With that mix of stubborn pride and annoyance, Anno's replies to the archmages grew more and more blunt. She'd been pampered since birth, treated like a princess, and even though she knew all the right etiquette, she'd never been intimidated by people like this!
Yet another mage was about to question her—but just as she was about to snap, Vajra, seated at the head of the table, finally spoke up: "Thank you for your work, Lady Anno. Regarding Priest Charles's decisive contribution, there should be no question or doubt."
All at once, Anno's mood brightened as if spring had arrived; she found Vajra easier on the eyes than ever.
Honestly, because of her own background, she'd always carried a bias against Vajra—the legendary archmage who'd clawed her way up from the gutter trash of the city slums. In Anno's mind, she'd thought Vajra only got the seat because the previous, corrupt Open Lord wanted a weak, controllable puppet.
But now…
Maybe Anno's instincts weren't so bad after all!
She couldn't help but beam with delight, thrilled that Charles's achievements had finally received the recognition they deserved.
"I've been fully briefed on this matter. You may go get some rest," Vajra continued from the head chair. "As for your own reward for this operation, please await official notice. Oh—and I'll need you to deliver the thanks and reward to Priest Charles as well."
Anno could hardly feel better. She stood, offered a polite farewell, and made her exit—itching for Charles to return so she could share the good news with him herself.
As soon as the door closed, the atmosphere in the conference room grew dour. The archmages sitting to Vajra's sides looked particularly put out.
"I really didn't expect the Abyssal Lord to be wiped out so quickly," sighed an old man with a scholar's white beard and a face full of wrinkles. "We'd hoped to draw things out until council convened, so we could use it as leverage to argue for more funding."
"Now our plans for expansion and additional funding will probably have to be postponed," said a handsome young sun elf with golden hair and brilliant blue eyes. "The lawmakers definitely don't want to see us grow stronger—they'll find any excuse to slash budgets, downsize our staff, and instead funnel funds into central district law enforcement."
"And another problem," groused a gnome hunkering low in his chair. "Why couldn't Anno push her own achievements a little more? She insists on putting all the credit on that Charles guy. Makes it like Blackstaff Tower did nothing! All those years of expanding, building Force Grey, and whoever—the public will think it's just a joke."
The other archmages all nodded, clearly sharing his frustration.
For years, Blackstaff Tower had been striving to expand—more territory, more manpower, larger budgets, fatter coffers.
Montport's invasion had been a golden opportunity. Otherwise, Anno wouldn't have been assigned so many new recruits to take into the mountains for training.
It was a product of the rapid expansion mentality among Blackstaff's upper ranks. But with Montport's death, their position suddenly looked precarious:
How could a fully expanded magical order let an "outsider" handle the most dangerous threat? Did Blackstaff Tower exist just to waste money and build up its own private army?
The archmages now all felt awkward. They'd really hoped Anno would step up as the hero of Montport's downfall—except, for whatever reason, she just wouldn't play along.
That made their public relations situation a nightmare.
Watching her colleagues, Vajra's face was the picture of boredom.
"If it's really inconvenient, then stop the expansion," she said suddenly. "Give credit where it's due, downsize the staff if needed."
"Not every crisis is a Great Old Ones scenario. Blackstaff Tower—with those present—is enough."
The archmages stared at each other in shock, but Vajra wasn't giving them any room to argue.
She had her own reasons: as a legendary mage with artifacts in hand, it still took Laeral Silverhand's help to banish Shudde M'ell, one of the Great Old Ones.
To Vajra, the memory was a humiliation. She'd do whatever it took to redeem herself; the thought of asking for more funds and resources right now was intolerable for her pride.
...
Central District, Blue Dragon Bank, grand performance hall on the ground floor.
The enormous lobby was decked out in dazzling style—costly colored lamps glowed softly, bathing the stage in shifting rainbow light, never too harsh for the eyes.
Maidens in pure white gowns stretched their arms and danced to gentle, lyrical music—their graceful movements enchanting even the least cultured guest.
In the best seats on the second floor, the hulking body of Blue Dragon Rahman took center stage. To his right, his sharply dressed blue dragonborn secretary stood at attention, ready for any command.
Seated at Rahman's left, Charles lounged in a comfortable chair, two fruit platters within easy reach—one with fresh fruit, one with dried goodies, a snack anytime he liked.
Yes, he had already returned to Liberl Port.
After helping the satyrs set up all the necessary buildings, he'd planned to stay put and focus on preaching for a while.
But after only a few days, a message arrived from the blue dragons. Rahman asked when he was coming back—the whole Bank had already heard about Charles's defeat of the Demon Lords and had laid out a victory banquet. No one was allowed to eat a bite until Charles showed up.
From Rahman's messages, Charles could feel the blue dragons' overwhelming excitement and hospitality. He couldn't leave them hanging. He left the new branch for the witches to manage and made his way to Liberl Port for the blue dragons' celebration.
And that led to the present moment.
He'd known the blue dragons' banquet would be lavish, but witnessing it in person nearly knocked him flat: not only had the entire Blue Dragon Bank skyscraper been transformed into a feast hall, but orchestras, dance troupes, and media outlets crowded every floor, documenting the entire event in minute detail.
Their hospitality was so over-the-top, Charles couldn't help but marvel—internally thinking only blue dragons could be this extravagantly wasteful.
But hey, it was their money—they could do whatever they liked with it. It didn't bother him in the slightest, so he joined in, feasted and celebrated with them all day long.
And now, at night, they were down to the final acts, enjoying the very best of the dancers and musicians.
Suddenly, Rahman leaned over, looking at Charles: "You don't really care for this sort of thing, huh?"
Charles forced a smile, hiding his complete lack of high-culture experience. "No, it's beautiful. Very elegant. I... I love it."
Truth be told, he didn't. The dancing was lovely, but whatever they were trying to express went way over his head—he'd never had this kind of training, so he couldn't immerse himself in it, couldn't really enjoy "the arts."
"You don't have to pretend. Just say it if you're bored," Rahman said, reading his real mood at a glance. "This entire banquet is for you. I want you to be happy."
"If you're not into this kind of light song and dance, I can throw in a few hundred dragon crowns and have them do a strip show instead."
He paused for effect, then continued, "Or if you want, you can go up and dance with them yourself."
Charles: "…No, no, that's okay. This is great, really."
Before Rahman could press the point, Charles hurriedly shifted the topic. "So, Prince Rahman—aren't you curious about what really happened in the mountains? All the gory details?"
Rahman dropped the subject and got serious. "Of course I am. Official word is, you killed the Abyssal Lord."
"But I've also heard rumors—that the real driving force in the Montport hunt was the hunting squad, and you just happened to finish off the Abyssal Lord as he tried to run."
"None of these stories change today's celebration, or anything that comes after—but I didn't see it with my own eyes, so I can't help but wonder. What really happened?"
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