The continent held its breath, suspended in a state of political and economic stasis that was anything but peaceful. Two years had passed since the lightning-fast collapse of the Everwinter Empire. Now, in the year 2 AE—After Everwinter—the political fragmentation had settled into hard, unyielding realities, dominated entirely by the unstoppable progress within the State of Scorpia. Maximilian Scorpia was twenty-one, a figure of myth and unwavering competence, embodying the promise of stability through absolute order. His nation was no longer just a collection of captured provinces, seized from the corrupt grip of Duke Alexander von Caligula; it was a functioning, technologically advanced nation. The Grand Wall was complete, a concrete-and-steel ribbon encircling his territory, guarded by radar and continuous-fire weapons. Inside the Wall, life was a sustained miracle. The electric lights never failed, the free education system churned out highly literate and fiercely loyal citizens, and the promise of food and safety remained absolute. The Scorpian people, in their comfortable, well-supplied residential homes, viewed the minimal public oversight—cameras restricted to streets, public buildings, and the Wall—as a necessary, almost benevolent extension of the God of Order who had saved them from the old world's terrors. They paid a minimal thirty percent tax, receiving in return free healthcare and student stipends; the very concept of famine, a constant terror under the old feudal system, was now a historical footnote.
Maximilian's military had grown into a terrifying force, a logical consequence of Scorpia's industrial might powered by the continuous output of diesel and liquid mana turbines. The Scorpian Army now commanded ten full divisions, each comprising fifteen thousand men, bringing the total standing force to 150,000 highly trained soldiers. These divisions were kinetic, shielded powerhouses. Their armored vehicles—durable Humvees, heavily armed Armored Personnel Carriers (APCs), and main battle tanks—were all designed around the unique defensive Mana Shield System, which used concentrated electrical energy to generate a barrier against kinetic and arcane attacks. Should this primary defense fail, the vehicle hulls themselves were forged from specialized Mythril alloys, providing a sturdy physical safeguard that made them virtually impenetrable to conventional weaponry. Beyond the ground, Scorpia ruled the skies. Max had consolidated the production of powerful, hydrogen-lifted airships, creating a fleet of tens of thousands of vessels. Half of this immense aerial fleet belonged to the military—used for rapid deployment, aerial surveillance, and deterrence—while the remaining half were dedicated to civilian logistics, seamlessly transporting goods and citizens across the vast nation. Scorpia's internal economy flowed with a speed and efficiency that the former Empire could never have imagined.
The contrast with the rest of the fractured continent was stark and damning. In the lands of the Eastern Dukes and Northern Counts, life had become a predictable, brutal cycle of famine and warfare. The meager harvests were constantly seized by mercenary bands, and the roads were choked with desperate refugees seeking any semblance of safety. The lack of centralized authority meant no infrastructure was maintained, diseases spread unchecked, and the average citizen's lifespan dwindled under the constant threat of violence from petty lords battling over tax scraps. The Dunbar Kingdom to the south, however, showed a halting but discernible measure of progress. King Dunbar, a pragmatist facing Max's overwhelming power, had signed a strategic, if humiliating, one-sided trade agreement. Dunbar had successfully deployed a network of phased-out Scorpian steam engines and had started laying down early telegraph lines using Max's discarded wire. The national output was increasing, and while the citizens still grumbled about the exorbitant cost and the unreliability of the technology, they saw it as a desperate measure to stave off total collapse, acknowledging King Dunbar's effort to lead them toward modernization. The cost, however, was high: Dunbar was totally dependent on Scorpia for replacement parts, fuel, and technical knowledge—a dependency that Max subtly but ruthlessly leveraged.
Jorn, a scavenger in the Central Anarchy, moved through the skeletal remains of what was once a sprawling cathedral city. He was thin, haunted, and utterly alone, a living testament to the true meaning of the Empire's collapse. He knew nothing of Scorpia's prosperity or Dunbar's struggling economy; he knew only the constant, cold fear of the Central, where the law was the weight of a cudgel and a full belly was the only currency. He saw a flash of movement—a ragged figure trying to pry a piece of copper sheeting from a collapsed wall—and Jorn faded instantly into the shadows, his body trained by two years of pure survival. In the Central, the greatest crime was being seen, for no one had anything left to give but their own miserable life.
