Far, FAR away from Sam and company — in the pristine spire city of Lumenford of the kingdom of Aerilune — three robed figures sat around an ornate marble table shaped like a lotus blooming from the floor.
Glowing runes circled the chamber. A translucent dome of holy wards pulsed gently overhead.
A plaque read:
THE SEVEN RANKS OF THE HOLY STRATEGOS COUNCIL
ClericExalted ClericArch-PriestGrand Arch-PriestHoly SageSupreme SageIrregular-Class Strategos (cases beyond mortal comprehension)
Currently present:
Supreme Sage: Lorian Drexhal (Rank 6) – wiry, sharp-eyed, gives off the vibe of a retired mob boss.Supreme Sage: Theramund Hargenstomp (Rank 6) – old, beard like a snow-capped mountain, speaks in perfect prophecy intonation 24/7.Irregular-Class Strategos: Velroth Sunreaver (Rank 7) – looks 26, acts 104, carries permanent burnout in his soul.
The silence was broken by the door SLAMMING open as Exalted Cleric Rennel (Rank 2) stormed inside, arms full of scrolls, loose parchment, and a stack of sealed reports clutched against his chest, panting like he'd sprinted through half the cathedral.
Rennel bowed—papers nearly slipping from his grip.
"Supreme Sages, Irregular Strategos — forgive me. There's been… a disturbance."
"REPORT!" Lorian snapped.
Rennel inhaled, adjusted the uneven pile of documents in his hands, and straightened his posture, adopting the cadence of an official report.
"There… may be outside interference. The pattern of the magical surge matches fragments recorded in the Aetheric Inscription Registry —"
he shuffled through several papers,
"—compiled by our royal arcano-analysts, with corroboration from the Sevenfold Scholar Society of Veyra, and annotated references taken from the translated Serpent Codex Tablets excavated near Sunken Embrath. All compiled evidence indicates alignment with the iconography and mythos of the ancient sect known as… the Ouroboros Choir."
Theramund's brow twitched.
"You're certain the Choir existed? I had dismissed their worship of cosmic serpentry as simple tavern-ghost superstition."
Rennel shook his head, carefully setting one overstuffed folder atop his other papers before it could slide to the floor.
"Their existence is no longer conjecture. Three academic corroborations and two independent Arcanist Guild testimonies confirm it. They are real — and dangerously well-organized."
He paused, glancing at the two Supreme Sages and the Strategos seated at the far table — motionless, silent, oppressive presences.
Rennel's inner thought:
Standing this close to them… I can feel it. Not just magical pressure… but divine presence. They are paladin-archmages — sanctified sages of impossible force. Light bends around them and mana suppresses itself in deference. One swing from any of them would sunder a mountain pass. One spell could silence stormfronts. Even the legendary highborn elves of old wouldn't treat them lightly.
Rennel continued, voice steady despite the invisible gravity pressing on his soul as his papers fluttered in trembling hands:
"The Ouroboros Choir worships Vorgathon, the End-Serpent, believed by these cultists to coil around all of creation, swallowing and rebirthing realities. Their doctrine asserts the world is trapped in a divine loop of repetition — and they seek to break… and restart it."
Lorian muttered,
"Mad. Absolutely bark-eating mad."
Rennel resumed with academic precision:
"Also. Our investigations further indicate other dormant factions are stirring. Reports compiled from the Northern Isle Mage Census and sealed intelligence from the Whisper-Cloister observers suggest that the Crimson Arcanum — presumed dissolved — has resurfaced through ritual activity in northern sanctums. Their methods remain blood-anchored…"
He flipped a parchment, citing another source:
"…and the disciples of The Black Hand of Dozhma — long thought extinct — show activity in Kael'Ruth. This is confirmed by logs archived by star-mage Veila Turin and spectral readings recorded by the Astral Polarimetry Council."
Theramund waved a hand, causing the map to ignite into glowing borders.
"As Rennel's research confirms — sects awaken everywhere. And on mortal fronts, the elven nations quarrel with the Ironshard dwarves again…"
Rennel, still in report voice, added:
"Military procurement records recovered from Ironshard's trade routes confirm their construction of mana-reinforced cannons. Elven intercepted communiqués from the Sylvan Embassy indicate formal protest and fear of destabilization. Furthermore, recent intelligence suggests the dwarves have developed advanced radio-based communication systems, improving command-and-control across long distances. Their naval expansion is equally alarming—shipyards in Deepforge Bay report the launch of a newly modernized fleet equipped with reinforced hulls and accelerated propulsion, granting the dwarves unprecedented maritime dominance."
Velroth sighed,
"Great. Diplomatic meltdown."
Rennel pressed on:
"The human countries attempt to maintain equilibrium. Our own — Aerilune — holds the second-strongest armed magical forces. This is substantiated by the Continental Martial Metrics Index — yearly compiled by consortium agreement."
Theramund named the western empire:
"Yet our millitary might still fails to measure up to Kondolath — strongest among all human kingdoms."
Rennel added:
"And solidified through three High-S class human adventurers — Ser Kaidus Emberbane, Lady Vorthessa Cinderfaith, and Captain Thorn Blackwell — each verified in Heroic Capability Assessments by both Avelorian and neutral Veyran evaluators. Their destructive yield is… considerable."
He took a breath.
