Before the sun could even begin its descent toward the horizon, the atmosphere on the beach shifted. Leornars stood up from the sand, the playful warmth of the afternoon replaced by a sudden, sharp aura of authority.
"Stacian," he said, flicking a stray grain of sand from his shoulder. "The reports from Lurtra. The housing projects for the liberated demi-human slaves status?"
Stacian stood instantly, her posture becoming that of a Prime Minister. "The new construction is 90% complete, My Lord. Every family rescued from the northern raids now has a stone-brick home with floor heating. However..." she paused, her eyes narrowing. "We have a bottleneck in Lurtra. The city prison is overflowing. It was designed for a frontier town, not a burgeoning capital."
Leornars sighed, a small, tired sound. "The side effect of a booming economy: people think they can get rich quicker through fraud than through work. Let's go. I want to see the quality of our 'refuse' myself."
With a snap of his fingers, the space around them warped. The salt air of the beach was replaced by the crisp, mountain air of Avangard, his seat of power. In the blink of an eye, they had transitioned from their swimsuits into formal attire. Leornars now wore a high-collared coat of midnight silk fastened with obsidian buttons; Stacian stood in a sharp, pink sundress and a white straw hat.
They stepped out of the shadows and into the dim, torch-lit corridors of the Lurtra Prison. The smell of damp stone and desperation was thick. Behind the bars, a sea of faces peered out pickpockets, tax evaders, and even a few former judges who had been caught taking bribes under Leornars' new laws.
"Look at them," Leornars whispered as they walked. "Wasted potential. A prisoner eating my grain and doing nothing is a net loss for the continent and the tax payers money."
"What do you propose?" Stacian asked, her heels clicking rhythmically on the stone. "Mass execution would be highly inefficient, but it leaves a sour taste for the public and to me."
"No," Leornars said, stopping before a cell holding a group of fraudsters. "Execution is for those who can't be fixed. These people are just... inefficient. Stacian, I want a new facility. Buy the valley to the north. I want a prison quintuple this size, and I want it finished in three weeks. Use the Golem-constructors; cost is no object."
He turned to the prisoners, his voice projecting through the entire block.
"Listen well! Starting tomorrow, you are no longer just 'inmates.' You are employees of the State. We are setting up workshops. You will manufacture clothes, clay pots, glassware, and bead necklaces. If you work, you earn 'Prison Credits.' These credits can be used to buy tobacco, better meals, and even sent home to your families."
A stunned silence fell over the cell block. Then, a ragged cheer broke out. One man fell to his knees, clutching the bars. "Lord Leornars! You are a saint! A Messiah!"
The chant grew, echoing through the halls: "The Messiah! Long live the White plague!"
Leornars turned away, his face unreadable as they headed for the exit. 'Did they forget I'm the one who put them in here?' he thought bitterly. 'I strip them of their freedom, put them to work in a factory, and they call me a savior because I gave them a cigarette? People are terrifyingly easy to break.'
"You've given them hope, My Lord," Stacian said, a small, knowing smile on her lips. "Hope is the most effective chain ever forged. They will work twice as hard now, fearing the loss of these 'privileges' more than the bars themselves."
"Just make sure the merchants I send in are vetted," Leornars replied. "If I'm going to run a monopoly on prison tobacco, I want it done right."
With another ripple in reality, the grey stone of Avangard vanished.
The heat of the sun hit them instantly. In a flash of light, the heavy silk and military wool were gone, replaced back into their swimwear. Leornars was back in his trunks, and Stacian was adjusting the ties of her bikini as if they hadn't just moved across a continent to reorganize a penal system.
"Your serve, Lord Leornars!" Ayesha shouted from across the sand, pointing toward a volleyball net they had set up earlier.
Leornars caught the ball, a competitive glint in his eye. He looked at Stacian, who took her position at the net with predatory grace.
"Don't hold back, Stacian," he laughed, tossing the ball into the air. "We have a kingdom to dismantle later, but right now, I want to see Shullah dive for this!"
He jumped, his hand connecting with the ball in a thunderous smack. To any onlooker, they were just wealthy youths enjoying the summer. Nobody would have guessed that ten minutes ago, they were sentencing thousands to industrial labor.
Later on.
The meeting was held in a pavilion constructed of sea-glass and reinforced steel, a structure that felt more like a pressurized chamber than a place of negotiation. Duke Kahim sat across from Leornars, flanked by three ministers who looked like they were attending a funeral.
Leornars didn't look like a boy of seventeen. He sat with a terrifying stillness, his hands folded. Behind him, Stacian stood like a living shadow, her eyes tracking the jugular veins of the men across the table.
"Lord Leornars," Kahim began, his voice brittle. "The grain crisis in our northern provinces has reached a... critical stage. We are prepared to accept your price. However, this 'Cultural Exchange' clause your enrollment in our Academy—is highly irregular. You are a sovereign with a net worth of five trillion gold coins. Why seek a seat in a classroom?"
Leornars didn't blink. He didn't smile. He simply leaned forward, the movement causing the ministers to flinch.
"Logic, Duke Kahim. Let us apply it," Leornars said, his voice a cold, smooth silk. "You are currently facing a 40% deficit in your national treasury. Your people are hungry. If I simply sell you grain, you become a debtor state. If I give you the grain, your King loses his dignity. But, if I enroll as an 'International Scholar,' the five hundred million gold coins I pay in 'tuition and development fees' becomes a diplomatic gift hidden in a ledger. I am giving you a way to save your kingdom without looking like a beggar."
Kahim's jaw tightened. "And the autonomy of your wing? You demand your own laws within the Academy walls."
