Torren did not run.
He tried to.
But fear robbed him of coordination before courage could catch up.
Two of the newly made pawns moved before I even gave instruction — not impulsively, but instinctively anticipating my will. They seized him with clinical precision, one twisting his arm behind his back, the other forcing him to his knees.
Not violent.
Efficient.
"Bind him," I said calmly.
"Yes, my King."
The title no longer startled me.
One of them tore a length of cord from his own belt pouch and secured Torren's wrists. Another searched him quickly, removing a small dagger from his boot and a handful of copper coins from his pouch.
Torren trembled violently.
"I didn't know— I swear I didn't know what you were—"
"Silence," I said.
He obeyed.
Not because of power.
Because of terror.
I turned to my five kneeling assets.
"Names," I said.
The largest of them — the former cudgel wielder — stepped forward slightly and bowed his head.
"Derrik, my King."
Up close, the change was even more striking. His skin had cleared of old infection scars. The crooked set of his nose had straightened. His shoulders had broadened subtly, as though corrected by an invisible craftsman.
Next stepped the one who had drawn the blade.
"Vance."
Sharp-eyed. Controlled. The most disciplined of the group even before possession.
The smiling man spoke next, though the smile was gone now — replaced by something steadier.
"Corvin, my King."
Behind him, a narrower man with quick hands bowed low.
"Lute."
And finally, the youngest — barely more than a boy, I realized now.
"Henrik."
His voice was steady despite everything.
Five lives.
Five histories now accessible to me in structured clarity.
Derrik had once been a caravan guard. Discharged after striking a superior officer. Vance had served briefly in a border militia before deserting when wages stopped. Corvin had grown up in the slums of a coastal city far south. Lute had a talent for locks and numbers. Henrik had simply followed the others out of fear and hunger.
They had not been incompetent criminals.
They had been organized.
Calculated.
And until tonight, successful.
"Take him to your hideout," I instructed, nodding toward Torren.
"Yes, my King."
They moved as a unit, Henrik lifting Torren easily despite his slimmer frame. The qualitative change was undeniable. Their endurance and coordination were heightened, as though inefficiencies had been removed from muscle and nerve alike.
We exited the alley not like prey—
But like a procession.
The hideout lay beyond the town's outer ring — an abandoned storehouse near a dry streambed. The door creaked as we entered, revealing a space far more structured than I had expected.
Crates stacked neatly. A central table. Oil lamps positioned deliberately to avoid light leaking through cracks. Bedrolls arranged along the walls.
They had not been reckless.
They had been preparing.
"For what?" I asked quietly.
Corvin answered. "Expansion."
Derrik nodded. "We were saving to purchase land just outside town limits. Small parcel. Legitimate cover. Farming on paper. Interception on the roads in practice."
"How much have you accumulated?"
Lute moved immediately to a reinforced chest in the corner. He unlocked it with a small iron key and opened the lid.
Gold caught the lamplight.
Stacked coins. Rolled cloth bundles. A few small gems.
"Thirty gold pieces," Lute said carefully. "Three hundred silver. Three thousand copper."
I crouched beside the chest.
Thirty gold.
In this kingdom's currency, that was substantial. Enough to purchase property. Enough to establish a legal foothold.
"You were not small-time," I observed.
"No, my King," Vance replied. "We targeted caravans selectively. Information-based strikes. Avoided military shipments."
Strategic criminals.
Interesting.
"And you were close to buying land?"
Henrik nodded. "Two more successful raids."
I closed the chest gently.
"You will not raid again."
Five heads bowed immediately.
"As you command."
I studied them.
"Derrik."
"Yes, my King."
"You and Lute will take my watch to this metal trader. Sell it at fair value. No aggression. No coercion. You will behave as legitimate men conducting legitimate business."
"Yes, my King."
"If he attempts deception?"
Vance's eyes flickered.
"Then?" he prompted softly.
"Then you will negotiate," I said evenly. "Violence is inefficient when coin suffices."
They nodded in unison.
I turned to Torren, bound against a support beam, eyes wide and wet.
"You will remain here."
"Please—"
"You delivered me for slaughter."
