CAIUS: Crown of Threads and Shadows

A full year had passed since the reclamation of Castle Precipice, and the Shattered Steppes had fundamentally transformed. The harsh winds that once swept over barren plains now carried the thunderous, synchronized rhythm of tens of thousands of armored boots.

High atop the basalt balcony of the Black Granite Citadel, Caius stood in silence, his dark mantle billowing behind him. Beside him stood Old Bones, a transformed version of the master spy. Having successfully used Caius’s refined Calamity Forge method, the old elf had shattered his thirty-year bottleneck. His once-withered frame was now straight and imbued with a terrifying, liquid shadow aura, his pale skin rejuvenated. The ancient elf truly deserved his new moniker.

”The force is fully assembled, My Lord,” Old Bones reported, his voice smooth and resonant. ”One year of blood, sweat, and ruthless integration. They are no longer separate tribes.”

Caius looked down at the vast parade grounds below.

Assembled in perfect formation were ten thousand warriors: the newly forged Tri-Race Quick-Reaction Legion. To the left stood four thousand Orc Berserkers in heavy obsidian plate. In the center stood three thousand Barbarian Vanguard shock-troops carrying massive iron tower-shields. To the right stood three thousand Dark Elf Shadow-Runners in midnight-leather, their curved dual blades gleaming with dark mana enchantments. Beside them came three hundred fully grown, hyper-evolved Arachne Vanguard beasts from the subterranean hatchery, their chitin armor as thick as steel.

”You are certain the human rats caught their glimpse?” Caius asked softly.

Old Bones offered a sharp, sinister smile. ”Every single one, My Lord. I personally ensured three of Duke Alban’s top shadow-scouts managed to escape our perimeter last night. They saw the full parade. They saw the Arachne vanguard. By now, they are riding their mounts to death to deliver the news to the capital.”

Caius smirked. He had no intention of launching an unprovoked march across the border into human lands just yet. However, letting the Solarian Kingdom panic and react on his timeline was a far more delicious strategy.

Days later, inside the grand war chamber of the Solarian Royal Capital, a suffocating silence hung over the heavy oak table.

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King Alden sat at the head of the chamber, his brow furrowed in deep rage as he stared at the parchment report. Beside him, Duke Alban stood with a deathly pale face, his hands trembling slightly as he read the scout’s magical transcript.

”Ten thousand...” King Alden muttered, his voice cold and dangerously quiet. ”An integrated legion of Orcs, Barbarians, Dark Elves, and ridden subterranean monstrosities? In a single year?!”

”My Liege,” Duke Alban stammered, stepping forward. ”Our intelligence predicted it would take them at least three to five years to unite those savages! The new Sovereign of the Steppes isn’t just a powerful spellcaster, he is an organizational monster. If we give them another year, that ten thousand will become fifty thousand!”

King Alden narrowed his eyes, gripping the edges of the mahogany table. ”How many total fighting-age orcs can this boy actually call for war if he summons the entire Steppes?”

A senior noble across the table scoffed softly, waving a dismissive hand. ”Thirty thousand at most, Your Majesty. But these are orcs, not the elite like Caius has.”

The other lords murmured in agreement, their inherited arrogance shining through despite the panic. To the Solarian nobility, orcs were little more than base animals, incapable of true military refinement or strategic coordination. They looked down upon the green-skinned race with absolute contempt, refusing to believe mere tribals could ever match the glory of human steel.

”And where do we stand on our own mobilization?” King Alden demanded, brushing past the dismissive remarks to face the hard military reality.

”Our Imperial Grand Host is only fifty percent ready, Your Majesty,” the high marshal reported hesitantly. ”We have assembled roughly fifty thousand men. The remaining noble levies are still assembling in the southern duchies.”

”We cannot wait for the southern levies!” King Alden cut him off, his eyes flashing with desperate, ruthless resolve. ”If we allow this Sovereign to consolidate his hold over the Steppes, the entire northern frontier is doomed! We must crush this newborn beast before it learns how to fly!”

King Alden stood up, his royal cape sweeping behind him as he laid his hand on the pommel of his sword.

”Order the fifty thousand ready troops to march! We do not wait another season. In one month, I will personally lead the Imperial Grand Host into the Shattered Steppes. We will burn Castle Precipice to ash and wipe this Sovereign from the map!”

Back at the Citadel, Old Bones received the magic-scry dispatch from the capital with a quiet chuckle. He turned to Caius, who sat calmly on his throne, swirling a glass of dark wine.

”It worked precisely as you predicted, My Lord,” Old Bones bowed low. ”King Alden is terrified. He has abandoned full mobilization and intends to march with fifty thousand men in one month. He is coming directly into our trap.”

Caius took a slow sip, a cold, predatory smile spreading across his face.

”Let him come,” Caius whispered. ”Fifty thousand proud humans, marching straight into the jaws of the Steppes.”