"One. Effective immediately, the Department of Aresia Integration and Development shall be established."
"It will be placed under the full authority of Grand Secretary Elarielle and Vice President Magnar."
"Your mission is to draft and implement a comprehensive set of statutes and a quantified point-based system for the entry of Aresian natives into Dalton's outer districts—for work, study, and residence. We require a broader population base to screen and cultivate talents, to dilute potential risks, and, at the same time, to guide the local forces gradually toward understanding, acceptance, and ultimately integration into our system. This is not annexation, but rather… guidance and symbiosis."
Elarielle rose with her characteristic grace, emerald eyes glimmering with wisdom and composure.
"As commanded, Your Excellency. I shall see to it with prudence and seek the balance between unity and harmony."
Magnar also bowed, his voice steady as a mountain.
"I will spare no effort to refine the regulations, ensure smooth processes, and guarantee faultless resource distribution."
"Two."
Leo's gaze shifted toward Elizabeth and Aragis.
"The Dalton Conscription Decree is to be enacted. The scope covers the entirety of Dalton Town. The city's garrison is to be expanded by fifty percent, while the knightly orders shall be enlarged by thirty percent. Recruitment priority is to be given to those with experience in astral warfare, special racial talents, or unique skill sets."
"All war-material production lines are to be elevated to the highest priority. You are authorized to draw upon strategic reserve stockpiles. Elizabeth, Aragis, I expect to see an army that does more than defend our home—I need a steel flood that can take the initiative, strike on the world's stage, and win decisive victories."
Elizabeth stepped forward.
Her golden-blue general's uniform was immaculate, and in her violet eyes blazed a war-spirit so intense it seemed tangible.
She raised her right fist to her chest, delivering a flawless Dalton military salute.
"By no means will I fail Your Excellency's trust! The Guard has already distributed the newest edition of the Galactic Combat Ordinance down to the company level. Within three months, I shall present to you an iron army reborn!"
Aragis gave a silent but resolute nod.
The star-blue plates of his armor shifted slightly, producing a deep metallic rasp—low, steady, and reassuring.
No further words were needed.
The will of the Supreme Council flowed like the most efficient magitech circuit, transmitting commands instantly to every corner of Dalton.
This colossal war machine, born for conflict, began to roar and accelerate at unprecedented speed.
Beneath the ground, the massive magical factory known as the Forge of Stars erupted into full operation.
Tens of thousands of golems and engineers labored without rest, assembly lines spewing forth enchanted armor, fully charged magitech rifles, and combat puppets waiting in swarms for activation.
At every conscription point, queues stretched endlessly.
Youths of many races, hailing from diverse worlds, stood with eyes shining—yearning for merit, for glory, for power.
Each submitted to rigorous tests of mana adaptability, physique, and mental fortitude.
Even Dalton Academy held its graduation trials early.
The exams were hellishly difficult, designed to thrust the finest cadets into the military pipeline at once, producing reliable reserve officers and technical specialists for the war machine.
The entire city vibrated with a taut, fervent atmosphere.
Meanwhile, as Dalton Town readied itself with feverish determination, the silent depths of space stirred.
Far away, in the cold and lifeless void, several powers reeking of greed drifted closer—like hyenas and sharks catching the scent of blood.
From different directions they converged, all drawn toward Aresia, the world that had suddenly flared on the "star-sea chessboard" as a dazzling anomaly.
One such pack was the Bloodclaw Fleet—a formation of three decrepit starships, each appearing cobbled together from heaps of cosmic scrap.
Yet their hulls bristled with brutal rams, predatory grappling hooks, and smoke-belching goblin-crafted rupture cannons.
They howled through an asteroid belt like beasts set loose.
At their head stood "One-Eyed Barton," a burly man whose face was carved with centipede-like scars.
He licked a jagged dagger stained with dark crimson, grinning viciously at the pulsing coordinates on the star map.
"Heh! The intel was right!"
"That backwater dump actually spat out something big. That energy flare—it's gotta be some massive ancient ruin surfacing! Maybe even the home of a fallen god!"
