Karl let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking, his gaze sweeping across the table as if weighing each person present. "The plan of my family is simple in concept, though not in execution. We will establish a faction that functions much like a guild, one that accepts individuals from outside our bloodline and teaches them our craft." His tone remained calm, almost casual, yet there was a firmness beneath it that made it clear this was not a suggestion but a decision already made. He leaned back slightly, folding his hands, waiting for objections that never came.
None spoke. Not a single patriarch or matriarch interrupted him, and that silence carried more weight than any argument could have. These were not fools. If the Sonneberg family had chosen such a path, then they must have secured something powerful enough to justify the risk. Under normal circumstances, the very idea of opening their closely guarded traditions to outsiders would have sparked outrage. Instead, the room remained still, the elders choosing caution over pride.
"As for why we chose this path," Karl continued, his expression sharpening, "it comes down to a single factor. One that I am not permitted to discuss." He paused deliberately, letting the words sink in. "And I mean that quite literally. I dare not cross that line."
That changed everything. The younger generation did not fully grasp the implications, but the elders did. They knew Karl's character. This was a man who had walked through artillery fire without hesitation, a man who had faced death with a smile and treated danger as a companion rather than a threat. For such a person to admit fear—real fear—was not something that could be ignored or dismissed.
A ripple of unease passed through the room. If Karl had merely said he was unwilling to share, it would have implied control, a choice to withhold information. But this was different. This was not refusal. This was restraint born from something greater than himself. And that, more than anything else, unsettled them.
"Still," Karl went on, his voice returning to its steady rhythm, "I can provide guidance. If you decide to establish factions of your own, there exists a contract within the system that addresses your primary concerns." His eyes narrowed slightly as he spoke, as though recalling something costly. "It binds individuals to your faction in a way that ensures loyalty and stability."
Fabian Bingen leaned forward, fingers interlocked, his expression thoughtful but cautious. "There is always a price. What is the catch?"
Karl exhaled softly. "We do not yet know all the drawbacks. What we do know is that each contract costs one hundred points." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. "And that price is not insignificant."
A low murmur spread across the table. Even for families of their stature, points were not something to be spent lightly. Every decision involving them carried long-term consequences.
"However," Karl added, raising a hand to silence the murmurs, "it solves your immediate problems. And according to our sources, this is likely the lowest the cost will ever be. The significance of such a contract ensures that its value will only increase over time."
He spoke with confidence, yet there was a faint hesitation beneath it, as though even he did not fully trust what he was saying. That alone made the information more credible.
Vernik Roth leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Then it seems we will follow your lead," he said at last. "But you must understand why I ask this. Who is it that you fear?"
Karl smiled faintly, though it did not quite reach his eyes. "Fear is not the right word," he said, though it clearly was. "Let us simply say that we intend to train those who join us, ensure their usefulness, and then return to our old way of life. We will become indispensable once more, valuable enough that no one dares interfere, leaving us free to focus on our craft."
That answer eased the tension in the room. For many of the elders, this was all they truly wanted. Not power, not dominance, but continuity. The ability to preserve their family traditions without interference. The idea of returning to that state, even in a changed world, was deeply appealing.
"And as for who I am referring to…" Karl's gaze shifted upward, toward the rafters. "My grandson knows more than I do."
Every eye in the room followed his.
Arin sighed internally. There was no avoiding it now. He let himself drop from the rafters, landing lightly beside Karl before pulling back his hood. The room took him in at once—his height, his posture, the quiet confidence in his stance. His brown hair carried a faint green tint, subtle but unmistakable, and his green eyes held a depth that felt oddly out of place for someone his age.
"I was wondering where your junior was," Vernik began, a hint of amusement in his voice. "It seems you have chosen an excellent—"
He stopped.
Karl's gaze snapped toward him, and for a brief moment, bloodlust flickered in his eyes. It was enough. Vernik fell silent immediately, understanding the unspoken message. This was not a topic to be handled lightly.
Ah. So that is how it is, Vernik thought, studying Arin more carefully. It was not unusual for heirs to be kept in the dark about their future roles. In fact, it was often necessary. No one truly wanted to become the head of a family. The position offered no real rewards, only responsibility and endless obligations. Many successors were chosen long before they were told, simply because revealing it too early would make them harder to control.
Vernik himself had been forced into the role through a combination of pressure and well-placed threats. His great-uncle had promised to reveal a collection of embarrassing stories to the woman he admired if he refused. That woman had later become his wife, and yes, she had eventually heard every single story anyway.
Such was life.
"Regarding what my grandfather said," Arin began, his voice steady despite the attention focused on him, "I am not allowed to fully explain. You are not deemed ready for that knowledge."
He stopped abruptly.
His expression changed.
The confidence in his eyes faded, replaced by something deeper, something almost reverent. His gaze lost focus, as though he were looking at something far beyond the room itself. Then it came.
A presence.
No one could describe it properly. It was not pressure in the physical sense, nor was it killing intent. It was something far more absolute. The moment it appeared, every instinct of resistance simply… vanished. There was no fear, no panic, only an overwhelming sense of reverence and acknowledgment. It felt as though something vast had turned its attention toward them.
And in that instant, they understood.
This was the system.
(Good. It seems you have all come to your senses.)
The voice did not echo, yet it filled the room completely. It did not speak in sound, yet every word was perfectly clear. It carried no emotion, yet its presence alone was enough to command absolute respect.
(I will keep this brief. The vessel before you cannot withstand this for long.)
Several of the elders felt their bodies tense instinctively, though they could not explain why. Arin, meanwhile, had gone pale, his breathing shallow as if he were struggling to remain upright.
(What they have told you is true. Act accordingly. Do not spread knowledge of my existence beyond your factions. Humanity is not yet ready for me to act openly.)
The presence lingered for a fraction longer.
Then it vanished.
The room felt empty.
Fabian was the first to recover, though even he needed a moment before speaking. "What… was that?" he asked quietly, his usual composure shaken. "I have never felt anything like it."
Arin swayed slightly, catching himself before he fell. His face was pale, but his voice, when he spoke, carried a quiet certainty.
"I do not know everything," he admitted. "But I know enough. That was the incarnation of the Earth's system. It has its own will… its own thoughts."
He paused, taking a slow breath.
"I have begun calling it Mother Gaia," he continued, a note of reverence entering his voice. "It represents our world… and our race. Calling it merely a 'system' feels… disrespectful."
No one laughed.
No one dismissed him.
Because after what they had just experienced, none of them could.