The Twelve Great Guilds
Ferraclysm, one of the Twelve Great Guilds of the Slatemark Empire, stood as a titan within the Central Continent. For decades, its reach was unchallenged, its coffers endlessly filled, and its dominance unquestioned.
At its helm was Maxwell von Pontes, a man whose name was whispered with reverence and fear alike. A revolutionary alchemist and engineer, Maxwell had shaped Ferraclysm into an industrial colossus while climbing to the rank of mid Immortal-ranker. His brilliance in crafting weapons and military technology was matched only by his ruthless efficiency.
But now, Maxwell faced a crisis unlike any he had encountered since taking the reins of Ferraclysm. A crisis he could not crush with intellect or sheer power alone.
He exhaled deeply, letting the sound of his breath fill the opulent silence of his private office. His fingers trembled slightly as he touched the edge of the holographic letter projected before him. Closing his eyes, he counted to five. When he opened them again, the contents remained unchanged, as immovable as stone.
A Decrease in Orders.
The words taunted him. Mocked him.
The Slatemark military—Ferraclysm's largest and most lucrative client—had slashed its orders. Not by a small margin. No, this was a seismic shift, a gaping hole in their projections that would bleed the guild dry if not addressed swiftly.
Maxwell's golden eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he leaned back in his chair. His mind churned, calculating, plotting, dissecting the implications. Ferraclysm's profits came predominantly from its ironclad contracts with the military, secured through decades of unparalleled service and unassailable innovation.
This wasn't just a blow to their finances. It was an insult.
A challenge.
The room was silent but for the faint hum of mana-powered devices. Maxwell's reflection glared back at him from the dark glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Behind him, the sprawling cityscape of the Central Continent's capital glittered—a testament to Ferraclysm's contributions to the empire's might.
'They can't be outsourcing,' Maxwell thought, his mind racing through possibilities. Breaking a contract of this scale would require the empire to pay Ferraclysm penalties so astronomical that even their vast coffers would feel the pinch. The military wouldn't dare. Not unless…
Noctalis.
The name surfaced in his mind like a shadowy specter. That upstart guild. That audacious newcomer. He'd heard whispers—of aetherite, of innovations that defied the known boundaries of mana and technology. But Maxwell had dismissed them. A fledgling guild could hardly compete with Ferraclysm's centuries of dominance.
Now, though, doubt seeped in like a poison.
"They dare," Maxwell muttered, his voice low and venomous. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists. "They dare attack us like this?"
His mind reeled at the sheer gall. To challenge Ferraclysm was to challenge one of the foundational pillars of the empire itself. Aetherite or not, Noctalis had no business encroaching on Ferraclysm's domain. Maxwell's lip curled into a snarl as he leaned forward, the glint of gold in his eyes turning to molten fury.
"I'll cripple them," he hissed, reaching for his phone. His fingers moved with the precision of a blade, dialing a number burned into his memory.
The line connected almost immediately. "Prepare the guild," he ordered, his tone sharp enough to cut steel. "We're declaring war. It's time to grind this newcomer into dust."
Guild War.
The phrase hung heavy in Maxwell's mind as he ended the call. It was an archaic system, a relic from an era when guilds ruled with unchecked authority, their rivalries often settled through brute force rather than diplomacy. In theory, such wars were still legal, though tightly regulated by imperial law. In practice, the Twelve Great Guilds wielded their influence to bend those regulations, their wealth and connections ensuring that their actions rarely saw the light of public scrutiny.
To declare war against Noctalis—a smaller guild by all measures—would be seen as overkill. The Twelve Great Guilds, after all, were forbidden from outright crushing weaker opponents under the guise of guild wars. But Maxwell knew the loopholes. Knew how to leverage Ferraclysm's vast network of lobbyists, mercenaries, and media puppets to ensure the narrative played out in their favor.
This wasn't just a matter of business. It was personal now.
Maxwell rose from his seat, his Immortal-rank aura flaring briefly, filling the room with a suffocating weight. The shadows seemed to lengthen, drawn to him as if the room itself shared in his simmering rage.