"I didn't know—"
"You suspected."
He fell silent.
I faced the five again.
"Bind him securely. Feed him water. He will not be harmed without my command."
There was a flicker there — subtle — as though they would have preferred otherwise.
But preference no longer mattered.
They obeyed.
As they finished securing Torren, a thought crystallized.
Five pawns were strong.
Six would be stronger.
I stepped toward Torren slowly.
His breathing quickened.
"Please— I'll leave town, I won't tell anyone—"
"That is precisely the problem," I said softly.
I reached inward again.
Twenty-seven pieces remained.
I selected one.
Another Pawn.
It drifted forward from the invisible orbit around me, pale and geometric.
Torren saw it.
His scream died in his throat as it entered him.
The transformation was less violent this time.
I braced for the mental flood — and it came.
Petty thefts. Tavern gossip. Debts. Fear of Corvin's group. Resentment toward the bartender for underpaying him.
Then—
Alignment.
His body straightened against the rope.
The bruising along his jaw faded.
His breathing stabilized.
He opened his eyes.
Clear.
Focused.
He tore free from the bindings with ease.
Then knelt.
"My King."
Six.
I felt the structure settle into place within my mind.
A formation.
A small, disciplined unit.
"Stand," I said.
They rose.
"Torren," I said.
"Yes, my King."
"You will return to the tavern tomorrow. You will behave normally. You will listen."
His eyes sharpened. "For information?"
"Yes."
He nodded once.
Efficient.
I turned to the others.
"Who among you knows the safer districts?"
Henrik stepped forward. "I do, my King. Inner ward near the merchant quarter. Guard patrols frequent. Fewer opportunistic crimes."
"Good."
I retrieved the watch from my pocket and handed it to Derrik.
"Sell it. Return with coin."
He accepted it as though it were sacred.
Henrik approached me quietly.
"If I may ask, my King…"
"Yes."
"What are we building?"
The question lingered in the lamplit air.
Outside, wind brushed dry grass against stone.
Inside, six enhanced men waited for a vision.
I considered my answer carefully.
"Stability," I said finally. "Influence. Position."
Their expressions did not waver.
But I felt their understanding deepen.
A king does not simply command.
He establishes a board.
"Henrik," I said.
"Yes, my King."
"You will accompany me."
He retrieved a cloak from the wall and handed it to me.
It smelled faintly of smoke and leather.
Practical.
I draped it over my ruined suit.
Thirty gold in reserve.
Six pawns.
A hideout.
An informant inside a tavern.
And a world ruled by kings.
As Henrik and I stepped back into the cool night air, I felt the subtle orbit of twenty-six remaining pieces turning slowly around me.
The board was no longer empty.
It was merely… undeveloped.
The outer ring of Brindlecross had smelled of damp wood and poverty.
The inner district did not.
Henrik walked half a step behind me, posture straight but not stiff, the hood of his worn cloak drawn low. The night air cooled as we moved uphill along a gently curving cobbled road. The stones here were cut cleanly, not packed gravel. Lantern posts stood at regular intervals, glass panes polished and flame steady behind them.
Order.
Money.
Planning.
The houses grew larger with every block. Timber frames gave way to stone facades. Windows widened. Ironwork became decorative rather than functional. Low walls marked property lines, and small manicured gardens filled the gaps between buildings — winter herbs, pruned shrubs, bare trellises awaiting spring bloom.
At the heart of the district stood the Lord's Mansion.
It rose above the surrounding structures, built of pale gray stone veined faintly with quartz that caught the moonlight. Three stories tall, with a central tower and two flanking wings. Its windows were lit warmly. Banners bearing the sigil of Brindlecross — a black stag over a silver field — hung from iron brackets.
Around it, in a near-perfect ring, stood the estates of the town's lesser nobles.
Landowners.
Merchants elevated by wealth.
Men who possessed territory.
I slowed.
"To be noble here," I asked quietly, "one must be born into it?"
Henrik shook his head.
"No, my King. Anyone who owns registered land and pays proper tithe to the Lord may declare minor nobility. It is more… economic than bloodbound."
Interesting.
