Even as Danche sang his own praises, his heart was pounding. What if Charles saw through it and dismissed the entire technique as worthless?
Truth be told, Danche was starting to doubt the value of his tribe’s signature secret, too.
After seeing the dwarves’ Griffon Knights in action—their skies filled with well-trained, perfectly disciplined griffons—he couldn’t help but question his own people’s legacy: Could even his proudest chiras ever match that level of control and obedience?
He’d spent the last few days in deep reflection. It was hard to admit, but since the accident that crippled his leg, his confidence and hot-blooded pride had faded. With a clear head, he had to reach a painful conclusion: No. They simply couldn’t.
Chiras were, after all, the creations of demons—magical monsters who might obey commands for a while, might even cooperate in battle, but would never truly form a disciplined, reliable army.
So, the upper limit was clear. With chiras, the Chira Tribe could remain a formidable force of over a thousand among the mountains—but dreaming of a ten- or hundred-thousand-strong nation, a dwarven-style kingdom like Gauntlgrym? Impossible.
Realizing this, Danche abandoned a lot of his old ambitions and sches. He also realized the value of their chira-taming secrets would only keep dropping over ti.
So, why not sell high, while it was still rare? Trade it away for a more promising future for his people.
With these thoughts in mind, Danche continued, "I’m sharing it with you now—so you can have a powerful air force. In exchange, I want a promise: that in your new settlent, there will always be a place for our tribe."
He finished and took a deep breath, silently praying Charles didn’t see through his little ploy. "So, what do you say to this deal?"
Charles studied the half-orc, thoughtful.
Taming chiras wasn’t exactly unheard of—and the real value wasn’t all that high. As a monster unit, chiras were certainly destructive—with a challenge rating of six, they packed a punch—but they were just as likely to go berserk, rampaging friend and foe alike. Friendly fire and loss were all but guaranteed.
On every ranking chart, chiras always placed low. If the enemies had no way of disrupting chira minds, you could use them—if they did, chiras would quickly beco more of a liability than an asset.
Even with this training thod, Charles had no intention of making chiras his army’s core.
But...
He had other considerations.
"All right, Chief Danche." Charles said, "I can’t deny this technique has value. It’s a fair trade—I’m on board."
Unlike with Willo, Charles hadn’t gone out of his way to manipulate Danche. The fact that Danche was willing to trust him—a chief who could command thousands, with real vision—was worth more than the secret itself.
Danche nearly jumped for joy—only his bad leg kept him from making a scene.
Suddenly, he grew solemn, choosing his words with care. "This is the promise of my entire clan. Even if I’m not chief one day, I ask that you honor it."
Charles froze in surprise. "You’re not... oh."
He watched as Danche patted his own thigh and suddenly understood.
A tribe like Danche’s needed bold, strong chiefs. There was no way a crippled man could hold the seat forever; sooner or later, he’d be deposed. He might never inherit the position for real.
Realizing this, Charles frowned, thought for a mont, then reached out and clapped Danche on the shoulder, "Don’t be like that, Danche. Stay positive—your leg can be fixed, I’m sure."
"And even if it can’t, your tribe’s best shot at the future is with you in command."
Danche forced a wry smile. "Thanks for the encouragent, Charles."
"It’s not just encouragent." Charles’ tone was serious now. "It’s the truth. Your clan is small, with little capital; that’s why so many old customs still seem set in stone."
"But once you grow a bit bigger, you’ll learn—a chief with vision matters way more than soone who’s just strong and healthy."
Danche just shrugged. "Others could still do it."
"Maybe soday. But right now—tonight—only you ca to , isn’t that so?"
Danche was montarily speechless.
...
Liberl Port, Mithral District, Cassalanter Family castle.
In a hidden chamber, the richly dressed, heavily painted, and overweight Ammalia Cassalanter sat in her oversized chair, brow furrowed, worry etched into every line of her face. Opposite her, the usually smiling cambion apostle Regolas—his own makeup thick enough to be a mask—was as tense as she was, eyes sharp and searching.
"So, after everything we’ve done, all the blood and sweat, in the end all the credit for defeating the Abyssal Lord goes to so upstart pretty-boy Seinite nobody?" The matriarch spoke slowly after a long pause, her tone seething. "Outrageous!"
Regolas shrugged. "Utterly outrageous. The nobles did all the work, and he just stole the glory with the finishing blow."
"And all because his lover works at Blackstaff Tower... Truth is, Matriarch, this really isn’t fair to you."
"It’s absolutely unfair!" Ammalia Cassalanter declared. "Mr. Shapiro, sponsored by the Cassalanter Family, dealt the killing blow to the Abyssal Lord! We even took out a massive anti-demon loan from the gold dragonborn!"
"We can’t have those freeloaders twisting the truth, misleading the masses. The truth has to co out!"
Regolas nodded. "Absolutely. And if I may suggest: all the other nobles who contributed money, n, or effort—even if they get no credit, at least they deserve their share of the glory. We can’t let one guy take everything!"
Ammalia caught on instantly. "Of course! We suffered trendous losses, and fought selflessly. If even our reputation is stolen, what hope is there for good folk?"
"I’ll get right on it. The truth will be shouted from the rooftops!"
Regolas’s practiced smile returned. "Thank you, Matriarch. I have other business to attend to, so I’ll take my leave."
With that, his body beca a beam of light and vanished from the hidden chamber. Ammalia let out a long sigh, got up, and, moving swiftly, slipped outside to the backyard, quietly opening the entrance to the sewers below.
There, her strongest ally was waiting. It had bungled things before, but the covenant hadn’t been dissolved—now was the ti to reactivate that pact!
Elsewhere, Regolas teleported into a shadowy corner. There, dressed in leather, with a huge scythe slung over his back, Shapiro was busy tearing into a roast chicken.
When he noticed Regolas appear, Shapiro imdiately turned, glaring fiercely. "My job’s done. When do I get the proof I was promised?"
He couldn’t fully suppress the force in his voice, nor the nace in his eyes.
Regolas simply smiled, everything under control. "Patience, my dear Shapiro. What I promised you is as good as yours."
"Just give it a little longer. If things go smoothly, even those lost Illusionist’s Bracers could find their way back into your hands..."
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