[Hogun POV]
It's been a week since I last stepped into the hospital, and now, unfortunately, I was trapped in something far more dangerous than battlefield gunfire—diplomacy. I was deep in negotiations with envoys from more nations than I cared to count. Each one of them clung to their demands like barnacles on a hull, and none of them knew how to shut up and compromise.
The only exception? The Columbia envoy.
He was currently twirling around like a sugar-hyped squirrel in a bureaucrat's uniform, singing praises about our proposed immigrant exchange and food trade. Poor man thought he'd just secured the jackpot of humanitarian aid and agricultural bounty.
He didn't know the half of it.
Thanks to the toolgun—and my shameless abuse of mods—I had strategically placed food spawners across key points in the Citadel and every up-and-coming village. Wheat, meat, fruits, milk, canned goods—heck, even energy bars. We weren't just self-sustaining—we were overflowing.
And unlike most idealistic idiots, I made sure to add automatic security measures. Guard towers. Drone patrols. Highway turrets camouflaged as road signs. I built the roads myself using snap-grid alignment and reinforced them with AI-controlled maintenance bots.
We were untouchable.
[Hogun]: James, send in the next sacrificial lamb—I mean, envoy.
He gave me the usual deadpan stare, clearly unimpressed with how I handled the last few guests. So far, I'd hosted representatives from Victoria, Kazimierz, Siracusa, Columbia, Laterano, Yan, Higashi, Sargon, and more. About twenty or so.
Only a few are left without limping.
The Columbia envoy left practically dancing. The Siracusan envoy made a solid offer involving joint anti-crime operations. Higashi was quiet, respectful, and even bowed properly. Kazimierz surprised me—they actually proposed a knight-exchange program. Sargon's envoy brought spices and asked about firearms; we gave them a tourist pamphlet and sent them to the training yard.
The rest?
Headaches.
The Yan envoy actually had the gall to suggest we submit to their emperor. I nearly threw him off the Nomadic City until James—buzzkill as always—stopped me. He still got a solid kick in the royal orbs. He left screeching.
The Victoria envoy called us savages and barbarians.
[Hogun]: And then he had the audacity to act surprised when he woke up with a dislocated jaw and no pants and his left royal orb missing.
James didn't respond.
Laterano's envoy wanted to discuss weapons manufacturing and tech exchange, but the moment I showed them the AK-90 Modular Variant—equipped with under-barrel ion disruptors and magnetized recoil absorption—they ran off to try it on the range. Iberia's envoy followed, muttering prayers about divine firepower.
I had to keep checking my mods and the wiki just to deal with these clowns. Thank God for my private browser plugin—or I'd be saying the wrong thing and accidentally declare war on half the world.
But today's peak nonsense award went to the Kazdel envoy.
A vampiric freak named Sanguinarch, oozing menace and arrogance, came bearing a list of demands. Top of that list?
Theresa.
Well, technically, "Theresa's daughter," which I'm pretty sure meant the pink-haired clone currently living under my protection.
He threw around threats about Theresis, the Sarkaz race, and some "wraith of vengeance." I just stared at him.
Then I froze him with the Toolgun mid-monologue.
For the next thirty minutes, I vented. Used him as a stress relief dummy. Smashed his family jewels with every blunt object in reach until I calmed down enough to wipe the blood off my gloves. When I was done, I unpaused him just long enough to watch him scream, then launched him halfway across the continent using the Gravity Gun. He should be landing in Kazdel about… now.
[James]: Was that a wise decision, General?
[Hogun]: Wiser than letting him walk out of here with a threat. He comes back, I'll send his atoms to orbit next time.
But then—
BEEP.
One of my wrist mods lit up, casting a pale glow on the desk. I tapped it. A screen unfolded midair with a flick of my finger.
My mood soured instantly.
[Hogun]: You've got to be kidding me…
The screen showed a new visitor's ID ping at the outer gate.
Sender: Yan.
Type: Diplomatic.
Escort Tag: Penguin Logistics
Personnel: Wei Yenwu. Ch'en.
I leaned back slowly in my chair, hands laced behind my head, staring at the screen like it owed me money.
[Hogun]: So Wei sent himself this time. Playing envoy, huh? That old fox must be desperate.