"Faster! Push the thrusters to max! Don't let those Vulture or Black Flag scum get there first! The loot and the slaves—all of it belongs to Bloodclaw!"
From another quadrant, a larger fleet glided silently, its ships uniform in build and painted in dull gray merchant insignias.
But behind the façade of trade vessels lay military firepower rivaling regular navies.
This was the Ashen Merchant Guild—a guild whose business was exploitation and flesh.
Its leader was a gaunt esper, his fingertips sparking with energies that carried the screams of tormented souls.
He gazed out of the viewport into the abyssal stars, voice cold as the grave.
"High-energy reactions mean high-value minerals, rare biological specimens… or lost technology. Capture the strong as slaves. Dig out the ancient relics. This voyage must yield profits double the usual. Any resistance—recycled on the spot."
And farther still, cloaked within a nebula's shadow, a sleek light reconnaissance vessel lurked. Its design bore the hallmarks of a civilization that had just stepped into Tier-2 status.
On its bridge, banks of sensors flickered, spitting out streams of fresh data.
"Continuous anomalous energy emissions detected… spatial distortions persistent… the energy spectrum is complex, not matching any known advanced civilization frequency. Likely candidate: unregistered civilizational leap event, or reactivation of a long-dormant battlefield or ruin. Logging coordinates. Encryption level: A. Preparing to report to the Imperial Academy and military command."
The captain's tone was calm, but heavy with suspicion.
Thus, from scattered vectors they came—the cosmic raiders, the slavers, and the so-called "civilization observers" who feigned neutrality while hiding predatory intent. Each had intercepted traces of the energy wave triggered by Lilith's awakening and the mana surges radiating from Dalton Town. Now they turned greedy, curious eyes toward this remote world once dismissed in their star charts as "uncivilized," "low-magic," "of no significant value."
Within Dalton Town itself, time flowed differently.
In the tense but efficient rhythm of preparation, days slipped by unnoticed. Yet thanks to the extraordinary temporal effect of Aerial City, what felt like mere half a month to the outside universe translated into more than a hundred years of condensed growth within Dalton's domain.
The outer city had multiplied many times beyond its humble beginnings. From all across the Aresian continent—and even through fledgling portals opening to adjacent planes—elites gathered here. They carried dreams of changing fate, burning with determination to prove themselves.
They studied, worked, and lived under Dalton's Outer City Codex, striving to earn the precious "points" that promised the chance of citizenship, the right to truly belong to this miracle of a city.
Within the inner districts and Aerial City, transformation was even more astonishing. Magic, technology, and personal might surged like an explosion, fueled by endless resources.
Patrolling guards on the streets now exuded the aura of Magus Lord peak-rank, while captains of small squads were at minimum Truth Magus tier!
And on this day, the Supreme Council convened once more in solemn grandeur.
Dalton's outer city.
This place, hailed as the "Land of Hope," was at this moment immersed in an atmosphere both noisy and suffocating.
In the past, the great powers of the Aresian Continent had come trudging all the way here, carrying awe and greed alike as they crossed the gates. The sights that greeted them inside shattered their arrogance, shaking their spirits to the core.
Now, that first overwhelming sense of shock had long since faded. What remained was a sentiment more pragmatic, more restless—one might even call it desperate.
The air was no longer filled only with dense currents of magic. It carried the clanging of steel on steel, the low thrum of charged magitech engines, and the unending calls of officers commanding their troops.
An oppressive heaviness spread everywhere, the kind of pressure that hangs in the sky before a great war breaks. It weighed down on every "guest" who temporarily resided here.
Marshal Otto of the Crossbridge Empire stood at the window of his rented magical apartment. The price he paid for it was enough to rebuild a medium-sized castle in the outside world, yet here it was just another outer-city lodging. He looked down at the streets below, where endless lines of marching soldiers filled the avenues. His brow was deeply furrowed.
Behind him, his adjutant, a young knight of noble birth, reported quietly on the actions of the other factions.
"Marshal, the Tower Master of the Thunder Mage Tower has already spent two-thirds of their stored mana stones ordering defensive scrolls and mana potions from Dalton's workshops."
