[Status Window Activated]Location: Solomon's Private Study, Third Spire, Moving ManorCurrent Manor Coordinates: Neutral Borderlands (Drifting)Mana Saturation: 847/1000Manor Integrity: 98.3%Active Contracts: 860
The gray-haired gentleman—olive skin weathered by centuries rather than mere decades, white hair that caught light like spun silver, a beard trimmed with the precision of a man who controlled every detail—rested his mug on empty air. His eyes were the part that made people look twice: one silver as moonlight on water, the other gold as midday sun, both ringed with script so fine it looked like natural patterns until you realized they were rotating. Slowly. Constantly. Reading.
A coaster materialized exactly three centimeters below the mug's base, summoned from the Manor's Household Archive—a minor miracle that cost 0.3 Mana Points and accessed the conceptual definition of "hospitality" stored in the building's foundation.
Across from him, Tiamat stood in perfect attention. Her horns curved like a crown of obsidian, each tip radiating heat that made the air shimmer. Her livery—black as void, gold as conquest, purple as ancient royalty—was woven from Infernal Silk, a Legendary-grade material that registered as Level 89 on the Thaumic Scale. The fabric itself was alive, shifting patterns that represented her current duties: butler, bodyguard, arsenal.
"Anything else, sir?" Her voice carried three undertones: the crackling of flames, the ring of steel, the whisper of old contracts honored.
Solomon's right eye—the silver one—flickered. He was reading her status unconsciously, a habit from his Unique Skill: [Absolute Analysis].
[Tiamat - Greater Demon of Service]Level: 412Class: Majordomo of CalamityAffiliation: Solomon Estate (Blood Oath, Rank: Eternal)Combat Rating: SS+Loyalty: Absolute (Cannot be altered)Current Status: Active duty (13 hours, 47 minutes), Mana reserves at 89%
"No, Tiamat. I'm fine."
She dipped again—a bow that would've done credit to imperial courts—and vanished. Not teleportation. Solomon's analytical mind caught it immediately: she'd converted herself to conceptual service and slipped through the Manor's Shadow Network, the hidden circulatory system that connected every room. Efficient. Cost: 2 MP. Destination: Kitchens, presumably to prepare for whatever diplomatic nightmare was brewing in the Atrium.
He turned back to the hovering holoboard, though "board" was a misnomer. It was a manifestation of his Territory Skill: [Strategic Dominion], which let him perceive and manipulate tactical information within his sphere of influence.
The display showed continents and kingdoms layered like stained glass, except each layer existed in different states of reality simultaneously. The Material Plane glowed blue. The Astral overlay shimmered silver. Demonic territories pulsed red. Divine domains radiated gold. And beneath it all, the Ley Lines—rivers of pure mana that powered the world—flowed in channels of white light.
Solomon's fingers moved through the projection, pulling data:
Western Marches:
Military Strength: 340,000 standing troops Mana Capacity: Medium (450 average among mages) Political Stability: Deteriorating (67% approval of current leadership) Trade Routes to Manor: 47 (34 active, 13 suspended due to recent tensions) Threat Assessment: Moderate-High Notable: Recently contracted with Curia of Knots (Assassin's Guild, Rank: Mythic)
Kingdom of Alexandria:
Military Strength: 890,000 (defensive focus) Mana Capacity: Very High (780 average, with 230 registered Arch-Mages) Political Stability: Strong (91% approval, constitutional monarchy) Cultural Focus: Knowledge, Research, Arcane Development Great Library Status: Largest repository of spells and techniques (3.7 million documented) Notable: Recently passed the "Sanctuary Act" offering protection to persecuted scholars
His curious nature flared. Alexandria wasn't just offering alliance—they were offering access. To their libraries. Their research departments. Their experimental facilities where they tested magic that hadn't been classified yet.
Solomon had thirty-seven unique skills, fourteen of which were analysis-based. His greatest weakness had always been information, and Alexandria was offering to solve that. But why? What did they need from him that was worth opening their vaults?