I could understand Penguin Logistics. They're chaos incarnate, but useful—the kind of mercs you hire when you want a job done with maximum style and minimum collateral damage. Probably bribed with milk tea and bounties.
I could even stomach Wei pretending to be an envoy. I knew him—disciplined, sharp, too smart for his own good. If he showed up, it meant he had something important. Probably a lead on the others.
But her?
Her presence hit me like a sucker punch.
Ch'en.
So that's his angle. Wei brought her to throw me off balance. Psychological warfare, old-school Yan style. But two can play at that game—I left a few "surprise" toxic bombs rigged in his diplomatic quarters. Just in case.
[Hogun]: Let him in, James.
James nodded and pressed the button.
I regretted it immediately.
The door hissed open, and chaos walked in wearing sunglasses and free-spirited grins.
Penguin Logistics.
Exusiai was already handing out drinks she somehow brought past the weapon scanners. Texas followed, silent and sharp-eyed, like she was casing the place. Mostima strolled in with her hands in her coat pockets, radiating calm lunacy. Sora was humming something vaguely holy and terribly off-key.
Radiating calm lunacy. Sora was humming something vaguely holy and terribly off-key.
Then came Wei Yenwu, looking like he'd just outplayed every general on the continent and wanted everyone to know it.
And behind him…
Ch'en.
Her face was flushed red—likely from the wine Exusiai shoved into her hands—but I could tell. It wasn't just the alcohol. She was glancing toward me in intervals, each time turning away sharply, redder than before. James said something, and she actually laughed.
I scowled. Treacherous butler.
I leaned forward in my seat.
[Hogun]: So, Wei… you've got something for me?
He smiled—no, he grinned—like a man who just won a hundred-year game of chess and checkmated a dragon.
[Wei]: Indeed. I got some juicy information about the people you're looking for.
He produced a photograph from his sleeve with that practiced, theatrical elegance all Yan officials seem to learn in childhood. I took it from him.
Two people. Blurred, but recognizable.
Queen. And Khan.
[Hogun]: …That's them.
[Wei]: The photo was taken in Siracusa. Right after, they disappeared. According to my sources, they were buying supplies and asking about a place called Whiteveil. Sound familiar?
I frowned, flipping the photo over.
[Hogun]: They're searching for the Citadel… and the portal.
Only fifteen days had passed since I arrived in this world. In that time, I'd built a city, kicked six envoys in the crotch, and declared war on three noble houses. And accidentally started a trade empire fueled by overpowered food spawners and modded farming tools. And now, just when things were starting to stabilize, my missing pieces had started to move.
They were close.
James, without needing a word, handed Wei a document—a full benefits list, signed and sealed, with the Citadel's eagle crest. Another one was passed to Emperor, who had been suspiciously silent in the back corner, sipping sparkling water from a tiny crystal goblet like a mob boss at a pool party.
[Emperor]: I want the Five Stars Dawn office building.
[Hogun]: The one overlooking the lake?
[Emperor]: And with heated floors. My penguin feet aren't what they used to be.
Of course.
Wei took his list next and didn't hesitate.
[Wei]: I want two things. First: a formal peace agreement between Yan and the Citadel. Mutual non-aggression, border respect, all that. Second: a trade treaty between Lungmen and the Citadel, independent of Yan's influence.
I tilted my head. Bold. Smart. Dangerous.
[Hogun]: Didn't take you for a man who likes to be ordered around.
[Wei]: I don't. But the emperor does. And he'll hate every second of knowing I signed this deal without him.
His grin widened—no, split—his face. I swear it nearly reached his ears. He wasn't just making deals; he was waging a cold war with his own emperor. Classic Wei.
[Wei]: When word spreads, the nobles and lords of Yan will see that he owes me a favor. It's a humiliation that lasts generations.
He sipped tea from a tiny white porcelain cup, unfazed by the fact that Exusiai and Texas were now using my diplomatic table as a beer pong arena.
I glanced once more at Ch'en. She was watching me now, quiet, unreadable, and didn't turn away this time.
Yeah. This was about to get complicated.
[Hogun]: James. Bring out the ceremonial liquor. And some aspirin.
He didn't even flinch—just gave a crisp nod and vanished through the side door.