Inside a brightly lit Scorpian administrative center, Elara, the former factory worker, now worked as a logistics coordinator, her face smooth and focused. She was coordinating a shipment of specialized alloy plating being sent to a Dunbar depot—Max's old stock. "Mark this manifest clearly, Corvin," she instructed her assistant, a young man recently graduated from the state academy. "Note the surcharge for the replacement valve assemblies. King Dunbar must understand the cost of maintaining obsolete technology. His reliance on our phased-out equipment is a necessary step, but it must be made clear that Scorpia invests its future resources into itself." Corvin, whose father had worked himself to death under Duke Alexander, nodded, a look of fierce loyalty in his eyes. "It is only right, Coordinator Elara. The Pro-Consul protects his own. They are lucky we sell them anything at all. They must learn what real order costs." The Scorpian citizen understood that their nationalistic zeal was validated by the abysmal poverty of their neighbors, and they viewed their strict laws not as chains, but as the walls of their self-made Eden.
Having achieved absolute military and industrial superiority, Max now turned his focus to the surgical application of force and intelligence abroad. Gathering his most trusted directors from the Army's General Staff, the Internal Security Bureau (ISB), and the Department of External Affairs (DEA), Maximilian stood before a projected image in the Central Command Center. His voice, crisp and calm, was relayed instantly across the vast, silent room. "Gentlemen, ladies. For two years, we have built the fortress and established the law. We have order, and our people prosper. But the threats outside the Wall—the corruption of the Dukes, the weakness of Dunbar, the chaos of the Central—these are instabilities that will eventually seek to undermine the Scorpian project. We cannot always deploy a division to solve a problem. Sometimes, we need a scalpel where a broadsword is inefficient. And sometimes, we need a hidden hand to guide the foreign policy of our neighbors to our benefit." Max paused, his eyes sweeping across the elite assembly, noting the representatives of kinetic force, internal surveillance, and external influence. "Effective immediately, we are initiating the Special Operations Program (SOP). This program will fuse the kinetic capabilities of the Army, the intelligence reach of the ISB, and the covert foreign policy objectives of the DEA. Its mission is dedicated to non-conventional warfare, deep-insertion intelligence gathering, high-value target acquisition, and the subtle manipulation of political events beyond our borders. Its personnel will be the sharpest edges of our state security and external influence." He held up a schematic detailing the new operational tiers. "Personnel will be ranked from Tier One Specialist—our lowest rank, reserved for highly trained field operatives—up to Tier Five Operator, the most elite, multi-disciplined agents capable of operating independently and executing missions of the highest strategic and diplomatic importance. They will utilize the lightest, fastest, and most advanced version of our technology, integrating wireless communications, specialized optical gear, and advanced personal mana shielding. The SOP will answer only to the Pro-Consul's office. Its success is paramount to ensuring the continued stability and inevitable expansion of the State of Scorpia." The very existence of this program, integrating the DEA's foreign policy leverage with military might, indicated that Max was preparing to extend his influence far beyond the protective walls, seeking to either eliminate or co-opt the instability of the entire continent. His ambition was quiet, methodical, and backed by a military machine the world had never witnessed.
In the Dunbar Kingdom, King Dunbar himself stood awkwardly next to one of the newly installed steam engines. It was a temperamental beast, prone to seizing, but it represented hope. "We are moving forward, Baron," the King declared to his finance minister, wiping soot from his ornate jacket. "Max's tools are crude and costly, but they are progress. We are not like those miserable dukes to the east, still fighting with bronze swords. We are building a future, however indebted we are to the western powerhouse." The Baron shifted uncomfortably. "Your Majesty, the recent purchase of the airship blueprints—even the phased-out, low-capacity models—has emptied the royal vaults. Our people resent paying higher taxes to fund Max's junk. The only thing we have that Max fears is the potential for instability on his border. We must maintain our sovereignty, even if it is only a pretense." The King sighed, looking west toward the Wall. "Pretense is all we have left, Baron. Pretense and the faint hope that one day, we will be able to manufacture our own shield systems and tanks, and not rely on Max's charity."
The establishment of the SOP, the ten divisions of shielded troops, and the fleet of airships made it clear that Max's two-year hiatus was over. The stability he had purchased was not an end, but a preparation. The external world was a pool of chaos; Max was now reaching in to decide which parts would sink, and which parts would be molded to serve his God of Order.