Footsteps approached. Real footsteps, not teleportation or phase-shifting. Solomon's left eye—the gold one—activated automatically: [Prescient Recognition], a sub-skill of his [Sage's Domain] ultimate ability.
[Subject Identified: Eve - Herald of Sigils]Emotional State: Concerned, AlertIntent: Summons delivery (urgent)Probability of compliance required: 94.7%
"Solomon," said a voice at the door. Eve. One of the Thirteen. "You are requested in the Atrium."
"In a minute." His gaze stayed fixed on the data. He was tracking something—a pattern in how the Western Marches had moved resources. Three supply convoys diverted. Four mercenary companies hired then dismissed. Two demon summoning circles registered then concealed. "Eve, tell Lilith to go in my stead. I must finish this."
A soft sigh. "No. You are wanted in the Atrium. It's urgent."
He paused. Eve never contradicted him unless the situation warranted it. She was Level 367, specialized in Support Magic and Information Warfare, with an intelligence stat of 892—higher than his own 847. If she said it was urgent, she'd already run probability calculations.
He exhaled, long and measured, and closed his hand.
[Strategic Dominion: Suspended][Auto-Save Protocol: Activated][Study Configuration: Secure Mode]
The holoboard didn't simply turn off—it folded into a single point of light, compressed through six dimensions simultaneously, and was stored in the Manor's Conceptual Vault. The walls responded to his will. The Moving Manor wasn't just a building; it was a Legendary-tier artifact, a Semi-Sentient Dungeon that had bonded with Solomon 140 years ago.
[Moving Manor - Status]Type: Mythic Architecture (Living Building)Age: 2,847 yearsCore Level: 589Floors: 13 (visible) + 40 (dimensional)Rooms: Variable (currently 1,247)Inhabitants: 847 permanent, 2,340 contractedUnique Trait: Autonomous Movement (can relocate entirely to any location owner designates)Special Abilities:
[Spatial Folding]: Compress/expand rooms beyond physical dimensions [Threshold Sovereignty]: Owner has absolute authority over entry/exit [Memory Archive]: Records all events within walls [Defensive Adaptation]: Learns from intrusions and adjusts [Sympathetic Resonance]: Reflects owner's emotional state in architecture
The study was responding to his decision to leave. Walls peeled away from themselves—not physically, but dimensionally, sliding into the gaps between real space and conceptual space. Shelves unspooled into ribbons of compressed matter and tucked themselves into hidden seams that wouldn't exist if you looked for them.
His study collapsed into a polite pocket of nothing. No dust—the Manor filtered it automatically. No drafts—air pressure was regulated by the building's breathing system. No secrets for anyone to find—all documents were encrypted with his personal mana signature.
Solomon held out his arms as he stepped through the threshold, and the Manor shifted around him. Doors appeared where there had been wall. Corridors straightened. The building was actively helping him reach the Atrium faster.
Sophia was already there, gliding up with supernatural grace. Fair skin, blonde hair in a severe bun, eyes blue as winter ice. She wore a secretary's dress that was actually Enchanted Silk (Rare-grade, defensive rating of 340, resistant to slashing and fire). A dark coat settled across his shoulders—Wolf King's Mantle, legendary equipment that added +200 to Presence and granted immunity to cold and intimidation effects.
[Sophia - The Keeper of Records]Level: 389Class: Archival Sage / Contract SpecialistPrimary Stats: Intelligence: 901, Wisdom: 856Unique Skill: [Perfect Ledger] - Cannot forget any detail, can recall any contract clause instantlyCombat Rating: B (support/control focus)Loyalty: Absolute
"Thank you, Sophia." He buttoned once, absent, his mind already working through scenarios. "Where is Morrígan?"
"Already circling the upper halls," Sophia said, falling into stride. Her steps were perfectly measured—exactly 73 centimeters apart, the optimal pace for keeping formation without appearing military. "She felt the summons before we did."
"Of course she did." Morrígan had [Death Premonition], a Unique Skill that let her sense when violence was approaching. "What's in the Atrium?"
