Stop right there. I need identification before I let you pass."
The soldier at the gate planted the butt of his spear into the dirt and straightened his back as if discipline alone could keep the world together. Behind him stretched the makeshift hospital campus, a sprawling sea of tents, wooden halls, and stone wards that ran for kilometers in every direction. Lanterns burned through the night, and from beyond the barricades came the constant sounds of groaning, crying, and shouted medical orders. It was less a camp than a city built from desperation.
"Of course," Karl said pleasantly.
He reached into his coat and produced a badge made of dark metal. It bore an unfamiliar crest and looked older than the war itself. The soldier accepted it carefully, turning it over twice before frowning deeper with each passing second.
"Sir, forgive me," the young guard said at last. "I do not recognize this insignia. Without confirmation, I cannot permit entry."
His voice was firm, but the exhaustion in it was impossible to miss. Sweat lined his neck. His eyes were bloodshot. Judging by the chaos behind him, he had likely been left alone because everyone else had already been dragged into some new emergency.
Karl gave a courteous nod.
"That is perfectly understandable. We shall return with better credentials."
He turned immediately and began walking away. Arin followed, though he glanced back once. The guard did not stop them. In fact, the man's shoulders visibly relaxed the moment they left.
If one could hear his thoughts, they would likely be simple.
Good. Go away. Please be a problem some were else.
They rounded a supply shed and stepped into the shadows cast by stacked wagons. Once they were safely out of earshot, Arin lowered his voice.
"So we are sneaking in, then."
Karl did not slow.
"Obviously."
"That badge was real, though."
"It was."
"And it should have gotten us in."
"It would have."
Arin frowned. "Then why leave?"
Karl stepped between two wagons and vanished so smoothly that Arin nearly lost sight of him entirely. Only his voice remained.
"Because the Bingen family invited us. If they truly wished for a formal arrival, they would have informed their guards. Since they did not, they wish to see whether our skills have rusted."
A hand shot from the darkness, grabbed Arin's sleeve, and pulled him in.
"Try not to embarrass the family."
"I already regret coming," Arin muttered.
They crossed the hospital grounds unseen.
Doctors rushed through the lanes carrying trays of tools and glowing medicine. Healers in white robes poured mana into the wounded until they collapsed from fatigue. Supply carts rattled over wooden roads while runners shouted names, symptoms, and bed numbers. Every tent was full. Every corridor was crowded. Every face carried the same hollow look of people surviving on duty alone.
The Bingen family had turned medicine into warfare.
Arin followed Karl across rooftops rather than roads. They moved from tent frames to beams, from storage sheds to the tops of ward halls, never touching the busy ground below. Karl slipped through shadows like water, finding cracks in stone. Arin matched him with considerably less grace and considerably more resentment.
"You could have mentioned we would be climbing hospitals."
"You would have complained anyway."
"That is not the point."
"It is exactly the point."
At last they reached the tallest building in the district, a broad timber hall with glass windows and a tiled roof. Warm light spilled from inside, and voices drifted upward through the rafters.
Karl crouched, then vaulted soundlessly onto a support beam beneath the ceiling. Arin followed and peered through the carved lattice below.
A circular table stood at the center of the hall.
Around it sat elders from many old families, each dressed according to tradition, wealth, or stubbornness. Behind every seated patriarch or matriarch stood a younger representative with a straight posture and carefully controlled expressions. Pride shone from them all. So did competition.
"They know why they are standing there," Karl whispered.
"To be admired?" Arin guessed.
"To be judged."
That made more sense.
The younger generation wore confidence like armor, but impatience leaked through the cracks. Their hosts had summoned the meeting, yet had arrived late. Several heirs were offended on principle. Others were merely curious. A few looked nervous.
An iron-shouldered man with scarred hands finally broke the silence.
"Fabian Bingen," he said, voice deep as a forge. "Have your sentries reported anything? We have been waiting half an hour. It is poor manners to summon others and arrive late."
Karl nodded toward him.
"Vernik Roth. Patriarch of the Roth family. Smiths for longer than records agree on. They claim their ancestors forged weapons for the first raiders to land on English shores."