"I control 75% of this continent's trade, Duke," Leornars replied, his eyes narrowing. "My staff consists of the finest minds and warriors—many of whom are the very demi-humans your kingdom sees fit to keep in chains. I will not have my people subjected to your primitive prejudices. Within my residence at the Academy, the laws of the Southern Continent apply. If a single one of my staff is harassed, the grain ships turn around. Is the 'purity' of your bigoted laws worth the starvation of your capital?"
The silence that followed was heavy. Leornars wasn't boasting; he was stating a mathematical certainty. He had trapped them in a box where the only exit was total compliance.
"We... we accept," Kahim whispered, sliding the parchment forward.
Leornars watched him sign. As the ink dried, the cold, calculated mask shifted just a fraction, revealing the predator beneath.
"Wise choice. I'll see you at the opening ceremony, Duke. Tell the headmaster to clear a path. I don't like to wait."
The transition back to the beach was instantaneous. The heavy atmosphere of the pavilion vanished, replaced by the scent of salt and the sound of laughter.
Leornars stood on the white sand, shedding his formal midnight coat to reveal his swimwear. He looked over at the floating mahogany platform where Ayesha was draped over silk cushions, lazily stirring a glass of enchanted nectar. Shullah sat beside her, dangling her feet in the crystal-clear water while sipping juice from a fluted glass.
"Did the old men cry?" Ayesha asked, a wicked smirk crossing her succubus features.
"They did something better," Leornars said, walking toward the volleyball net where Stacian was already waiting. "They conceded to logic. They think they've invited a benefactor. They have no idea they've invited the architect of their ruin."
He caught the ball Shullah tossed his way, his eyes drifting toward the northern horizon.
"Those fools... they torture demi-humans and dare seek an alliance with me?" He gripped the ball, his knuckles white. "I'll crush them until nothing remains. I'm going to that school to find every crack in their foundation. I'll turn the Dirrium Kingdom into a footstool for my throne, and I'll do it while they thank me for the privilege."
"Lord Leornars," Stacian called out, her voice warm and wholesome, a stark contrast to the darkness of his thoughts. "The sun is perfect. Are we playing or not?"
Leornars looked at her, the tension in his shoulders vanishing. He tossed the ball into the air, a genuine, youthful smile breaking across his face. "Prepare yourself, Stacian. I'm not losing today."
He jumped, his hand connecting with the ball in a thunderous crack that echoed across the private paradise—the sound of a king at play, moments before he became a conqueror.
The departure of the delegates left a vacuum of silence in the pavilion. Duke Kahim, a man who had spent forty years navigating the treacherous waters of Northern politics, looked at the signature on the parchment as if it were a death warrant written in gold. He didn't feel like he had just saved his country; he felt like he had just sold the soul of the Dirrium Kingdom to a boy who viewed morality as a variable in a mathematical equation.
Leornars didn't watch them leave. He was already looking at a holographic projection of the Dirrium Academy's layout, his fingers dancing through the air to highlight structural weaknesses and secret passages.
"Duke Kahim is a pragmatist," Leornars said, his voice returning to that calm, melodic tone that was somehow more frightening than a scream. "He thinks he's playing a short game—survival through the winter. He doesn't realize I've already mapped out the next fifty years of his nation's history. By the time he realizes the grain is a tether, the knot will be too tight to cut."
Stacian moved to his side, handing him a chilled glass of water. "And the student body, My Lord? The sons and daughters of the Dirrium elite will not take kindly to a 'Southern Upstart' outshining them."
Leornars took a sip, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the map. "I don't need them to like me, Stacian. I need them to be curious. Curiosity leads to observation, and observation leads to the discovery of power. Once they realize that a single word from me can crash their father's shipping company or double their family's land holdings, their 'pride' will turn into 'loyalty' very quickly."
They returned to the beach for the final hours of their vacation. The contrast was deliberate—a psychological reset before the hunt.
Near the shoreline, Ayesha and Shullah had abandoned the volleyball net in favor of a more decadent pursuit. They had moved a floating mahogany platform into the shallow turquoise water. Ayesha lay draped across a pile of silk cushions, her wings tucked neatly behind her, while Shullah sat cross-legged, peeling a rare ruby-orange.
"You're back early," Ayesha called out, her voice a playful purr. "Did you finish bullying the poor Northmen?"
"I didn't bully them," Leornars replied, stepping onto the float and taking a seat between them. "I offered them the most logical path forward. If they find the truth of their own inadequacy 'bullying,' that is a personal failing, not a diplomatic one."
Shullah handed him a slice of the fruit. "You're going to miss this, aren't you? The sun, the peace, the lack of idiots asking you for homework help."
Leornars chewed the fruit, looking out at the vast ocean. This beach was part of the 75% of the continent he controlled—a sanctuary built on a foundation of five trillion gold coins and a military that didn't know the meaning of the word 'defeat.'
"I won't miss it," Leornars said, his gaze hardening. "Because when I'm done with Dirrium, I'll own their beaches too. I'll own their mountains, their schools, and their very breath. Those fools torture demi-humans and dare seek an alliance with me? They think they can use my wealth to prop up their dying, bigoted regime?"
He stood up on the float, the wind whipping his hair.
"I'll crush them until nothing remains. I'll turn their 'prestigious' Academy into a factory for my own interests. Let them prepare their welcome ceremonies and their fake smiles. They have no idea they've just invited the White Devil to sit in the front row.
The next morning, the private beach was empty. The silk parasols were gone, the volleyball net was struck, and the only tracks in the sand were being washed away by the rising tide.
Far to the North, at the massive iron gates of the Dirrium Academy, the faculty stood in their finest robes, waiting for the arrival of the "International Student." They expected a boy they could mold, a financier they could exploit, and a student they could teach.
They had no idea that the carriage approaching their gates didn't contain a student.
It contained the owner of the world.