Eve matched his pace on the other side. She was shorter than Sophia, darker-skinned, with silver hair cut asymmetrically. Her fingers ghosted over invisible sigils—mana constructs only she could perceive, part of her [Sigil Network] skill that let her maintain hundreds of magical formulas simultaneously.
[Eve - Herald of Sigils]Level: 367Class: Arcane Architect / Information WeaverPrimary Stats: Intelligence: 892, Mana Pool: 12,400Unique Skill: [Infinite Inscription] - Can create, maintain, and modify magical formulas without material componentsCombat Rating: A (long-range/control)Specialty: Tracking, warding, communication networks
"A delegation from the Western Marches crossed the veil without heralds," Eve reported, her voice clinical. "The bells didn't ring." She paused, and that pause was significant. "And the Atrium tree is shedding black leaves."
Solomon's analytical mind kicked into overdrive. The Manor had seventeen layers of detection. Spatial wards. Mana sensors. Conceptual boundaries. For someone to cross without triggering alerts meant either:
They had permission (impossible—he granted no permissions) They had equipment that exceeded Level 500 stealth capabilities (unlikely) Someone inside had betrayed him (unthinkable—all his people were bound by contracts that prevented treachery) They'd used a method he hadn't encountered yet (interesting)
"Unannounced guests and a dying symbol." He flexed his hands as if testing the weight of old oaths. Physical motion helped him think. "Find Lilith anyway. If the tree is shedding, we'll need her temper, not mine."
The Atrium tree was one of the Manor's core components. It was a World Tree Sapling, a Mythic-tier plant that served as the Manor's emotional center. Its leaves changed color based on the building's state:
Silver: Peaceful Gold: Prosperous Black: Threatened Red: Combat mode White: Dying
Black meant the Manor felt endangered. And if the Manor felt endangered with Solomon inside it, that was a threat on par with S-Rank adventurers or demon lords.
Sophia's mouth twitched—the closest she came to smiling. "And if the Marchers are armed?"
"Then we show them the difference between entry and welcome."
They reached the last arch. The great doors were carved from Primordial Oak, wood that predated the current age. Each door was fifteen meters tall and weighed forty tons, but they moved on hinges that existed partially in the Astral Plane, making them weightless. Light poured around their edges in a slow heartbeat—the Manor's breathing rhythm.
Above, ravens turned like loose screws in the ceiling vaults. Not real ravens. Morrígan's [Phantom Flock], extensions of her consciousness that let her observe multiple locations simultaneously.
[Morrígan - Phantom of War]Level: 401Class: Shadow Valkyrie / Death HeraldPrimary Stats: Agility: 934, Perception: 887Unique Skill: [Murder Manifest] - Can transform into a flock of spectral ravens, each one capable of independent actionCombat Rating: SS (assassination/mobility)Special: Has never failed to sense incoming danger
Solomon paused, smoothing a sleeve. It was a deliberate gesture, giving his mind one more second to prepare. His composure settled over him like frost—an actual effect of his [Sovereign's Presence] passive skill, which dropped the temperature around him by 3 degrees when he entered his "ruler mode."
He glanced to Eve. "If the Atrium calls me, it means the map is already moving."
"It is," she said quietly. "And it's not moving in our favor."
He nodded once. "Open."
[Manor Authority: Acknowledged][Atrium Doors: Opening][Atmospheric Shift: Detected][Hostile Entities: 1 delegation (47 members)][Manor Combat Status: Standby]
The doors parted. A rush of cool air that smelled of iron and rain and ozone—the scent of tension and barely restrained magic. The murmur of many voices, each one carefully neutral, each one hiding fear or anger or calculation.
Solomon stepped into the Atrium, and every eye turned toward the gentleman with the calm, terrible gaze.
The Atrium was the heart of the Moving Manor, and it was unlike any throne room or audience hall in the known world. It was a forest preserved in architecture. The ceiling rose fifty meters, supported by living columns—trees that had been convinced to grow in specific formations. Their branches interwove overhead, creating a canopy of wood and magic that glowed with soft bioluminescence.