"Do they exaggerate?"
"All old families exaggerate."
Across the table, a silver-haired man in physician's robes smiled mildly.
"Patience, Vernik. If our guests are delayed, perhaps they have reason."
Karl's eyes gleamed.
"We have observed enough."
Before Arin could protest, Karl dropped from the rafters.
He landed behind an empty chair without making a sound.
Chaos followed.
Three heirs stumbled backward. One young woman drew a dagger before remembering etiquette. Another nearly tripped over his own boots. A third let out a very small, very embarrassing squeak. The elders maintained better composure, though several looked deeply offended at being startled.
Arin covered his face.
I am related to this man.
"Apologies for the delay," Karl said as he took his seat. "My grandson returned from a mission only today. He was exhausted, so our preparations were slower than expected."
From above, Arin glared hard enough to pierce stone. Karl ignored it completely.
The silver-haired man folded his hands.
"No harm done. Though I wonder, Karl, are you certain it was wise to emerge from the shadows so theatrically? Many houses are uneasy with your family lately."
Fabian Bingen's smile sharpened slightly.
"Your recent return was… memorable."
Karl's expression cooled.
"It was necessary. If any of them wish to challenge us, let them try. I would gladly finish what my ancestors began."
The air in the room changed.
Heavy bloodlust rolled from him like winter fog. Even Arin felt it from above. Several heirs paled instantly. One took an involuntary step back. The older heads of family did not move, but their eyes sharpened.
Fabian sighed.
"You know they will not move openly. There are always lesser fools willing to act on behalf of greater cowards."
A few grim nods answered him.
Karl relaxed again.
"Exactly. Which is why I handled the matter as I did. Those people also happened to owe us money."
A ripple of dry amusement passed around the table.
"But enough of petty debts," Karl continued. "That is not why I called this gathering."
The room quieted.
"The First Trial is nearing its end. Our armies advance faster every week. Soon the portal will fall, and when it does, the world after it will not resemble the world before it."
No one interrupted him now.
"For centuries, trade families survived through obscurity, usefulness, and old agreements. That age is over. Billions now know mana exists. Millions can fight. Your ancestral lands are rich in natural mana, your techniques are priceless, and your names still carry weight in hidden circles."
He leaned forward.
"You will be targeted."
Some frowned. Others stiffened.
"You assume too much," one matriarch said sharply. "No force could gather one hundred thousand people to seize a private estate."
Karl looked at her as though she had missed the obvious.
"Could they not? Wealth, desperation, ideology, politics, greed. Pick one. The modern world gathers mobs faster than medieval kings raised armies. And unlike before, those mobs may soon have classes, skills, and magic."
No one answered.
"Do not forget," Karl continued, "that every acre your families preserved is likely mana-dense. Every manual you possess may create fortunes. Every secret recipe, forging method, medical treatment, cultivation technique, poison, herb, or training method can now become strategic power."
He let that settle.
"I also doubt a single adult in this room has a trade skill below Command rank."
That struck harder than the threat.
The elders glanced at one another. Some counted silently. Some recalled children, cousins, apprentices, hidden workshops, family vaults. One by one, they arrived at the same answer.
Karl was right.
Fabian Bingen removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
"It seems," he said slowly, "that none of us considered this deeply enough."
Vernik Roth exhaled through his nose.
"We became complacent."
He looked almost angry at himself.
"For a hundred years, much of our knowledge was treated as outdated, quaint, or commercially obsolete. We adapted by shrinking inward. Now the world changes again, and we are unprepared."
Around the table, heads nodded grimly.
Fabian set his spectacles back on.
"There has not been enough information to force a decision until now. That excuse no longer comforts me."
Vernik rose slightly from his seat, then bowed his head toward Karl. It was not deep, but it was genuine.
"Then speak plainly. What is your family's plan?"
One after another, the others followed.
Even the proud heirs behind them lowered their eyes.
Above the rafters, Arin stared at the room in surprise. Moments ago they had looked like untouchable nobles wrapped in old pride. Now they looked like people who had suddenly awakened to danger.