"So status is transactional."
"Yes."
I allowed myself the faintest smile.
Good.
Very good.
We stopped before a three-story stone manor set slightly apart from the others. It was not the largest, but it was tastefully constructed — ivy crawling along one side, wrought iron lanterns flanking double oak doors, windows trimmed in dark lacquered wood.
A carved wooden sign near the entrance read:
Harrowgate House — Lodgings & Hospitality
"A noble operates an inn?" I asked.
"House Harrowgate," Henrik replied. "Minor landowners. They hold vineyards south of town and several rental properties. The house serves visiting merchants and minor officials."
So.
Entrepreneurial nobility.
My kind of people.
Henrik stepped forward and knocked.
The door was opened by a middle-aged man with neatly trimmed brown hair streaked at the temples with gray. His posture was straight, his clothing well-tailored — deep green vest, white shirt, gold cuff links.
His eyes assessed me in one smooth motion.
He saw the cloak first.
Then the ruined cuffs beneath.
Then my posture.
Then Henrik.
"Good evening," he said evenly. "House Harrowgate welcomes you. How may we serve?"
His tone was not servile.
It was measured.
Professional.
"I am seeking lodging," I said calmly. "For an extended stay."
His gaze sharpened slightly at that.
"May I ask your name?"
A pause.
Calculated.
"Alexander Hale."
The surname meant nothing here.
Good.
"Very well, Mister Hale. I am Edmund Harrowgate. Please, come inside."
The interior smelled faintly of polished wood and warm bread. A large hearth burned along the far wall, casting amber light across patterned rugs and carved furniture. A chandelier of wrought iron hung from the ceiling beams, candles flickering gently.
It was not extravagant.
It was deliberate.
A woman descended the staircase as we entered — auburn hair pinned neatly, wearing a deep blue dress trimmed in cream lace. Her expression carried the practiced warmth of someone accustomed to hosting guests.
"My wife, Eleanor," Edmund said.
"Welcome to our home," she said, offering a slight curtsy.
Behind her, peeking around the banister with poorly disguised curiosity, stood a girl perhaps nineteen years of age.
Dark brown hair. Clear gray eyes. Sharp cheekbones softened by youth. She wore a simple ivory dress and no visible jewelry beyond a thin silver bracelet.
She did not look away when I met her gaze.
Interesting.
"And this," Eleanor continued gently, "is our daughter, Clara."
Clara descended halfway, studying me openly.
"You're not from Brindlecross," she said.
Direct.
I inclined my head. "No."
"You speak differently."
"So I've been told."
Her lips twitched slightly.
Edmund gestured toward a sitting area near the hearth. "Please, sit. We can discuss terms."
Henrik remained standing slightly behind me.
I removed the cloak and folded it carefully.
Edmund noticed the fabric of my suit beneath — even worn and dusty, it was clearly foreign.
"You've had a long journey," he observed.
"One might say that."
"We offer private rooms with bathing access, morning and evening meals included. For extended stay — thirty cycle days — the cost is two hundred silver coins."
Two hundred silver.
I did the conversion instantly.
That was two-thirds of their thirty gold hoard.
Expensive.
But positioning required investment.
"And security?" I asked.
"Inner district patrols are regular. We also employ private guards."
"Discretion?"
Edmund's gaze sharpened again.
"Is guaranteed."
I nodded once.
"I will take it."
Henrik stiffened subtly behind me — even he understood the scale of that expense.
Eleanor smiled warmly. "You must be hungry."
"I am."
Clara stepped forward. "I'll have the kitchen prepare a fresh plate."
"I appreciate it."
As Edmund began making arrangements, I leaned slightly toward Henrik.
"Return to the others," I murmured.
"Yes, my King."
"Inform Derrik and Lute: sell the watch at dawn. No less than fifteen gold."
His eyes widened fractionally.
"Yes."
He departed quietly.
I was alone now.
Among potential allies.
Or future assets.
My room was on the second floor.
High ceiling. A large bed with thick woven blankets. A wooden desk near the window. A washbasin filled with steaming water by the time I entered.
I removed my suit slowly.