The floor was a mosaic of materials that shouldn't coexist: marble from the Celestial Peaks, obsidian from Demon Lord's territory, crystal from the Astral Plane, and wood from the First Forest. Each piece was inscribed with microscopic runes—over fourteen million of them, all part of the Manor's defense network.
The center of the room held the World Tree Sapling. It stood twenty meters tall, its trunk wider than three men could encircle. Usually, its leaves were silver, each one a perfect teardrop of light. But now, they were falling. Black as night, withering as they drifted down, landing with tiny sounds like funeral bells.
[Atrium Status]Alert Level: Orange (High Threat)]World Tree Health: 87% (declining)]Mana Flow: Disrupted]Visitors: 47 (Unauthorized)]Combat Probability: 73%]
The Western Marches delegation stood in a formation that tried to look diplomatic but was clearly military. Solomon's analytical eye caught it immediately: their positioning allowed mutual cover, their hands were near weapons, and their mage stood three paces back with clear line of sight.
Their leader was a narrow man with rain on his cloak—actual rain, still dripping, which meant he'd crossed through the Veil recently. He had the bearing of someone who'd killed before and would again. Level 290, Solomon estimated. Dangerous but manageable.
Solomon raised a single hand.
The effect was immediate. The Atrium stilled—banners that had been moving in unfelt breezes hushed, boots that had been shifting forgot to echo, even the black leaves paused mid-fall as if snagged on the fabric of silence itself.
[Skill Activated: Absolute Authority][Effect: All entities with Loyalty value below "Absolute" within range are compelled to acknowledge speaker][Cost: 40 MP][Duration: Until gesture is lowered]
"Everyone," Solomon said, his voice level enough to cut marble, each word precisely placed. "It is settled. The Solomon Estate sides with the Kingdom of Alexandria. The Moving Manor shall settle there—Atrium and all. This is final."
The word final struck the hall like a seal being stamped on parchment. It carried weight beyond mere sound—it was declaration magic, a binding statement that registered on every magical sensor in the room.
[Declaration Magic: Activated][Statement Type: Territorial Alignment][Binding Level: Mythic][Witnesses: 847 (minimum required for valid Noble Declaration)][Status: BINDING - Cannot be revoked for 1 year]
For a heartbeat: nothing. Then the Atrium tree responded. A low, wooden groan that resonated through the floor, up through the bones of the building, and out into the spaces between walls. Its black leaves started turning—gold bleeding in from the edges like dawn touching night.
[World Tree Response: Acknowledging Declaration][Status: Accepting New Territory Bond][Process: Initiating (estimated time: 32 minutes)]
The ravens circled once, twice, and roosted. They bowed their heads like witnesses to a vow, and Solomon knew Morrígan was recording everything through their eyes. Evidence. Proof. Protection against anyone who'd claim this was illegitimate later.
Murmurs tried to grow from the delegation—protests, probably, or threats—but his raised palm crushed them back into throats. [Absolute Authority] didn't allow speaking out of turn.
From the Western March delegation, the narrow man with rain on his cloak took one step forward. Solomon saw the calculation in his eyes: challenge the declaration, risk combat in the Manor itself, probably die. The man thought better of it and stopped.
But where he hesitated, Lilith did not.
She slid from the colonnade's shadow like a knife from a sheath. Obsidian hair fell like a blade in motion, perfectly straight, perfectly dark. Her smile was sharp enough to cut light. Her eyes were sharper.
[Lilith - The Temptation]Level: 394Class: Demon Courtesan / Psychological Warfare SpecialistPrimary Stats: Charisma: 967, Manipulation: 923Unique Skill: [Desire's Mirror] - Can perceive and weaponize others' wants/fearsCombat Rating: A+ (social combat/debuffs)Special: Has never failed to break an interrogation subject
"You heard him," she purred, her voice carrying without effort—a skill itself, [Serpent's Whisper], which ensured her words reached exactly who she wanted them to reach. "Circle your complaints in ink, not volume."
The threat was clear: official protest through channels, or else. The "or else" radiated from her like heat from a forge.
Eve was already moving, fingers pricking light into the air. Sigils unspooled from nothing—glowing geometric patterns that represented compressed magical formulas. Solomon watched with academic interest as she deployed seventeen different spell structures simultaneously.
