"We are going Relict hunting."
Konos's voice cut through the camp like a blade. The letter in his gloved hand bore the unmistakable watermark of the Architects—silver ink embossed with a hexagonal rune, only used by the Dag estate for operations sanctioned under Fornos's direct command.
Roa glanced over his shoulder, brows furrowed. "Is he sure?"
Konos didn't look up. "He wouldn't send this if he wasn't."
His grip tightened on the parchment as the wind rustled his cloak. Across from him, the messenger stood like a statue—expression unreadable beneath the smooth obsidian mask.
"Women," the masked courier spat, venom laced in the single word.
Peter bristled. "Why so hostile?"
Konos's smirk was dry. "He's thinking, 'how the hell did these barbarians manage to earn his validation?'"
The messenger said nothing, but his silence rang louder than words.
"Why?" Martin asked, stepping forward. "What does it matter to you?"
The messenger turned his head ever so slightly. "I will tell you," he said flatly, "if you survive."
Then he left, robes fluttering like crow feathers in the dust.
Peter exhaled. "Really arrogant."
"It's natural," Konos replied without offense. "Veterans often bristle at the arrival of fresh blood. Especially when the stakes involve Relicts."
Roa turned back, eyes narrowing. "What's in the letter anyway?"
Konos lifted the scroll again. His voice, always rough and low, gained the cadence of a formal directive:
"Objective: Secure a live Relict biopsy and harvesting rights.
Target: Behemoth type, City-class, lone specimen sighted over the Viscus Fault.
Architects will provide directions.
Field unit: Full strength, all 100 combatants and golem units.
Timeline: Depart within two months.
Equipment: Supply and custom equipment list attached.
—F.D."
Silence.
Even the creak of armor seemed subdued now.
Viscus Fault was a death sentence. Jagged terrain, high mana instability, and rumors of multiple dormant Relicts beneath the crust. That Fornos would target a City-class Behemoth—one of the most dangerous Relict types in recorded history—meant only one thing:
He had a larger plan.
Back in the coastal hills of the mainland, far from the dust and blood of the mobilizing Ash Company, the Dag estate sat in a rare pocket of silence.
In the shaded veranda, Voss Dag leaned back on a carved chair of obsidian wood, watching steam curl from a porcelain cup. His posture was relaxed—an old man at peace—but his eyes were sharp.
Across from him, Fornos sat with a ledger open in his lap, scanning the columns of requests from the Architect division.
"So," Voss asked mildly, "how are your arms doing?"
Fornos glanced up, confused. "Pardon?"
Voss chuckled softly. "Architects and Ash Company—you're stretching both arms outward, boy. Feels like you're preparing to carry something very heavy."
A new voice chimed in from the side. Mary Dag, eldest sister and de facto manager of the family's trade arbitration, stepped into view with a fresh stack of ledgers.
"He means: you're expanding at a pace that smells like war," she said, placing the records on the table. "You've spent more this season on classified equipment than you did during the entirety of the Zatack campaign."
Fornos set his pen down.
"I am not starting a war," he said. "I'm preparing for the inevitability of one."
Mary raised an eyebrow. "A Relict hunt isn't war. It's suicide—unless you know something the rest of the world doesn't."
"I don't know," Fornos said. "But I suspect. And the difference between the two is often just… time."
Voss sipped his tea, silent.
Mary leaned in, voice sharper. "You're not just going for a corpse, are you?"
"No."
"So what is it? You think you'll capture one alive? Forge some new breed of hybrid golem?" Her tone turned dangerous. "Or is this another show of strength meant for nobles with more ego than sense?"
Fornos didn't flinch. "I want to see if we can survive a City-class Relict—not just kill one. I want to test how long our units can remain operational in high-mana zones. I want to find out if Relict tissue—alive, and regenerating—can be integrated into a Codex circuit without necrosis. I want answers before someone else finds them and turns them into a crown."
Mary stared at him for a long time, then finally exhaled. "You're obsessed."
Fornos shrugged. "Possibly. But I remember a time when we had to kneel."
That silenced her more than any counterargument.
Voss finally spoke again. "You're doing this all without the Alliance Council knowing?"
"They'll know once we bring back results."
"And if your men die?"
"They joined willingly. Every member of the Ash Company knows the risk." He paused. "They've been conditioned to accept it. Part of the Codex links."
Mary turned away, half-impressed, half-horrified. "You're not building an army. You're building… a myth."
Fornos gave her a thin smile. "Not a myth. A precedent."
Out in the wildlands, preparations were already underway.
Mobile forges hissed with steam. Codex smiths carved commands into blank silver plates. Golem cores were tuned for hostile environments—some built from alloy blends designed to withstand Relict energies. Scout units rehearsed drop deployments from reinforced cliff platforms. Logistic teams mapped every known trail and fallback route through the Viscus Fault region.
This was no mere expedition.
It was a controlled crisis, wrapped in precision.
Konos stood at the edge of the training yard as the Ash Company trained under low sun, golems sparring in synchronized bursts of coordinated violence. He ran his fingers over the parchment again, the words burned into his memory.
Not many people had the ambition—or madness—to hunt a Relict alive.
But Fornos Dag did.
And Konos intended to survive it.