Morgan had stormed out, her threats falling on deaf ears. Rage churned within her—she had longed to carve the Zakharov brothers into pieces for their insolence. Alas, she could not.
After her departure, a comfortable silence settled over the grand living room. Noah lounged lazily in an armchair, a book in one hand and a glass of amber liquor in the other. Across from him, Isaac idly performed magic tricks with a deck of cards, flicking them between his fingers with casual mastery.
At length, Isaac shot a sullen glare at Noah, a frown creasing his brow.
"Why did you do that?" he asked sharply.
Noah looked up from his drink, the rim of the glass brushing his lips as he took a leisurely sip.
"Hmm... antagonizing a Great Clan is rarely a wise decision," he said, voice calm and unhurried. "It is better to resolve conflicts in a manner where neither party feels entirely defeated. Morgan didn't leave with everything she wanted, but she didn't walk away empty-handed, either. The Antarctica Campaign is fast approaching. What she needs now are resources, intelligence. I gave her both — a gesture to convey that we regret Klaus's actions and are willing to offer compensation."
Isaac snorted, leaning back in his chair with an irritated huff. He tossed back a gulp of scotch — then froze, staring at his glass with wide eyes, as if it had betrayed him.
For the love of dead gods, he thought with a sudden, absurd clarity.
Is our entire family a brood of alcoholics?!
Shaking his head in bewildered disbelief, Isaac pressed on.
"But the way you phrased it... it was all wrong. Wouldn't it have been better if we acted like we genuinely wanted to forge an alliance with her? We could have traded resources, gleaned information from Valor Clan... built contingencies. When the time was ripe, we could have betrayed them, seized everything for ourselves."
Noah regarded him for a moment, face unreadable. There was a certain ruthless logic to Isaac's words — they were, after all, Zakharovs, infamous for their cold, calculating pursuit of profit. Yet Isaac's strategies, while brilliant, always veered towards recklessness, they were gambles. His unpredictability was born of an innate dependence on his Aspect, which bent luck itself to his favor. What others would deem suicidal gambles, Isaac treated as mere steps on a grand chessboard.
Noah, however, preferred certainty.
Where Isaac would entrust their future to fortune's fickle hand, Noah sought the solidity of planning, of foresight. He could not — would not — wager the Zakharov legacy on a game of dice.
"No," Noah said firmly. "For now, we must maintain our neutrality. Observe the shifting tides. Rash decisions will doom us in the long run. Balance is our greatest ally. After all, no man is so foolish as to desire war over peace... for in peace, sons bury their fathers, but in war, fathers bury their sons."
Isaac stared into Noah's eyes for a few long, silent seconds. Then he sighed, defeated, shaking his head in resignation.
"Fine, fine. Whatever," he grumbled. "But I have a surprise for you."
Noah raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.
"Oh? And what might that be?"
Isaac grinned mischievously, springing from the couch with boyish enthusiasm and motioning for Noah to follow. Together, they made their way out of the mansion, the cool night air brushing against their faces as they crossed the lawn towards the lake.
They waited.
Moments later, the waters began to churn and ripple, parting with an almost supernatural grace. From the depths emerged a massive, ancient-looking door, groaning open to reveal a staircase spiraling into the earth below.
Noah frowned, both wary and intrigued. What was his brother up to, leading him into the depths of their hidden sanctums? Nevertheless, he followed without protest.
The Zakharovs were renowned for their vast businesses, immense resources, and subtle influence. Their true strength, however, lay cloaked beneath the surface — a titanic force that few truly comprehended. Only the Great Clans and the Government itself eclipsed their power.
Their organization was a beast of ruthless efficiency and merciless ambition. Yet, calling it "Zakharov Enterprises" or some such dull moniker would have been a disgrace.
No — Klaus, in his peculiar flair, had christened their creation "Chaos Ascendancy".
The first reason, embarrassingly enough, was simple: it sounded cool.
The second was far more profound — a reflection of Klaus's ambition. He sought not merely to survive but to stand atop the world, untouchable and supreme, forcing all beneath him to raise their eyes in awe and fear. Prideful, chaotic, relentless — Klaus embodied the spirit of rising through calamity stronger than before.
But Chaos Ascendancy was more than an ambition. It was a fortress, a crucible, a sanctuary. It gathered power, resources, knowledge. It protected itself with ruthless efficiency, operating with a cold, almost clinical sense of purpose.
While unified behind these goals, achieving them requires a wide variety of approaches. This has necessitated the creation of numerous departments, each specializing in a specific task, discipline or field.
At its core, Chaos Ascendancy was comprised of 15,000 personnel.
