I have always found it amusing how mortals cling to their illusions of power, draping themselves in silk and scripture, whispering oaths to gods who, if they exist, seem to have mastered the fine art of selective hearing. The Papal Government of Rachel, that bastion of hypocrisy wrapped in incense and gilded chains, was no exception. When presented with a rather generous proposal—a peaceful secession of lands already lost to them—they did what all desperate men of fading empires do. They chose war.
Oh, but not immediately. First came the performance, the grand theater of denial. A council chamber dimly lit by flickering candlelight, where old men in heavy robes muttered their prayers as if divine intervention might smite away their predicament. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and desperation, and the heavy velvet drapes did little to conceal the weight of unease pressing upon the room.
At the head of it all, Pope Gregor the Tenth—oh, the irony—sat stiffly upon his gilded throne, his bejeweled fingers drumming against the armrest. He was a man bloated with indulgence, his body swaddled in robes embroidered with the suffering of the saints, as if their agony lent him legitimacy. His eyes, sharp and bloodshot, flickered between his ministers, looking for reassurance, for excuses, for anything that would tell him that he was still the hand of God and not just another old man clinging to borrowed power.
One of his cardinals, a skeletal man whose robes seemed to be the only thing keeping his brittle frame from crumbling to dust, cleared his throat. "This… Netherward emissary, this Countess Hazelucci… she speaks of treaties and resolutions signed by native mayors." He sneered at the very thought, his lip curling over yellowed teeth. "Are we to take the word of apostates and savages?"
"Apostates and savages who now have guns, tanks, and something far worse—an alternative." The Minister of Doctrine, a thick-necked brute of a man, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had built his career on sermons of obedience and submission, on a congregation that knelt when told and bled when ordered. But even he was not blind to the cracks forming in their once-absolute rule. "If they no longer fear damnation, we may find our dominion slipping faster than expected."
"The faith shall not waver," another minister croaked, his voice thick with desperation. A man who had long since abandoned logic for the comfort of scripture, he clutched at his rosary as if it were a blade he could wield.
"The people will rally," another added, conveniently ignoring the growing unrest beyond the cathedral walls, where their so-called faithful whispered of starvation, of injustice, of a god who had turned his gaze elsewhere.
And then, the inevitable: "God will guide us to victory."
Ah, yes. The classic strategy of outsourcing one's problems to the divine. A bold move, considering the only thing their god seemed to do these days was watch in silent amusement.
Pope Gregor exhaled through his nose, a sound neither a sigh nor a growl, but something in between—a man accustomed to obedience, now finding himself cornered. "And what of their army?" he asked, his voice heavy with forced indifference.
A younger minister, his hands trembling as he unfurled a map, hesitated before answering. "The Netherward Realm has deployed its Alpha and Beta battalions. One hundred thousand supersoldiers in Od Canyon and the Plains of Ida alone. Meanwhile, their Beta-02 'Apis Mellifera' units have already taken Thor's Volcano and… Nameless Island." He swallowed hard. "They have made contact with the undead."
Silence. It stretched, thick and suffocating.
"We have the Alchemist Brigade," someone finally said, weakly.
The Pope closed his eyes, massaging his temples as if this would somehow stave off the migraine forming beneath his skull. The Alchemist Brigade—overzealous men in crimson robes who fancied themselves gods of transmutation, their miracles more accident than intention, their elixirs as likely to cure as they were to set a man ablaze from the inside out.
"And the Paladins?"
"The Grand Inquisitor has already ordered their mobilization," came the answer, though the minister who spoke it seemed to be convincing himself more than anyone else. "They will—"
"They will die," the Pope snapped, his patience thinning. "Just as they have died before. Just as they will continue to die, should we send them against an army that does not pray before battle but calculates, strategizes, and kills without hesitation."
A heavy silence settled over the chamber, broken only by the distant tolling of the cathedral bells. It was a sound that once inspired awe, but now… now it felt like a death knell.
And so they chose war, not because it was wise, nor because it was just, but because the alternative was to admit they had already lost. And that, for men who had spent lifetimes preaching their own infallibility, was a sin beyond redemption.
Airanikka, ever the tactician, knew diplomacy would be met with bile and bluster. After all, negotiating with religious fanatics was a bit like reasoning with a drunken knight—loud, self-righteous, and convinced their god was on their side, even as they pissed themselves in the corner. And so, instead of wasting pleasantries, she sent someone who could play both the part of the negotiator and the executioner if necessary—our dear cousin, Countess Hazelucci Noelius Coburn-Huang. A woman of impeccable breeding and an even more impeccable ability to maintain a smile while discussing the logistics of mass graves.
As Emissary of the Netherward Realm, she rode into Rachel with the poise of a queen visiting a kingdom that had yet to realize it was already dead. She did not come in haste, nor with urgency, but with the kind of slow, deliberate grace that made it painfully clear that she was not here to beg, nor to plead. She was here to offer terms. And should those terms be refused, well… she was more than willing to oversee the consequences.