"Noctalis thinks they've won by cutting into our contracts," he muttered, a dark grin spreading across his face. "Let's see how they fare when the might of Ferraclysm comes crashing down on them."
As he stepped out of his office, the gears of war began to turn. Letters were drafted, mercenaries were mobilized, and Ferraclysm's vast arsenal of weapons began its march toward Noctalis.
The guild war had begun. And Maxwell von Pontes intended to ensure it ended with Ferraclysm standing victorious, its boot firmly planted on the neck of this so-called revolutionary upstart.
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"Ferraclysm declared guild war against you," Amelia said, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. Yet, her amber eyes gleamed with something sharper—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest edge of concern. She sat with her hands neatly folded, her posture impeccable, her every movement betraying the precision of a mind that had shaped the empire's policies and strategies for years.
"I am aware," I replied, leaning back into the chair across from her, as though the declaration of war were a minor inconvenience rather than an earth-shattering event.
"Not afraid?" she asked, her voice tinged with intrigue.
"Do I have to be?" I allowed a smile to play on my lips, a calculated gesture to convey just enough confidence without veering into arrogance.
Amelia's gaze lingered on me, assessing. "Even among the Twelve Great Guilds, Ferraclysm is strongest in terms of sheer strength," she warned, her words carefully chosen, deliberate.
"So what?" I shrugged, letting the weight of her statement dissipate in the air between us. Ferraclysm was powerful, yes—both a titan of industry and a bastion of military innovation. But for Noctalis to lose? After a year of meticulous preparation following the Sovereign's Tournament?
Impossible.
"I see now," Amelia said slowly, her lips curling into a smile that was both proud and knowing. "You want to crush Ferraclysm, don't you? To make an example of them. The strongest will be the first to fall."
I met her gaze, holding it for a beat longer than necessary, letting silence be my response. There was no need to confirm what she already knew. That had been the plan from the start.
Ferraclysm wasn't just a target—it was the perfect first domino. By severing its military contracts with the Slatemark Empire, I had baited them into this declaration of war. The greatest strength often carried with it the greatest arrogance, and Ferraclysm had taken the bait just as I had calculated.
"Impressive," Amelia said, her voice softening with a note of approval. "You've thought this through. Every step, haven't you?"
"Every detail," I replied, my voice steady. "Ferraclysm is the easiest to provoke because their foundation is brittle. Their reliance on the military contracts made them predictable. All I had to do was pull the rug out from under them, and they would come running into the trap."
Her smile widened, a glimmer of pride sparking in her amber eyes. "Clever. You've chosen to make an example of the strongest guild first, knowing that the rest will hesitate once they see Ferraclysm fall."
Exactly. The strongest piece on the board was also the most vulnerable, precisely because of its overconfidence. Ferraclysm believed in its own invincibility, but the reality was far less flattering. They had been powerful for so long that they had become complacent, reliant on the comfort of their military contracts and the weight of their reputation.
"And," I added, letting a hint of steel enter my tone, "there's something else."
Amelia tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Oh?"
"I need a way to earn my 9-star license," I said, my smile returning, sharper this time. "And what better way to do it than by defeating a 9-star adventurer like Maxwell von Pontes, the guildmaster of Ferraclysm?"
Amelia's laughter was light and musical, but there was a calculating edge to it. "So you'll kill two birds with one stone. Smart. Ruthless, even."
"It has to be done," I said simply. "Noctalis doesn't just need to win. It needs to dominate. To sit atop all guilds, there can be no room for doubt."
She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable, then nodded. "I suppose it worked to your advantage that I didn't try to stop Ferraclysm from declaring war, then?"
"Of course," I said. "Their move was necessary. Without it, I couldn't move to checkmate."
Her violet tresses shimmered as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "You're playing a dangerous game, Arthur. How far have you calculated this?"
"Far enough," I replied, my voice unwavering. "Because this isn't just about winning. It's about reshaping the playing field itself."
Amelia regarded me with an intensity that would have unsettled most. But I held her gaze, unwavering.
Finally, she leaned back, her expression softening. "Well, then. Show the world what happens when you cross Arthur Nightingale."