"Theresis, I cannot understand you. Ursus has given you every convenience in your invasion of Victoria—we have supported you to the utmost. And yet, you still hesitate before your younger sister, who cannot even wield the true authority of the Sarkaz King. Have you gone soft?"
"…The commander of Babel is far too powerful."
"Do not use the enemy's strength as an excuse. Such words only make me question whether our investment in you, in Victoria, was a mistake."
In a sealed chamber, the man with cropped pink hair, armored frame, and twin horns—Theresis—gazed coldly at the figure seated before him.
That figure, Satan, maintained a merchant's courteous smile.
Theresis, however, felt no fear that the other might withdraw his aid.
For this so-called Sarkaz merchant was no true Sarkaz at all, but a serpent cloaked in their skin. He would never permit Kazdel to once again see the rise of a true Sarkaz King.
Ursus, too, still carried its scars. The wounds of history throbbed with old hatred and humiliation, and they could not yet be washed away with time.
And so, to prevent the birth of another Sarkaz King, Ursus had given Theresis every advantage in Victoria—sending even Duke Kashchey himself to aid in ending the civil war swiftly.
Thus it was that Theresis seized power in Victoria, moving quickly when the Aslan line weakened and the Dracos were cast out.
Now, he would squeeze every last drop of wealth and support from Ursus—preparing for Kazdel's true revival.
Kazdel could not remain a land that foreign powers toyed with at will.
The Sarkaz had suffered under the yoke of the nations for too long. Now was the time for liberation.
He would make Kazdel great again.
But his naïve sister stood in his way.
If she were merely naïve, he might have spared her—perhaps confined her in a palace coup, kept her under lock and key.
But the problem was that she was the Sarkaz King.
And the Sarkaz King held unmatched sway over the Sarkaz.
If she ever mastered her power fully, she could unite their entire people with her will.
Theresis did not reject mercy or forgiveness—but to him, such things were meaningless before the future of their race. If the nations were ever to cease their meddling, if Sarkaz were ever to stand without scorn, it could only be through steel and power.
The weak had no diplomacy. A feeble ruler invited only insult and humiliation.
And in Theresis's eyes, his sister was without question a weak ruler.
---
"The Empire's patience is not infinite."
Kashchey, wearing Satan's skin, let the smile fade from his face as he regarded Kazdel's regent with cold detachment.
Were it not for the risk that foreign meddling might drive Theresis and Theresa into alliance, the Empire would already have acted against them both.
Kashchey himself cared little who claimed victory in this civil war—so long as it was not the Sarkaz King.
The shadow that title cast across the nations ran too deep. Even after so many years, Kazdel remained a thorn in their side.
One individual's power had swayed an entire nation—an entire people. Even Yan, whose rule was founded upon absolute imperial authority, could not match the sway the Sarkaz King once held over the Sarkaz.
Your people had a first time. That means there could always be a second, and maybe the third time will be a charm.
That was the most fundamental fear of the nations.
And how to prevent it?
By relentless suppression and stigma—by striking the Sarkaz down again and again, weakening their strength, blackening their name.
With time, some countries had eased their pressure.
Ursus, for example, now fielded Wendigo legions.
Columbia, a young nation, cared only for capital.
Some migrating Sarkaz had long since assimilated into other lands.
But in the end, that bloody history could not so easily be forgotten.
---
"I still need time—time to win the support of the Sarkaz Court and the Senate."
Theresis's tone was calm, measured.
He had no wish to let his relationship with the Ursus duke sour too quickly.
If Kazdel was to rise again, it would need allies.
Even if only temporary ones.
And Ursus was, for now, a suitable choice.
---
Satan no longer wished to argue further. Rising from his chair, he slipped away from the chamber alone.
It seems this regent has his own designs.
He knew well that Theresis was simply trying to squeeze more aid from Ursus for his own benefit.
When the empire's wealth had been bled dry, when Kazdel was at last united, Theresis would surely bare another face.
But that was of little concern.
The rulers of Ursus were no fools. They had long prepared themselves for the moment Theresis turned on them.
Why else had their nobles risked offending Yan, even forcing Edward—Victoria's rightful heir—to his death, just to bring Talulah back to Ursus?
All of it was preparation for Ursus's deeper intervention in Victoria's affairs.
What better narrative than this: Victoria, long suffering under foreign oppression, sees a legitimate heir rise with the aid of a "friendly" nation, to reclaim their rightful throne and overthrow the cruel Sarkaz yoke.
A perfect script.
And the Sarkaz King? It was not Theresis alone who could keep that power in check.
This body—was that not the very reason it had come here?
I'll need to find a way onto that landship. I can't allow Theresis to hold the reins forever.
---
"(Kazdel curse)… that damned commander—what does he take terran lives for?"
In a dingy Kazdel tavern, a burly Sarkaz sat slumped over his drink, voice hoarse with resentment.
He had once served as a mercenary under Babel's banner.
But no longer. Now he was just another wandering Sarkaz, stripped of purpose.
His former comrades—all of them—had perished under the orders of the Wraith of Babel.
He alone had survived.
Though the battle had been won, nothing could fill the hollow left in his heart.
There had been a perfect chance to retreat. But the commander's order had been cold and absolute:
"Hold your ground. Wait for reinforcements."
By the time aid arrived, his entire company had been annihilated. Only he remained.
"We had a plan… after that fight, we were supposed to take the money we'd saved all these years, buy an estate somewhere far away, and live out what little time we had left in peace. We're all terminal, heavy with infection… we didn't have long to begin with…"
His hand trembled as he pulled a dog tag from his chest. It belonged to one of his fallen brothers.
"Wraith of Babel… damn you!"
His sobs echoed through the tavern.
And then—quiet footsteps.
From seemingly nowhere, a red-haired Sarkaz in a suit appeared, approaching the grieving man with measured grace. He ordered a drink, and at once the other patrons withdrew to a safe distance.
Never interfere when Satan makes a deal. To cross that merchant is to court disaster.
Few in Kazdel were reckless enough to provoke him—a mysterious trader whose true strength was unknown, and who was said to grant wishes.
The suited man sat down across from the mercenary, his face carrying the same flawless, practiced smile.
"Sir… would you mind if I kept you company for a while?"