First among them were ten thousand elite soldiers. But these were no ordinary troops. They were veterans — grizzled, blood-soaked warriors who had faced Abominations as mere mortals and survived the madness. Their indomitable spirits and thirst for battle had once made them liabilities to the Government, which had quietly forced them into early retirement.
Yet where others saw broken men, the Zakharovs — with Miseria's unparalleled mastery over the mind — saw potential. She had healed them, purged their fractured psyches, and in doing so, restored them to a terrible, glorious prime.
Now, these battle-hardened titans served under the banner of Chaos Ascendancy — an army of the best the world had cast aside, united in loyalty and iron resolve.
The second pillar of Chaos Ascendancy's might were the Awakened warriors — a legion of merciless and fearsome fighters, trained to embody devastation itself.
Neither Klaus nor Noah had much affection for the traditional, almost ceremonial military structures favored by the Valor Clan's knights or the Awakened forces of the Song Clan. They found such rigid discipline stifling, predictable. Instead, Klaus, aided by Hemera and Lich, forged his warriors in an entirely different fire — one of brutality, resilience, and unyielding will.
Under Klaus's direct and merciless tutelage, these soldiers, whether mundane, Awakened, or even Ascended, were driven to their absolute limits. Forced to clash again and again until the brink of death claimed them, only to be pulled back by Hemera's radiant light and thrown into the fray anew. Through endless cycles of suffering and survival, they honed their instincts into deadly weapons. They were molded not merely to endure, but to dominate.
Their martial foundation lay in the Broken Sword's formless style — a flowing, adaptable art that eschewed rigid techniques in favor of raw creativity and instinct. Yet layered atop that foundation was the brutal, overwhelming combat doctrine once taught to Klaus by Azarax: a savage, relentless style that fused raw physical might with intricate, insidious techniques designed to crush the will of even the most formidable foe.
Thus, each soldier — while shaped by the same unforgiving crucible — emerged bearing their own unique battle style, a deadly individuality that made them unpredictable and all the more lethal.
The fruits of this merciless cultivation were staggering: five thousand Awakened soldiers, cold and efficient, honed into weapons sharper than any blade, prepared to respond to any threat with iron resolve.
And then there were the Ascended warriors — fifty of the most lethal individuals the world had ever birthed. Veterans of ceaseless wars against the corrupted spawn of the Nightmares, they were creatures of blade and blood, their souls tempered by decades of violence. Each bore an Aspect of singular power and frightening versatility, their loyalty hard-earned and unbreakable.
Noah himself had handpicked every one of them. Patient and meticulous, he sifted through histories, uncovered hidden ties, studied capabilities and potential, and chose only the finest — those who could become cornerstones of the Chaos Ascendancy's future might.
Chaos Ascendancy offered it's personnels
much, far beyond mere survival:
First:
Access to the ancient and forbidden knowledge of Sorcery. Whether it was the intricate artistry of Runic Sorcery or the more esoteric Sorcery of Names, the Ascendancy's facilities were open to them. Under Lich's austere guidance, those with the aptitude were initiated into mysteries few in the world could even dream of mastering.
Second:
Equipment of unparalleled value. Every soldier, from the lowliest mundane veteran to the most potent Ascended, was armed with powerful Memories and Echoes — artifacts Klaus had swindled in vast numbers from the Great Clans themselves.
Moreover, each was granted a dimensional storage bag, custom-enchanted by Klaus. These bags, exclusive to Chaos Ascendancy personnel, allowed them to efficiently harvest and transport soul shards and Nightmare carcasses.
Even the mundane soldiers, though lacking Soul Seas to absorb Memories or Echoes, were given enchanted weapons — blades and tools inscribed with lethal runes, capable of carving through both monstrous horrors and Awakened foes alike.
Third:
For their Awakened warriors, the Ascendancy offered something even more precious: an endless supply of purified soul shards.
With these, their soldiers could saturate their cores, strengthening themselves in preparation for the inevitable ascent to even greater power.
With such a foundation — ruthless training, superior knowledge, unmatched equipment, and ceaseless cultivation — Chaos Ascendancy secured for itself a force not only of loyalists but of monsters clad in human flesh, bound together by ambition and necessity.
Thus, while the world still perceived the Zakharovs as mere merchants, manipulators, and businessmen, few realized the dreadful truth: hidden behind the facade of civility was a rising dominion — a behemoth, slowly, inexorably, preparing to cast its shadow over the world.
Of course, even with such might, destruction was always a possibility. They might burn and fall before ever achieving their grand designs.
But Noah merely smiled coldly at the thought, the fire of grim determination flickering in his eyes.
Who cares…?
Burn to reach the sun, huh?
...Icarus.