[Spells Activated by Eve]
[Courier-Light Network]: Instant communication to Alexandria [Ward-Key Reassignment]: Changing Manor's defensive permissions [Compass Glyphs]: Reorienting Manor's spatial anchors [Mana-Line Detection]: Mapping Ley Line convergence points [Territory Bond Analysis]: Checking Alexandria's receptivity [Historical Archive Scan]: Pulling precedents for Manor relocation Plus 11 others running diagnostics
"Routing the Manor's spine to Alexandrian coordinates," she reported, her tone calm as tide. Her eyes were half-closed—she was perceiving the world through magical senses now, watching data streams that normal people couldn't see. "Resetting waystones. Rebinding hearth-rights. Window lattices will resist for thirty-two minutes."
That last part was important. The Manor's windows weren't just glass—they were Portal Windows, permanent connections to specific locations. Breaking those connections to establish new ones required convincing the spells they wanted to look at different horizons. The windows were notoriously stubborn. Thirty-two minutes was actually impressive speed.
Sophia slipped to Solomon's side. She moved like water finding level—inevitable, efficient, silent. A ledger manifested under one arm (pulled from her [Infinite Archive] skill), while her other hand adjusted his collar by a fraction.
It seemed fussy, but Solomon understood: she was checking his equipment's enchantments were aligned properly. The Wolf King's Mantle had seventeen enchantments that needed to be properly synchronized, and a collar one millimeter off could reduce effectiveness by 3%.
"Alexandria's Regents pledged harbor and law," Sophia said quietly, her voice meant only for him. "I'll remind them—gently—that harbor extends to the roots, and law extends to the crown."
Translation: she'd enforce every clause of their agreement, including the ones they probably hadn't read carefully. Sophia's [Perfect Ledger] meant she remembered every word of every contract Solomon had ever signed, and she'd weaponize fine print with surgical precision.
A shadow crossed the central oculus—the great skylight forty meters above. Then Morrígan descended, and "descended" was the correct word. She didn't fly down or climb down. She fell controlled, wings spread wide, all midnight feathers and iron intent.
[Morrígan - Combat Assessment]Threat Level: None (to Solomon)Threat Level: Extreme (to everyone else)Current State: Battle-ready, awaiting ordersWeapons: 47 (includes hidden blades, feather-projectiles, shadow constructs)]Probability she's already killed someone today: 23%
She landed in front of Solomon with perfect poise, her boots touching stone without sound. "The Marchers came with knives in their hearts," she said softly, her voice meant for Solomon alone. "But not in their hands. For now."
Her [Death Premonition] had read the delegation. They wanted to kill him—or wanted him dead—but they hadn't brought weapons that could threaten him. Smart. Or cowardly. Probably both.
"For now," Solomon agreed. "Keep their hearts sheathed."
She smiled. It was the smile of someone who enjoyed her work far too much.
Tiamat reappeared at his elbow in a wink of violet flame. Her entrance was precisely calculated—three meters to his right, one meter back, facing 47 degrees to cover his flank. Her uniform was immaculate despite having been in the kitchens two minutes ago. She carried a silver tray bearing two contracts and a steaming mug that hadn't existed a breath earlier.
[Items on Tray - Analyzed]
Contract 1: Alexandria Charter (verified authentic, signed by Regent and River Prefect) Contract 2: Manor Migration Tithe (payment to magical infrastructure for relocation rights) Beverage: Midnight Blend tea (calming herbs, mana restoration +50, clarity boost)
She bowed with the perfection of someone who'd practiced the gesture ten thousand times. "Alexandria's charter, countersigned by the River Prefect. And the Atrium's migration tithe, awaiting your mark. Anything else, my lord?"
Solomon's curious nature engaged. He wanted to ask about the tea—had she anticipated he'd need calming effects, or had she prepared it just in case? What was the probability she'd calculated for this exact scenario?
But there wasn't time for curiosity. Not now.
