"Effective immediately!"
Leo's voice fell like law from the heavens.
"Expand the Magic Academy's scale. Establish the new colleges named above. Open admissions to the entire city—regardless of race, origin, wealth, or status. Anyone who passes the examinations may enroll.
Form an Academy Board of Trustees, with Headmaster Elarielle as chair, to set academic standards, select faculty, and confer degrees. Establish an Academic Ethics Committee to independently oversee operations and safeguard scholarly independence and integrity…
As for the High Council holding legislative power: the first session of twenty-one seats will be appointed by me—Elarielle, Magnar, Aragis, Elizabeth, Reize, and delegates of the major races. Thereafter, over half the seats shall be filled by outstanding scholars recommended by the Academy, distinguished alumni, and representatives elected by the trade guilds.
For the Supreme Court holding judicial power: I will appoint the first Chief Justice. Subsequent candidates shall be nominated and approved by the High Council from among senior legal scholars recommended by the Academy."
A complete, rigorous framework took shape under Leo's guidance.
Dalton Academy became the bridge between knowledge and power—the fundamental guarantee that the separation of powers would produce capable stewards.
All understood: the Academy would be Dalton Town's heart and brain.
"Everyone," Leo concluded, sweeping his gaze across the hall, eyes deep,
"the system stands; the frame is raised. But even the finest system must be carried out and guarded by people.
May you work in honest accord, fulfill your duties, and forge Dalton Town into a strong, great beacon of civilization that shines upon the world!"
"We obey the President's command!"
"For Dalton—unto death!"
The thunder of voices shook the chamber. In every eye burned unprecedented passion and purpose.
They no longer saw merely a fortress of war—
but a nascent civilization with an infinite future.
…
From that day forward, decrees issued from the Council Hall climbed like spring vines into every corner of the city—and, drenched in boundless resources, burst into leaf, flower, and fruit.
All Dalton Town roared to life like a colossal golem infused with endless vitality and magic, moving faster than ever.
In the Rune-Forge Bureau, hammer-blows and arcane chants wove a rousing symphony.
Enchanted armor and weapons were no longer the preserve of knightly lords; even common city sentries wore standard gear so splendid and resilient that outside "great powers" grew green-eyed with envy.
In the agricultural districts, Kubi Hans swung the Staff of Plenty; wherever it passed, crops sprang up and ripened before the naked eye, seas of gold grain and heavy fruit perfuming the air…
Calm in the Presidential Palace's highest room, Leo watched the city through vast crystal windows.
"Hm. Weave-output is up 3.7% over projections—route surplus to the new city-wall reinforcement arrays… Life-magic feedback from Agriculture is too concentrated; ecological imbalance risk noted—notify Kubi to diffuse focal casting…"
He murmured, tapping invisible sigils. Orders flew.
…
Outside Dalton Town.
Representatives of many great powers sat around a round table.
After more than a month, the number had swelled past thirty.
They had spent weeks here—trying everything: arcane scans, divine probes, engineering breaching… and failed every time before those towering, sigil-lit walls.
Not the slightest ripple of magic could pierce that accursed city shield.
"Enough! I'm done waiting!"
The orc chieftain Morg the Skull-Splitter, a mountain of muscle with outward-curving tusks and brown-green hide, slammed a fist on the table. Cups jumped; ale splashed.
"Skulking like goblins at someone else's doorstep—our blades are rusting! Our courage is being mocked!"
He swept his gaze over the tent's mixed assembly: imperial envoys, tower mages' deputies, orc mercenary captains, dwarf expeditions—practically the apex of the world's might.
"Look inside!" Morg roared, jabbing a thick finger toward Dalton's soaring spires.
"Resources—endless resources!
Magic—I've never seen power so dense!
Will you stand here and watch, waiting for those turtles inside to toss out scraps?"
His words cast stones into their hearts, stirring rings of unrest.
Lupotin stroked his beard, cautious.
"Chief Morg, your valor is admirable—but a rash assault… the cost may be unimaginable. We don't even know their defenses—"
"Cost?" Morg snorted like grinding stone.
"We orcs have a saying: 'If you fear the wolves' howl, forget roast meat in the forest!' Waiting is the greatest cost!"
He threw his arms wide, trying to rouse them.
"Join forces—all of us!
Thirty-plus banners at full charge—if the walls were built by gods, we'd still punch a hole! Divide the spoils by the weight of each hand's strike—better than getting nothing!"
The tent erupted—caution versus fury, plans versus impatience—until the argument nearly tore the canvas free.
At the very peak of the uproar—
Guh-dunnn…
A heavy, even scrape of metal silenced every voice.
Dalton's colossal gate—etched in complex runes, ancient as if never opened—rumbled, slowly, inward.
All eyes snapped to the widening seam.
Shock, suspicion, vigilance—and a thread of hungry hope—played across every face.
A small unit marched out.
Only about twenty strong, all in silver-blue armor shimmering with arcane sheen, cloaks emblazoned with Dalton's crest.
Their eyes were keen and calm; their equipment so fine that veterans of great powers drew sharp breaths.
City guard?
Morg blinked—then elation crashed through him.
See?
I told them—press and they break!
They're here to bargain—maybe to surrender!
"Ha! See that? I said assault! Scared the rats out—"
He turned to preen, but most others kept wary distance, making no rash moves. He sneered.
"Come! With me!"
"Let's see what tricks they're playing!"
With a sweep of his arm, Morg led his orcs toward the gate, greed and arrogance plain on his face.
But the human squad unfolded with crisp precision, barring the entry.
Their captain—hard-featured—spoke with calm, unquestionable authority:
"Halt.
Dalton Town is not open to the public."
Blocked—before so many witnesses.
Morg's face flushed liver-purple with shame and rage. His "dignity" had been challenged.
"Open?" he spat, spray spattering the captain's helm.
"You think this is your garden?
We've waited over a month! Now—either stand aside and let us in, or—"
Murder flared in his eyes. The great axe swung up, shrieking through air toward the captain's helm.
It was a blow to split a tower shield—he could already see man and armor halved in gore.
If they were surrendering, they'd better act like it.
At the instant the raging axe would have struck—
Time seemed to pause.
Shhhh—
With no warning, a bolt of lightning—so condensed and bright it defied description—speared from deep within the gate like a god's spear of judgment.
It outpaced sight itself, and in that same heartbeat swallowed Morg's hulking frame.
No earth-shaking blast. No dying scream.
Only a soft, soul-piercing zzip.
The lightning winked out.
Where Morg had stood—nothing.
The Skull-Splitter, orc warlord, and his heavy axe were simply gone.
No ash. No blood.
As if he had never existed.
"Any who trespass upon Dalton Town—
die."
The voice that drifted from within the gate was cold as winter steel.
Terror froze the blood and thoughts of everyone outside.