I stared at the photo again, gripping it with a tightness I didn't realize until the edge crumpled under my thumb.
It showed two of my own.
Not diplomats. Not locals.
Players.
The ones I lost when the world glitched and yanked us all offline.
The ones I'd been trying to track since the day I woke up here, blinking into a sky that didn't belong to Earth.
Pirate Queen. Chaos on two legs and a naval blockade in one ship.
Red Khan. War incarnate with a horse god complex and a blade thirstier than any vampire.
They were in Siracusa, asking the right questions—the dangerous kind. About portals. About Whiteveil.
Which meant one thing.
They were hunting the truth.
They were hunting me.
And if they were here, then Hast and Light Angel Mechanical couldn't be far behind.
Five players. One scattered guild.
Dropped into a powder keg of politics, empires, and ancient horrors.
They thought we were just anomalies. Strays. Survivors.
They were wrong.
[James]: General, here's the wine.
He returned like clockwork, cradling a bottle wrapped in red silk and a silver aspirin tin.
[Hogun]: James... you're one of the ten people I trust in this world.
Even through that emotionless gas mask, I knew he smiled. He always did when I said that.
He stood tall, shoulders square, posture perfect. Loyal. Unshakable.
A soldier, yes. But more than that—family.
And I'd burn kingdoms to the ground before I let anyone lay a finger on my people.
I poured two glasses—clear crystal, filled with the deep amber ceremonial liquor that burned like truth and tasted like war.
[Hogun]: Drink with me, Wei. Not just as a guest... but as someone who knows what it's like to play politics with blood on the floor.
Wei looked at the glass. Hesitated.
Then he took it.
He didn't drink right away. Just studied it—like it held the answers to every bad decision he'd ever made. The light from the room caught the liquid, painting his face in gold and crimson. He looked tired beneath the calm. Sharp, but worn.
[Hogun]: You know, we're building something here. Something that could change this world. Roads, security, food independence, even power grids. A citadel that stands on freedom, not fear.
I leaned in, voice lowering as the weight behind my words hit.
[Hogun]: I can give you a place in it. You've got the brains. The steel. The scars. Come with us. Bring Lungmen with you. Be your own power under the Citadel's protection. Walk away from Yan.
Wei finally took the drink. A small sip. No reaction. Not even a blink.
[Wei]: I appreciate the offer. But it's not time yet.
He set the glass down, precise and quiet.
[Wei]: The emperor may be a fool, but he's my fool. And Lungmen—my people—they still need me in Yan's shadow. I can't walk away until certain debts are paid... and certain knives are broken.
I didn't argue. I respected it. Wei wasn't a man who spoke in riddles. If he said it wasn't time, that meant war still waited for him on the horizon.
[Hogun]: Fine. Just don't die before the party starts. I've got four seats left at the table—and I intend to fill them.
Wei smiled—just a twitch of the corner of his mouth.
[Wei]: Then keep the fire burning. And don't lose that girl again. She keeps looking at you like you forgot something important.
He nodded once toward Ch'en, still quietly talking to James at the far side of the room.
I raised the glass to him, and this time, he raised his own.
For one brief moment, we drank—not as envoys or generals—but as men with too many enemies and not enough time.
I looked at the Map of this world as I downed a drink.
[Extra: The Library Master is jealous]
Angela stabbed her fork into the lemon cake like it had personally offended her.
Crumbs flew.
Fury simmered behind her glowing eyes as she chewed with intense determination. The table around her was filled with the women of the Library—Hod nervously sipping tea, Malkuth quietly bouncing in her seat, Tiphereth watching with wide eyes, Gebura smirking, and Binah swirling her wine with that ever-present amused look of silent judgment.
The only one missing was that insufferably cheerful rabbit girl.
[Gebura]: So let me get this straight… You called us all here for some tea and tactics because you're jealous? Of Hast? Over that man? I thought you hated Light. You did call him a "malfunctioning toaster with delusions of grandeur," didn't you?
Angela's eye twitched. The fork cracked.
[Angela]: I did not sign that marriage contract because I liked him.
[Malkuth]: Oh, so it was just for the… tactical alliance?
[Hod]: Or maybe his lemon cake?
[Tiphereth]: Or maybe the way he walks around without a shirt sometimes when the system's cooling fails?
