The atmosphere of the Eighth Heaven, the Iron Clouds, was heavy with the scent of ozone and heated metal. Unlike the Ninth Heaven's chaotic void, this realm felt structured—oppressively so. Gargantuan iron pillars, miles thick, rose from a sea of metallic mist, acting as the foundations for sprawling, tiered cities.
Aethelgard hovered near the edge of a pillar designated as Sector 7-G. Immediately, the "System Interface" updated.
[Notice: You have entered the Sovereignty of the House of Castellan.]
[Status: Unregistered Merchant/Lord.]
[Local Law: All 'Ascended' must pay an Entry Tithe of 50% of their Soul Stone reserves.]
"Fifty percent?" Kaelen cried out from the lower deck, clutching a bag of seeds. "That's not a tax; that's a robbery!"
Ren stood at the bow, his hand resting on the hilt of his belt-dagger. "It's called a 'Monopoly,' Kaelen. They own the pillars, so they think they own the air between them."
A fleet of sleek, silver-hulled skiffs detached from the distant Golden Lion city, racing toward Aethelgard. They weren't powered by steam or crude alchemic engines; they moved with the silent, fluid grace of high-tier mana-repulsion.
"Ren," Elara whispered, her hand glowing with a protective barrier spell. "Those are Silver-Winged Knights. Their average level is 40. We can't fight a fleet of them."
"We aren't fighting," Ren said, adjusting his Herald's Mantle. "We're negotiating. Elara, activate the 'Formal Reception' protocol. Bring out the Bronze Legionnaires, but keep their halberds at 'Rest.' I want us to look expensive, not aggressive."
The lead silver skiff pulled alongside Aethelgard's dock. A man stepped off, clad in ornate white plate armor filigreed with gold. He looked down at Ren with the practiced disdain of a man who had been a Lord for a century.
"I am High-Herald Valerius of the House of Castellan," the man announced. His voice was magically amplified, echoing across the island. "You are the first to ascend from the Ninth in three months. Your island is... quaint. Hand over your Core's 'Registration Key' and half your treasury, and you shall be granted a 'Lower-Tier Lease' on a minor pillar."
Ren stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "I am Ren Solari, Lord of Aethelgard. I've read your 'Local Law' notification, Valerius. It's quite thorough. However, it seems your legal team missed a technicality."
Valerius scoffed, his hand moving toward the hilt of a glowing longsword. "A technicality? We have ruled these clouds since the Great Integration."
"Paragraph 4, Clause B of the 'Inter-Heaven Transit Act,'" Ren said, his voice cold and precise. "Any island that achieves 'Self-Sustaining Ascension' via a Void Herald's Core is classified as a Sovereign Embassy. Embassies are exempt from Entry Tithes for the first thirty days of their arrival."
The air went still. The silver-clad knights on the skiffs exchanged nervous glances. Valerius blinked, his arrogant smirk faltering.
"How... how do you know the Transit Acts?" Valerius hissed. "Those are restricted to High Lords."
"I have a very good memory for contracts," Ren replied. In truth, his Ex-Rank Talent didn't just give him power over land; it gave him a direct "Law-Sense" for the System's underlying code. "And since Aethelgard is an Embassy, I'm actually entitled to a 'Diplomatic Stipend' of 500 Iron-Cloud Ore units to help us stabilize our position."
Valerius's face turned a deep shade of purple. He was used to bullying terrified survivors who had barely escaped the Ninth Heaven. He wasn't prepared for a man who treated the apocalypse like a courtroom battle.
"You play a dangerous game, boy," Valerius growled. "The House of Castellan does not like 'Lawyers.' We like 'Tenants' who know their place."
"And I like 'Neighbors' who respect the boundaries," Ren countered. He gestured toward his Bronze Legionnaires, who shifted their weight, their internal steam-pistons hissing in unison. "Will you be providing the 500 units of Ore now, or should I file a 'Formal Grievance' with the System's Arbitrators?"
Valerius stared at Ren for a long minute. He looked at the Herald's Mantle on Ren's shoulders—a trophy that proved this 'newbie' had killed a Level 30 Boss.
"Give him the ore," Valerius spat to his subordinates. "But mark my words, Solari. In thirty days, your 'Diplomatic Immunity' expires. And when it does... the rent for this sector will be your head."
The silver skiffs detached, leaving behind five heavy crates of Iron-Cloud Ore.
[Diplomatic Victory! +2,000 Reputation with Neutral Lords.]
[Relationship with 'House of Castellan': Hostile.]
"Ren," Elara breathed, leaning against him once the knights were out of earshot. "You just threatened a Level 100 Kingdom."
"I didn't threaten them, Elara," Ren said, looking at the crates of high-grade ore. "I bought us thirty days of time. With this ore, we aren't just building soldiers. We're building The Steel-Sentinel Mark III."
He looked up at the Golden Lion city. "By the time that clock runs out, they won't be asking for rent. They'll be asking for mercy."