The treaty she presented was a masterpiece of legality and brutal simplicity—a meticulously crafted document bearing the signatures of the mayors and native leaders of Od Canyon, the Audumbla Grasslands, the Plain of Ida, Portus Luna, the Shores of Tears, and Veins. Every inked signature was a declaration of defiance, a quiet, steady rebellion scrawled in the fine print. It was, in essence, a polite notice that Rachel's dominion had been revoked by the very people it had oppressed. A chance, perhaps, for the Papal Government to bow out with dignity. To relinquish land it could no longer claim without bloodshed.
But dignity is a rare currency among zealots, and Pope Gregor the Sanctimonious—may his name be scrawled on every tombstone marking his failures—was no exception.
The Grand Cathedral of Rachel, an ostentatious monstrosity of marble and gold, served as the backdrop for the meeting. Incense burned in thick, choking waves, an attempt, I suspect, to conceal the rot festering beneath the floorboards. The Pope, wrapped in layers of silk and embroidered hypocrisy, sat upon a throne too heavy for a man with such brittle bones. Around him, his cardinals and ministers hovered like vultures awaiting confirmation that the corpse was, in fact, dead.
Hazelucci stood before them, radiant in her crimson coat, her presence as commanding as it was unsettling. She unfurled the treaty, the parchment crackling like the whisper of a coming storm.
"This," she said smoothly, her voice carrying the weight of both diplomacy and inevitability, "is an offer of peace."
The room remained silent for all of three seconds before one of the ministers—a gaunt, self-important man with a nose sharp enough to slice through his own arrogance—sniffed derisively. "You bring us a list of traitors and expect us to simply… surrender?"
Hazelucci arched a delicate brow. "Surrender? No. I expect you to demonstrate wisdom, though I admit, that may be asking too much." She let the insult sink in before continuing. "The territories in question have already aligned themselves with the Netherward Realm. Your jurisdiction over them is a fiction. You may hold onto your illusions, of course, but illusions will not feed your people. They will not protect your borders. And they most certainly will not stop the marching feet of my cousins should they be forced to collect what has already been given."
The Pope, who had remained silent up until now, exhaled heavily through his nose. A gesture, I assumed, meant to convey authority but instead reeked of impotent frustration. "Your cousin is a child playing warlord," he said, voice thick with condescension. "And you are nothing more than a glorified courier delivering her demands."
I almost purred at the sheer audacity of it. He was not wrong, of course—Hazelucci was, in fact, delivering demands. The amusing part was that he seemed to believe he had a choice in the matter.
Hazelucci, to her credit, did not so much as blink. "If I am a courier, then I suggest you listen carefully to the message I bring," she replied, her smile sharpening at the edges. "Because it comes with the weight of inevitability."
The Pope turned to one of his advisors, an elderly man whose skeletal frame suggested he had been rationing his own meals in some grand gesture of piety. "The Alchemist Brigade," he murmured, "can they be mobilized?"
Ah, yes. The Alchemists. Rachel's answer to warfare—men of science draped in faith, who spent more time accidentally setting themselves on fire than producing anything remotely useful.
The advisor hesitated, eyes darting to the ministers before him. "They… are prepared, Holiness." A careful lie, wrapped in trembling confidence. "And the Paladins stand ready."
Hazelucci let out a slow, deliberate breath. "So war it is, then," she mused, as if discussing the weather. She rolled up the treaty with practiced precision and tucked it beneath her arm. "Pity."
The Pope stiffened. "You speak as though we have already lost."
Hazelucci's smile widened, just a fraction. "Oh, no, Your Holiness. I speak as though you have just made the worst decision of your reign."
With a voice that quivered somewhere between divine wrath and the unmistakable panic of a man realizing the walls of his empire were crumbling, Pope Gregor the Sanctimonious did what all men in his position do—he denounced us. Oh, how his words rang through that gilded tomb of a cathedral, each syllable drenched in theatrical fervor as he branded the Netherward Realm as heretics, invaders, and—my personal favorite—"blasphemous butchers of the sacred order."
Now, I must pause here to say, if one intends to throw insults, one should at least attempt originality. "Blasphemous butchers" has been circulating since the first kingdom figured out that theocracy was just feudalism with extra steps. At this point, I half expect it to be printed on official papal stationary, alongside flowery condemnations and decrees on why bathing is optional in the eyes of the divine.
But back to the grand performance.
The Pope's hands trembled as he clutched his scepter, knuckles bone-white from the effort of holding onto the illusion of control. "The Netherward Realm seeks to desecrate our lands, to trample upon the laws of the Almighty!" he thundered, the veins in his neck bulging like overripe fruit. "They come with false treaties, with poisoned tongues, and with steel hidden beneath their velvet words! They—"
"—sent an emissary," Hazelucci interjected smoothly, examining her nails with the kind of practiced indifference that only enraged men like him further. "And a very polite one, if I may add."
