Two weeks later.
"Is this really necessary?" Logos asked flatly. He stood like a mannequin as Lucy circled him, tugging at hems and smoothing folds of the ceremonial robe she had insisted he wear.
"Yes." Lucy's reply was sharp as she tightened a sash across his waist. "We already have so little to work with since you refuse to wear anything but black."
Logos tilted his head, glancing down at the layered, rune-threaded silk. "Black is efficient. It hides stains."
Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're about to be presented as the new Lord of Laos, not a butcher cleaning up after the smelters. Try to at least look like nobility."
Thirty minutes later, the others arrived.
"Wow." Bal whistled low, grinning like a wolf. "You look like a tyrant."
Logos blinked. "It's not that bad."
"It is," Kleber said bluntly. He circled once, eyeing the stiff lines of the robe. "Hate to break it to you, my lord, but you look like someone about to announce world domination."
"Yeah," Desax added, deadpan. "I really hope Marcus doesn't copy after you. I don't want to be explaining to his teachers why he's playing 'Dark Lord of the Plateau' at recess."
Logos's face didn't change, but his tone was dry enough to cut granite. "Now I understand why Father and Mother left. Being a normal parent must be troublesome if you have to worry about things like that."
Bal laughed, clapping Desax on the back. "Oh, you haven't seen anything yet, kid."
Lucy ignored them all. She gave the robe one final tug and stepped back, satisfied despite herself. "It's time."
Masen approached, bowing slightly. "All devices have been set up across the territory, my lord. If they function as you described, every town square, garrison, and mine will see you in the form of a projection."
Lucy smoothed the robe once more, her hand lingering a fraction longer than necessary. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Remember—they're not looking at you as a craftsman anymore. Not as the strange boy in the workshop. They're looking at their lord. Speak to them as one."
Logos's black eyes met hers. There was no warmth in them, but there was certainty. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Understood."
The balcony loomed over a swelling crowd. Farmers in mud-stained boots, miners with dust still clinging to their hair, smiths with arms blackened by soot—all had gathered, packed shoulder to shoulder. Murmurs rippled as Logos appeared, small against the carved stone rail yet commanding all eyes.
"Let's begin," he said.
He released his magic.
It wasn't vast, not in the sense of a battle-mage's overwhelming torrents, but it was sharp, focused—a blade rather than a storm. The air thickened. Shadows bent. His presence pressed down on the crowd like the weight of a mountain. Across the territory, mana-crystal devices thrummed alive, casting shimmering illusions of the black-eyed boy onto plazas, courtyards, and open squares.
Every villager, soldier, miner, and merchant saw the same figure: Logos Laos, garbed in black, eyes like voids.
Then he spoke.
"People of this realm…
You have endured weakness. You have suffered under the hand of one who bore the crown yet not the strength. My predecessor—my own blood—wasted what could have been. And you paid the price for his failure.
I am not he.
From his ruin, I have learned. Do not forget what you have learned of our past—for from its lessons, the future is forged. Progress is not a gift. It is not charity. Progress is the right of all beings. But rights, once squandered, are lost. Never again will we allow that.
At the heart of every legend, there lies one truth: fate does not choose the hour. We do. And in that choosing, in that act of will, heroes are made. Today, we claim that hour.
This is no end. This is a beginning. A beginning of strength. Of clarity. Of dominion. And when the record of ages past is read, let those who come long after us know—this was our finest hour.
Remember this: you may lose your faith in me. But never in yourselves. For within you lies the fire I shall shape into destiny itself.
And hear me now: so long as anyone dares to stand in our path of progress, they will be removed. By word, by will—or by death. I will win. By any means. At any cost.
There will be no retreat. No mercy. No compromise. The world will bend to our vision… or it will break.
Stand with me—not as subjects, but as instruments of destiny. Together, we will not merely rise… we will rule the centuries to come."
The silence that followed was suffocating. On the balcony, even Bal had nothing smart to say. The crowd below stood frozen, caught between awe and dread. The illusions across the territory flickered once, twice, then stabilized, repeating the boy's black-eyed gaze to every corner of the Laos lands.
Then, slowly, it began.
A single clap. Another. A cheer, hesitant at first, swelling as others joined. The sound rolled like thunder across the plateau until the ground itself seemed to shake with it. Some shouted his name. Others simply roared, voices raw with something they couldn't yet name—fear, pride, desperation, or all three.
Logos stood unmoving, black eyes scanning the crowd, drinking in their voices not as praise but as data, proof of response. His aura lingered like frost even as he turned away.
Behind him, Lucy pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Kleber exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for an hour. Desax muttered, "Yeah… tyrant vibes confirmed."
Bal, finally finding his voice, grinned. "Well, my lord… if you wanted to scare them into loyalty, I'd say you nailed it."
Logos's tone was calm, almost mild. "It wasn't fear. It was clarity. They needed a foundation. Now they have one."
And without another word, he walked back into the keep, the robe of black trailing behind him.
The crowd outside still thundered his name.