the workers of Gazen Dazardiyak feast upon the dragon. Let them feel the strength of the beast flow through their veins, and let them know that their King values their labor above his own luxury."

  Silence fell over the dining hall.

  Granny Murg’s lower lip began to tremble. She wiped a tear from her eye with a corner of her floral apron. "Oh... such a benevolent King. He thinks of the little ones."

  Grakkor’s eyes went wide. His chest heaved with overwhelming emotion. The High-Warlord dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

  "Your wisdom and mercy shame me, my Lord," Grakkor rumbled, his voice thick with tears. "I shall deliver this bounty myself! They will sing your praises for a thousand years!"

  "See that you do," Renji said, fighting the urge to sigh in relief. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to."

  He turned and exited the dining hall, his stomach thanking him with every step.

  The Outer Courtyard – Logistics Camp

  The morning air was freezing, and the logistics workers—a mix of humans, minor demons, and lower-tier beastmen—were shivering as they hoisted heavy crates of arrows onto the supply wagons. Morale was steady, but the work was grueling.

  Suddenly, a massive cheer erupted from the center of the camp.

  A dozen Orc infantrymen, led by Grakkor himself, marched into the staging ground carrying the massive silver platter. The smell of the spiced dragon meat instantly overpowered the scent of horse manure and frost.

  "Workers of Gazen Dazardiyak!" Grakkor bellowed, his voice echoing off the fortress walls. "Cease your labor! Your King has sent you a gift!"

  The workers gathered around, their eyes wide with disbelief as they looked at the massive slab of meat.

  "Is... is that what I think it is?" a human quartermaster whispered, his hands trembling.

  "The flank of the Ashen King," Grakkor announced proudly. "Lord Renji deemed this treasure too great for his own plate. He declared that those who carry the weight of his army deserve the strength of the dragon!"

  A stunned silence washed over the crowd.

  "Dragon meat..." a young demon murmured, dropping his clipboard. "A single bite of that would cost a year's wages in the Theocracy. Only Dukes and High Priests ever taste such a thing."

  "And he gave it to us?" a beastman asked, wiping away a tear. "To the baggage handlers?"

  "He treats us like his own blood!" someone shouted from the back.

  "A true King!" another roared.

  Within minutes, the meat was being carved and distributed. As the workers took their first bites, the rich, mana-dense protein flooded their exhausted bodies, filling them with a sudden, explosive surge of warmth and energy.

  "Hail Lord Renji!" the crowd began to chant, chewing with tears of joy streaming down their faces. "Hail Gazen Dazardiyak!"

  The logistical camp, previously just doing their jobs, was suddenly transformed into a legion of fanatics willing to die for a King who shared his premium loot with the grunts.

  The Royal Dressing Chamber

  Blissfully unaware of the religious fervor he had just sparked over a piece of burnt meat he didn't want to eat, Renji finally reached the relative safety of the Royal Dressing Chamber.

  He needed to change. He couldn't walk around all day in sweatpants and a training shirt, especially if Kaelthas was planning something. He remembered a notification from a few days ago—Vexia's weaver-spiders had finished crafting a new formal suit for him. He needed to test the fit.

  The dressing chamber was an opulent, circular room lined with towering, gilded mirrors and plush velvet privacy screens.

  Renji found the garment bag resting on a mahogany stand. He quickly stripped off his training gear and pulled on the new attire.

  It was a three-piece suit of the deepest, void-black material. It wasn't standard fabric; it was woven from shadow-silk, lightweight but incredibly durable. The tailoring was flawless, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering perfectly at his waist. He adjusted the crisp white shirt underneath and fastened the obsidian cufflinks.

  He stepped in front of the largest mirror, running a hand through his messy black hair to give it a semblance of rugged style.

  Not bad, Renji thought, admiring his reflection. I actually look like a sophisticated villain. The kind that monologues while drinking wine. Very sharp. Very—

  He froze.

  His eyes locked onto the reflection in the mirror.

  There, perched insolently on the sharp, crisp collar of his brand-new black suit, was a brown, shiny carapace.

  Two long antennae waved back at him in the mirror.

  IT'S BACK.

  Did it hitch a ride on his shirt? Did it fly? Do these things fly in this world?!

  The absolute, paralyzing terror returned instantly. The sophisticated villain persona shattered into a million pieces.

  "GET IT OFF!" Renji yelped.

  He didn't bother trying to swat it. He didn't trust his coordination not to accidentally squish it into his neck. He slapped his hands wildly at his own shoulders, spinning around like a dog chasing its tail.

  He bolted for the door, shoving it open so hard it cracked the plaster on the wall.

  Renji was running again. He sprinted down the hallway, looking over his shoulder, twisting his body to see if the horrific beast was still attached to him.

  He needed a safe room. He needed a sealed environment.

  He tore around a grand corner and saw a massive set of double oak doors at the end of the corridor, adorned with heavy gold leaf and intricate carvings. He didn't know what room it was, and he didn't care. It had heavy doors. It was a sanctuary.

  Renji didn't slow down. He hit the doors shoulder-first, shoving them wide open with a violent BANG. He threw himself inside, instantly grabbing the heavy brass handles and slamming the doors shut behind him.

  He leaned his back against the thick wood, sliding down a few inches, chest heaving. He frantically patted down his shoulders, his chest, his arms.

  Nothing. It must have fallen off in the hallway.

  "Safe," Renji gasped, resting his head back against the door. "Oh my god. I need to hire an exterminator. A magical exterminator."

  He took a deep breath to steady his racing heart, and finally opened his eyes to look at the room he had just barricaded himself inside.

  He was not in a storage closet.

  He was in the Grand Azure Ballroom.

  The room was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, casting a warm, sparkling light over a polished marble floor that reflected like a mirror.

  And the room was full.

  Scattered around the edges of the dance floor were dozens of circular tables covered in white linen. Seated at these tables were the aristocratic elite of the conquered territories—dukes, barons, and high-ranking merchants, all dressed in their finest, most opulent attire. They were holding crystal flutes of champagne, mid-conversation.

  But what commanded the center of the room was even more striking.

  Standing perfectly still in the middle of the polished floor were the three Imperial Consorts.

  Lady Seiprus wore a breathtaking gown of sheer, ocean-blue silk that cascaded around her, her copper hair pinned up with diamond clips.

  Lady Beitelina stood tall in a dress of midnight velvet, adorned with raven feathers that gave her an aura of dark, northern elegance.

  And Lady Valeriana, the newest arrival, wore a curve-hugging dress of deep violet and silver that looked dangerously captivating.

  They were positioned precisely, clearly in the middle of preparing to perform a grand, solo dance exhibition for the assembled nobility. The musicians in the balcony above had their bows hovering over their strings.

  Standing dutifully a few paces behind the Consorts were their three head maids, holding fans and adjusting trains. Among them, standing directly behind Valeriana in a pristine, perfectly tailored maid's uniform, was Nyssa.

  The music had not started.

  Every single person in the massive ballroom—the musicians, the nobles, the maids, and the three stunning Consorts—were currently staring dead ahead.

  They were staring at the Supreme Overlord, who had just violently burst through the main doors, wearing a flawless, tailored black suit, leaning heavily against the wood, panting for breath, and wildly slapping his own shoulders like a madman.

  A profound, absolute silence descended upon the Grand Azure Ballroom.

  Renji slowly lowered his hands. He looked at the hundreds of eyes fixed upon him. He looked at the beautiful women waiting for the music.

  Ah, Renji thought, his mind going completely blank. This is the ceremony.