I flicked my tail lazily from where I sat atop a velvet-draped chair (a piece of furniture I was certain had been looted from some unfortunate baron's estate decades prior). "Indeed. Most invasions do not begin with parchment and signatures, Your Holiness. But by all means, do continue your little tantrum."
The gathered ministers let out a collective gasp, clutching their rosaries as if mere proximity to my feline magnificence might doom their eternal souls. If only they knew—I had far greater concerns than their afterlives. For example, the subpar quality of this cathedral's tapestries. Truly, a disgrace.
The Pope's face twisted into something between rage and a very inconvenient bout of constipation. "You mock the sanctity of this chamber, beast," he spat.
"Technically, I am mocking you," I corrected. "The chamber, however, is innocent."
Hazelucci, ever the model of grace, merely smiled. "Your Holiness, let us not pretend this is anything but what it is. The territories in question have already chosen their allegiance. They are no longer yours. This is an opportunity for you to part with them peacefully. A moment of wisdom, if you will." She tilted her head, her honeyed tone carrying just the barest hint of steel. "And wisdom is in such short supply these days."
One of the Pope's advisors, a rotund man whose robes strained against the weight of his indulgences, cleared his throat. "The Holy Alchemist Brigade stands ready. The Paladin Orders are prepared to march."
Ah, yes. The infamous Alchemists—men who spent more time accidentally setting themselves on fire than performing miracles of science. And the Paladins, who mistook blind devotion for strategy and fervor for skill. A truly fearsome force, assuming one was facing an army of particularly aggressive livestock.
Hazelucci raised an elegant brow. "How fortunate for you," she said, tone dry enough to set fire to parchment. "And what, pray tell, do you imagine they will accomplish?"
The Pope straightened, as if remembering he was meant to be powerful. "They will defend these lands in the name of the Almighty."
I stretched luxuriously, my claws gleaming in the candlelight. "Then may the Almighty provide them with a more competent battle plan than the last war your church waged. That one ended with a lot of burning, if I recall."
The Pope's lips thinned. He knew. He knew how this would end. He could dress it up in scripture and holy fervor, but war was war. And he had just invited it to his doorstep.
Hazelucci sighed, rolling up the treaty and tucking it beneath her arm. "Then it is war, Your Holiness," she murmured, voice laced with the weight of inevitability. She turned toward the door, her crimson coat billowing behind her. "A pity."
And as we left that cathedral of fools and zealots, I couldn't help but wonder—just how much blood would stain those pristine marble floors before the year's end?
And with that, she turned on her heel, crimson coat billowing behind her like the first sign of a coming storm.
I would have clapped, had I not been too busy sharpening my claws for the bloodshed ahead.
Meanwhile, war had already begun before a single sermon of condemnation was finished.
The irony was almost too delicious. While the Pope and his ministers were still rattling their incense burners and composing flowery declarations of holy vengeance, the battlefield had already decided its victor. You see, war does not wait for bureaucracy. It does not pause for parchment and pontifications. It moves, it devours, and it does not care for the prayers of men who believe themselves untouchable simply because they wear funny hats.
Beta-02 "Apis Mellifera," our esteemed honeybee-branded division of death, had already landed in force. Soldiers, sleek and efficient as their namesake, descended upon Thor's Volcano with the kind of precision that makes generals weep with envy and poets write about battles they were too cowardly to fight in. The very heart of the Pope's fire-worshiping faithful—his sacred, lava-breathing monument to divine wrath—was taken before the paladins could even buckle their celestial-plated boots. Imagine them, half-dressed in their little gilded armor sets, scrambling for their swords as reports came in that their god's most hallowed ground was now under the control of an invading force that had not even paused for a dramatic speech.
It was almost poetic. The divine mountain, long believed to be the seat of their Lord's unyielding presence, was now under the dominion of those who did not even bother pretending to hear his whispers. And if they had? Well, I doubt they would have listened.
But while the papal fools wrung their hands over the loss of their holy furnace, something far worse was unfolding elsewhere. War is a many-headed beast, and the Netherward Realm had loosed it upon them with unflinching precision. Another front had opened in the blackened, cursed wastelands of Nameless Island. Now, if you have not heard of Nameless Island, allow me to educate you.
It is a place abandoned by history. The kind of place where the dead do not rest, and the living do not linger—not unless they have a remarkable lack of self-preservation instincts or a death wish so grand it deserves an award. No kings rule it, no banners claim it, and no prayers reach it. The soil is foul, the air thick with something that no living thing should breathe. The island itself is a scar on the world, a wound long left to fester, filled with things that should have been forgotten.
And yet, the Apis Mellifera forces, ever efficient, moved in like a swarm. Not recklessly, not with fear, but with the cold, calculated movements of those who have been trained to do the impossible. They secured ground that should never have been walked upon again. They marched into the graveyard of nightmares, planting flags where only whispers of the damned had once stood.
The Papal Government had wanted a war.
The Netherward Realm had simply given them one they could not win.