Babidi fell silent, his heart pounding.
He didn't let me finish.
But he dared not speak. Not when the king had shifted his attention to his council.
Tour and Toure exchanged a brief glance.
In terms of spiritual advancement, Tour was the higher tier—a Second Grade Master Scholar, one of the most advanced practitioners in Mura. Toure, though formidable, was a Third Grade Elite Scholar, on the cusp of breaking through to Master-tier but not yet there.
Tour was Bakar's hidden weapon. The mind that operated in the shadows, unseen by the court.
Toure was Bakar's official adviser. The public face of the king's strategy.
And now, both were being asked to dissect Babidi's proposal and elevate it into something impeccable.
Tour's eyes gleamed.
For a fraction of a second—so brief that even Babidi, standing mere paces away, did not notice—the air around Tour shifted.
The shadows deepened. The light bent slightly, as though reality itself had folded inward around the Master Scholar.
And in that moment, Tour's consciousness pierced the veil.
He entered the Dream Cycle.
Not fully. Not with his body. But with his mind—his soul—slipping effortlessly through the layers of the astral, brushing against the Ethereal Drift's edges, communing with the spirits who dwelled there.
Ancestral scholars. Guardians of knowledge. Entities who saw patterns across time, who understood cycles, who whispered truths to those who could hear.
Tour asked them a single question:
When?
And they answered.
The vision came in flashes—military banners, crowds gathered in Gold Land's capital, warriors sparring in public arenas, nobles convening in private halls. A ceremony. A tradition. An opportunity.
Tour's eyes snapped open.
The spiritual disturbance vanished as quickly as it had appeared, the air returning to normal.
He spoke.
"My King," Tour said, his voice calm but carrying weight, "the time to launch is in two to three months."
Babidi's eyes widened slightly. Two to three months?
Tour continued, his tone methodical. "Gold Land will organize their military ceremony during that time. It is a tradition they observe annually—a grand gathering where warriors demonstrate their prowess. There are two events: one open to the public, for those who are Disconnected or in the early stages of initiation. The other is private, restricted to nobles and high-ranking practitioners—Apprentices, Adepts, and the like."
He folded his hands behind his back. "Elite and Master-tier practitioners rarely participate directly, but they will travel to the capital to observe. To scout for potential disciples. To fulfill the requirements of their own spiritual advancement."
Tour's eyes gleamed. "During this time, many of their experts will move from the outskirts to the capital. Their borders will be weakened."
Babidi's breath caught.
Tour's voice remained steady. "We can swallow their border territories before proceeding with the proposal the minister spoke of. The internal instability he mentioned is accurate. Gold Land's structure is fragile. Betrayal is not only plausible—it is likely."
He paused, then shifted his focus. "As for Ankh—"
Babidi's eyes widened further. He's already addressing Ankh. I didn't even finish my point, and he's already—
Tour continued without breaking stride. "We can support Prince Kar of Ankh. He is ambitious, resentful, and capable. We provide him with resources, intelligence, and covert military support. We help him ignite a civil war within Ankh—pitting factions against one another, weakening the kingdom from within."
His voice grew colder. "Once we are certain they are weakened, we move. We swallow the state of Andara, where Kar resides. Then we proceed to Botankeu, which borders Gold Land's Ruandera territory."
Tour's gaze sharpened. "By that point, we will have already taken Gold Land's northern territories. Moving from the south into Botankeu will allow us to pinch them from both sides. They will be surrounded. Trapped."
He paused, his expression darkening slightly. "However, I suggest we do not attack the center of Ankh immediately. Ankh City—the capital—is where Zogo resides."
At the mention of the name, even Babidi felt a chill.
Zogo. The legendary protector of Ankh. A Master-tier mystic whose reputation alone was enough to deter invasions.
"Zogo is a formidable opponent," Tour said quietly. "He will not fall easily. We will need preparation. And, Your Majesty, you will need to intervene personally to eliminate that threat."
Tour's voice grew final. "Therefore, I recommend we first conquer Gold Land entirely. Secure their resources, their territory, their people. Then, and only then, do we turn our full attention to swallowing Ankh."
For a moment after Tour finished speaking, the air shifted again—subtly, imperceptibly—as the spiritual disturbance that had surrounded him faded entirely.
Babidi stood frozen, his mind reeling.
How long did that take?
Seconds. Perhaps a minute.
And yet, in that time, Tour had constructed a plan so detailed, so intricate, that it felt as though he had spent weeks deliberating.
The borders. The timing. The internal politics. The military positioning. The spiritual threats.
Everything.
Babidi felt a mixture of awe and envy twist in his chest. He had spent months crafting his proposal, refining it, presenting it to the court. And in less than a minute, a Master Scholar had taken it, dissected it, and elevated it into something greater.
Toure, standing beside Bakar, allowed himself a faint smile.
As a Third Grade Elite Scholar, he could have reached similar conclusions—but it would have taken him time. He would have needed to meditate, to pierce the surface layers of the Ethereal Drift, to consult with spirits and sift through visions.
But Tour had done it instantly.
That is the difference between Elite and Master, Toure thought, impressed despite himself.
Master Scholars were planning machines. Minds that operated on levels beyond normal comprehension. They saw the world not as chaos, but as a game board laid out before them—every piece, every move, every consequence visible and calculable.
Bakar sat in silence for a long moment, his massive frame unmoving.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Toure," he said, his voice low and absolute.
Adviser Toure stepped forward. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Bakar's eyes burned with cold determination. "Contact the generals. Tell them to be ready in two months."
His voice dropped into something darker, heavier—something that carried the weight of inevitability.
"We move for blood."
The atmosphere in the room shifted.
The temperature seemed to drop. The shadows deepened. The very air grew heavier, oppressive, as though the room itself recognized the gravity of what had just been decided.
Babidi felt it press down on him—an invisible weight that made it hard to breathe.
Toure inclined his head. "As you command, Your Majesty."
Tour remained silent, his expression serene, but his eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction.
Bakar stood, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the throne room.
"Dismissed."
The three men bowed deeply.
Babidi was the first to leave, his steps quick but controlled, his mind spinning with what he had just witnessed.
Toure followed, his expression thoughtful.
Tour lingered for a moment, his gaze meeting Bakar's.
The king gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Tour returned it, then turned and left the chamber.
And Bakar stood alone in the throne room, surrounded by the banners of conquest, his eyes fixed on the doors through which his council had departed.
Two months, he thought.
Two months, and the first domino would fall.
And after that, nothing would stop him.