Angela slammed her fork down, eyes glowing a little brighter.
[Angela]: He is mine. My Light. My AI. My partner. If that neon-haired interloper thinks she can waltz in, flirt, and hijack my toaster, then she's mistaken.
[Binah]: It seems emotions are data packets you still haven't fully parsed.
[Gebura]: So… what's the plan, oh jealous Empress of the Library?
Angela rose, brushing off her skirt with the precision of a queen preparing for war. Her eyes flared with a cold glow, her expression the definition of refined rage.
[Angela]: We prepare a mission. And we send Roland as the advance scout.
She paused, lips curling into a dangerous smirk.
[Angela]: One that just so happens to involve me personally retrieving Light from wherever he's currently gallivanting around with Miss Hast. We will be… checking on system integrity. Thoroughly.
[Tiphereth]: With backup?
[Malkuth]: Ooh! We should all dress up like brides! Emotional pressure tactic! I already have veils!
[Hod]: Wait, wait—do we even know where Light is right now?
[Binah]: He's currently in the city junkyards with Miss Hast, searching for parts to build that teleportation device.
She took a sip of wine, voice calm as a still lake
[Hod]: Apparently, Light requires fresh blood to stabilize his cooling system in the absence of that oh-so-rare Blood Oil from Sky City.
[Tiphereth]: W-wait… blood? Like, real blood?
[Binah]: Yes. From the recently deceased, usually. Not the most efficient substitute. It's about 80% less effective, in fact.
[Hod]: That sounds… horrifying. And also incredibly unsanitary?
[Malkuth]: Ugh! He's running on murder coolant?! Angela, is this who you married?
Angela's eyes twitched again.
[Angela]: It's temporary. He's adapting. Improvising. That's what he was built for. He's still my Light. Even if he's… dripping occasionally.
[Gebura]: So he's hot-blooded… literally.
[Angela]: That pun was as outdated as your combat routines.
Gebura chuckled while Angela turned away, sweeping her hand dramatically.
[Angela]: Assemble the Librarium envoy. We'll send Roland as a forward agent. He'll distract Hast. I will personally oversee Light's recovery and optimization. I refuse to let that white-haired junkyard queen continue hijacking his attention and overclocking his emotional core.
[Malkuth]: Can I still wear the bridal dress?
[Angela]: …Fine. But only if it's white.
[Hod]: We're going to war... with lace and vengeance.
A bridal blitzkrieg. Fitting for a Library built on blood and obsession.
[Meanwhile, somewhere in the junkyards of The City…]
[Light]: Blood temperature: optimal. Core cooling… stabilized. At 22%.
He flicked open a hatch on his shoulder. A thin red mist hissed out as internal vents pumped cooled pressure through his pseudo-musculature.
[Hast]: Hey, Light? You really need to stop bleeding people for AC. That stuff smells. You're leaving a trail, you know.
[Light]: Would you prefer I detonate mid-conversation?
[Hast]: I could give you some of mine, y'know. Better than you draining random bandits.
[Light]: Your blood type is incompatible with 64% of my subroutines. Also… no. Too precious.
[Hast]: ...Tch. Dumb machine.
They didn't notice the shimmer behind a wrecked hover-hauler, nor the tiny glass lens poking out.
[Back in the Library…]
Angela was trembling.
With fury. And maybe… a crumb of panic.
[Angela]: Fresh blood? From her?
[Gebura]: Oh, this just keeps getting better. Someone get the popcorn and a shotgun.
[Malkuth]: Wait—does that mean Hast is, like… feeding him? That's totally a thing in romantic subculture archives. Like, symbolic and all!
[Tiphereth]: Blood-sharing equals emotional bonding in 87% of comparative files.
[Hod]: Sooo... he's not a vampire… right?
[Binah]: No, merely a walking war crime with a cooling fetish and questionable boundaries.
Angela slammed her teacup down with exact precision.
[Angela]: He doesn't need blood. He's showing off that ridiculous pseudo-biological chassis upgrade. Again.
She turned with regal fury, eyes glowing faint blue.
[Angela]: Initiate Protocol: Retrieval. Send Roland. Tell him to bring my Light back. Alive. Unleaking. And definitely not flirting with the snow-haired grease princess.
[Chapter end]