"And lastly — Veyra itself continues to cultivate peace, trade, and innovation. Their libraries and arcane archives now eclipse even the old empire's. They elevate science over war. Our sources from the Coalition of Tranquil Cities describe Veyra as 'a hub of enlightened coexistence.'"
Theramund folded his arms.
"And yet — amidst all this… the old powers stir — and ancient dungeons awaken."
Rennel ceased for a moment.
"However. There is still one more thing I need to report to you, my lords."
Theramund: "Speak."
Rennel swallowed hard — then delivered it like a verdict:
"The demonic signature we detected this morning… matches that of a Demon General-class entity. The last recorded presence of such a being in this realm was four hundred and eleven years ago, during the Ashwinter Cataclysm — verified through cross-reference with the Infernal Residue Chronicle, the Knight-Bastion Battlefield Logs, and the Eidolic Trauma Archive."
A second silence.
Then the council erupted.
Lorian SLAMMED both palms on the table. The entire council floor trembled.
"Oh for the Moon-split Hells above — a Demon General?! NOW?!"
Theramund's voice cracked for the first time in Rennel's memory.
"First ancient cults, then elven-dwarven tensions, and now demonic brass-tier mother-hugging war-titans? Can we not have ONE decade of normality?! JUST ONE?"
Lorian staggered back, nearly knocking over his scrying basin.
"I swear — we're going to need divinity-grade stress medicine at this rate!"
Strategos Velroth — always silent, always stoic — actually buried his face in both hands and groaned.
"It seems one crisis shows up after another. This is all too dreadful."
Rennel couldn't help it — his composure fractured.
"In—indeed… the situation is… compressed with urgency."
Theramund whirled on him.
"Compressed?! Rennel — the universe is stuffing catastrophes into our laps like a crazed cosmic baker trying to overfill a cake!"
Lorian paced — radiant power flaring off him like heat waves.
"A Demon General… after four centuries of sealed borders. If it tears through—"
Theramund cut in with a strained wheeze,
"We'll be ground into arcane chutney."
Velroth exhaled slowly, voice tightening.
"A war against a Demon General and its legion — with prospects of a possible new Demon King rising — would be the absolute worst nightmare scenario. Not only do we lack a chosen hero with a divine blessing as was granted in the last Demon War… every kingdom and every race across the continent is currently clawing at each other's throats for power. We are fragmented — distracted — and utterly unprepared."
Lorian's voice dropped to a fragile whisper.
"Have the gods truly forsaken us this time?"
A beat of holy dread.
A heavy, tense quiet.
And then—
DING-DONG.
The sacred council doors opened again — this time not with urgency… but with the distinct jingle of a delivery bell.
A bewildered man in modern clothes — red cap, grease-stained uniform and clearly sponsored by Sam's WAMAZON charged clothing brand — stepped in like he had wandered into the wrong D&D session.
He held up a large steaming box.
"Uh… delivery? Double pepperoni pizza for… uh…"
He squinted at the receipt,
"…for 'The Pussy Connoisseur.'"
Everyone slowly turned to look at Velroth.
Velroth casually raised his hand.
"Yeah, that's me."
He stood up, walked over, paid without shame, even tipped.
The pizza guy nodded, walked out, door closing behind him.
Silence.
Holy silence.
Theramund stared.
"You… ordered pizza?"
Velroth sat, flipped the lid open.
"We've been in session five hours already. I'm starving like a frost giant after a famine."
Lorian gestured in disbelief.
"And you didn't order anything for us?"
Velroth raised a brow.
"I asked two hours ago if either of you wanted food. You both said no."
Theramund protested, beard bristling,
"Yes — but I didn't know you were going to order pizza."
"Well," Velroth shrugged, taking a slice,
"maybe ask what I'm ordering next time."
Theramund threw up his hands.
"Oh, am I supposed to be psychic now?"
Velroth narrowed his eyes.
"Hold on. YOU are the one with the Oracle Eye. The literal divine foresight."
Theramund sputtered,
"I am not supposed to use a holy relic to see what my colleague plans to eat! That gift bears sacred responsibility!"
Velroth took a slow bite.
"That's funny, because yesterday you used it to spy on Sister Salandria in the cathedral showers and then told me she had doughnut nipples."
Theramund SLAMMED the table.
"That was ARCHIVAL RESEARCH!"
Velroth laughed.
"What academic discipline covers tit morphology, exactly!?"
Lorian was wheezing into his sleeve, crying with laughter.
Theramund glared.
"I was studying potential signs of divine blessings!"
Velroth smirked.
"Sure. Blessed are the ring-shaped areolas."
Lorian was losing it completely.
Theramund shouted,
"That is NOT how theology works!"
Velroth leaned back, eating his pizza with the look of a man long past fed up.
"Sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of me stuffing myself with this delicious pizza."
Lorian and Theramund now both started to shout.
"STOP AGGRAVATING MY TASTE BUDS YOU NARCISSISTIC RECLUSE!"
"VELROTH, YOU BETTER SHARE ONE SLICE BEFORE I HOLY SMITE YOU BACK INTO YOUR MOTHER'S WOMB!"
"AT LEAST SHARE THE CRUST! JUST THE CRUST GODDAMMIT!"
Verloth shouted back during their sentences, spitting out pizza particles like he was trained in Italian ballistics.
"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"
Rennel, who was still there, sighed with fatigue.
"Hells above, I hate this job."