"Two things," Solomon said. He took the mug, sipped (perfect temperature, 67 degrees Celsius, optimal for his preference), and set it on air. A coaster obliged reality with a chime—the Manor providing furniture on demand.
He signed the first contract with a pen that was itself an artifact. The Quill of Endings, a Legendary weapon he'd used to end a war 140 years ago and to found the Great Library of Thestris shortly after. Every signature it made was binding on a conceptual level, enforced by reality itself.
[Contract 1: Signed][Magical Binding: Active][Breach Consequences: Loss of Territory Rights + 10,000,000 gold penalty + Reputation damage (Severe)][Both parties acknowledged]
"First: inform the Vault that all compacts with the Marches are honored but dormant until review."
The March envoy—the narrow man in the wet cloak—flinched. Solomon saw it with his analytical eye: the man's hand went to his pocket, where a contract token would be stored. That token had just gone cold, its power suspended. Every agreement between the Marches and Solomon's estate was still valid, but frozen. They couldn't invoke benefits, but they also couldn't break terms.
It was a masterful political move: Solomon wasn't declaring them enemies, but he was removing their advantages.
"Second," Solomon continued, signing the tithe with the weight of a dynasty behind it, "alert Alexandria that we arrive as allies, not ornaments. Their scholars will have questions; our answers will require rooms."
Translation: prepare laboratory space, research facilities, and secure documentation areas. Solomon wasn't coming to be a trophy noble in their kingdom. He was coming to work.
[Contract 2: Signed][Migration Tithe: Paid (40,000 MP from Manor reserves)][Relocation Rights: Granted][Estimated Arrival: 14 hours, 23 minutes]
The Atrium responded immediately. A groan—no, not a groan. A pivot. The building was rotating.
Solomon felt it through his connection to the Manor. The entire structure was reorienting itself, not physically but dimensionally. Far walls elongated as if remembering a different horizon. Floor mosaics—astral, floral, bestial—rearranged into patterns that pointed east. Overhead, the constellation map in the great glass dome spun like thoughtful eyes deciding where to look next.
[Moving Manor - Relocation Protocol Initiated][Current Phase: Orientation][Direction: East-Southeast (toward Alexandria)][Distance to Travel: 1,847 kilometers][Method: Dimensional Step-Walking (12 steps required)][Estimated MP Cost: 340,000][Status: All systems nominal]
Eve's sigils sank into stone like seeds finding soil. "Anchors placed. The Manor will walk at moonrise."
Morrígan tasted the word like wine: "Walk. Or charge?"
Solomon had to suppress his curiosity about the mechanism. How exactly did a building "walk"? He knew theoretically—the Manor had legs folded in dimensional pockets, limbs made of compressed space and solidified concept—but he'd never actually observed the process from outside. Maybe this time he could set up recording equipment, gather data, understand it better—
Focus.
"Walk," Solomon said firmly. "We are not arriving to trample. We are arriving to teach."
He turned, finally, to address the hall itself. The Marchers were still frozen under his [Absolute Authority], but he needed to release them soon or risk diplomatic incident. "Those bound to the Marches by oath may present themselves at the Ink Table. No oath breaks today—only bends. Those with holdings along the Manor's feet: pack light. The house dislikes clutter when it moves."
The Ink Table was a artifact in the Manor's legal wing. It could read, interpret, and modify contracts with the consent of all parties. Solomon was offering the Marchers' allies a way out: renegotiate terms, adjust obligations, survive the political shift without being crushed.
A few laughs dared themselves into existence and survived. Good. Fear was useful, but terror was counterproductive.
Solomon lowered his hand. [Absolute Authority] released.
"This is final," he said again, not louder—just closer to the bone, each word carrying more weight than the last. "Make ready."
The Atrium answered: bells within the wood, ancient mechanisms waking from sleep. Footsteps finding purpose as servants and soldiers alike moved to their stations. The low thrill of a place that remembers it was built to go, built to move, built to be more than stone and wood.
And somewhere behind it all, the holoboard he had dismissed began to redraw the world. Solomon's [Strategic Dominion] reactivated automatically, processing the political ramifications.
For the first time in a long time, the map was moving in their favor.