The fabric, once immaculate, was now wrinkled and travel-stained. I ran a hand over the gold stitching along the inner seam.
Texas felt very far away.
The bath was brought in — a copper tub filled with hot water scented faintly with lavender and something sharper, perhaps rosemary.
I stepped into it.
Heat enveloped me.
For the first time since awakening in Mundus Regnorum, I allowed myself to close my eyes.
I sank lower.
Steam curled upward, fogging the air.
Dirt loosened from skin.
Tension eased from muscle.
But my mind did not rest.
The pieces hovered faintly in awareness.
Twenty-six now.
I reached inward.
And information unfolded before me like a ledger.
Abilities of the King
Absolute Obedience — All possessed pieces align irrevocably.
Irresistible Possession — Hosts cannot reject integration.
Telepathic Communication — Direct mental link across distance.
Limitation: Severe mental fatigue with prolonged use.
Positional Awareness — Spatial detection of all possessed pieces within range.
Visualization: A mental map. Precise.
Quantified Appraisal — Numerical and descriptive assessment of host capability.
I focused on Derrik.
A structured presentation formed in my mind.
Pawn — Derrik
Strength: Equivalent to five average men.
Endurance: Sustained high output for two hours without fatigue.
Combat Aptitude: Advanced melee proficiency.
Loyalty Index: Absolute.
I exhaled slowly.
This was not vague magic.
This was structured power.
Data.
Measurable.
Replicable.
I checked Vance.
Similar metrics — though slightly higher in agility.
Henrik possessed superior situational awareness.
Each pawn retained individuality, but optimized.
Both King pieces remained dormant.
Unavailable.
Because I held them.
I felt them distinctly — heavier presences, central anchors within the mental orbit.
They could not be assigned.
Not yet.
When I attempted prolonged telepathic contact, a dull ache began forming behind my eyes.
Useful.
But costly.
I withdrew.
The water had cooled slightly.
I stepped out and dried carefully.
Moments later, a knock sounded.
"Dinner is ready, Mister Hale," Clara called softly from outside the door.
The dining hall was intimate.
A long polished table lit by hanging lanterns. Edmund sat at the head, Eleanor at his right. Clara had placed a setting near the center — for me.
The food—
It was extraordinary.
Roasted pheasant glazed in honey and herbs. Thick brown gravy pooling across sliced root vegetables. Freshly baked bread with a crisp crust and soft interior. A small dish of churned butter flecked with sea salt.
The aroma alone nearly overwhelmed me.
I cut into the meat.
Juices ran across the plate.
The first bite was—
Warm.
Savory.
Layered with rosemary, thyme, and something unfamiliar yet rich.
English countryside cuisine.
Hearty.
Grounded.
Intentional.
"This is exceptional," I said honestly.
Eleanor beamed faintly.
"We pride ourselves on proper meals."
Clara watched me with open curiosity.
"You eat like someone who hasn't in days," she observed.
"That would be accurate."
Edmund leaned back slightly.
"You mentioned extended stay. Business here?"
"Yes."
"What sort?"
I dabbed my mouth with the napkin.
"I am exploring opportunities."
Clara tilted her head. "Trade? Agriculture?"
"Perhaps both."
Edmund nodded approvingly. "Land is the foundation of stability here. Ownership confers status."
"And influence," I added.
"Yes," he said slowly. "That as well."
There was a pause.
Comfortable.
Then Clara smiled.
"If you're new to Brindlecross, I could show you the markets tomorrow. The vineyards too, if you're curious."
Eleanor gave her daughter a knowing look.
"I would appreciate that," I replied.
Her smile brightened.
Outside, the moon hung nearly full above the Lord's Mansion, silver light bathing the inner district in quiet authority.
Inside, I ate until hunger no longer dictated thought.
Six pawns positioned. Thirty gold in reserve.
A noble household intrigued.
A world structured by land and hierarchy.
And tomorrow—
I would begin building something legitimate.
Because power seized through fear is fragile.
But power built through commerce—
Endures.
Clara leaned closer slightly as the meal ended.
"I look forward to tomorrow, Mister Hale."
"As do I," I replied.