"King Thrain of the dwarves has nearly emptied three whole mines of resources to exchange for heavy magitech ballistae—enough to equip an entire squad of dwarven breachers. Even the Frost Temple, which always kept itself above worldly struggles, has sent its elite Icecrown Guardians. They seem to be practicing some sort of joint defense formation…"
Otto sighed heavily. His fingers tapped absently on the smooth crystal window frame.
"A pack of sharks that smell blood… No. We are worse than sharks. We are sardines, swept by the current, clinging desperately to the nearest reef, praying not to be swallowed whole."
He let out a bitter laugh at himself.
"Once, when we stomped a foot, the whole continent would shake."
"And now, here in Dalton, we struggle and spend everything just to earn the qualification for 'cooperative combat.'"
The adjutant's eyes flashed with resentment.
"Marshal, must we truly bow so low? Must we obey the orders of that mage named Colt? He looks younger than my grandson!"
"Young?"
Otto turned his head. In his cloudy eyes there flickered a sudden brilliance.
"In this city, age is the most useless measure. The President wields the Time Tower—something beyond imagination. For him, time is nothing more than a young maiden he can dress as he pleases."
Even here, in the outer city, the flow of time differed from the outside world.
One day outside equaled ten years within Dalton.
The meaning of that needed no explanation.
"Look at the patrolling city guards. Which of them is not Magus Lord rank? That gate commander, Reize—he is a monster who can fight a Behemoth head on."
"Remember this. In Dalton, strength is truth. And Dalton alone holds the final authority to define what that truth means."
"Our petition is not submission. It is shelter. It is also… a gamble."
"If we win, the Crossbridge Empire might rise to a height never seen before. If we lose, then we turn to dust sooner than expected. That too is His Majesty's will."
Similar conversations unfolded in every camp of every faction staying in the outer city.
Arrogance was shattered into dust. Ambition was forced into silence by the weight of absolute strength.
Finally, a single document emerged. It was signed jointly by all factions, its words filled with humility and supplication. This "Guidance Petition" was sent with great ceremony to Aerial City, that floating citadel above the clouds which symbolized Dalton's supreme authority.
In the depths of the World Tree Garden, Leo Grey's office stood in silence, as if it existed outside of time.
Through the great curved windows, the projection of the star sea turned slowly. Its cold glow spilled onto Leo's calm, unshaken face.
He sat behind a desk forged from shadow crystal and stellar alloy. His fingertips tapped the surface rhythmically, each sound as steady as a clock.
Before him stood Vice President Magnar. His presence had grown deeper still, as if fused seamlessly with the life energy around him.
In his hands he held not parchment but a scroll woven entirely of radiant light. The names flowing across its surface were the names of the petitioners—each belonging to a power that once ruled beyond Dalton.
"President," Magnar said gently, his voice clear and measured. "It seems our outer city 'neighbors' have finally sobered from their honeymoon daze. They have realized the storm gathering outside their window."
"This petition is filled with humility. They plead for your guidance."
He paused, his mouth curving in the faintest trace of ironic amusement.
"In essence, they hope that in the coming war Dalton will lend them professional instruction."
Leo lifted his gaze. He did not look at the scroll. His words were quiet, but they carried weight.
"Vines longing for the shade of a great tree."
Magnar bowed slightly, understanding at once.
"For frogs who once reigned supreme in their small ponds, suddenly seeing the boundless ocean—their first instinct is not to swim freely, but to grasp a piece of driftwood that will keep them afloat."
"And to them, Dalton is that ark which will never sink."
A faint smile touched Leo's lips.
"Tell them that Dalton can provide a map and a navigator. But the ships must be theirs, and the storms must be theirs to weather."
His fingers stopped tapping. The decision was made.
"Send Colt. He has been in charge of dealing with them for years. He knows them well. And more importantly, youth must face the baptism of storms to wash away the last of its immaturity."
Magnar's eyes flashed with comprehension.
Colt—his own student. The young mage cold as a sapphire carved from the frozen wastes. His logic was precise, his perception of energy structures bordering on unnatural, and he possessed the strange habit of reducing everything into numbers and data.
Yes, Colt was the perfect choice to serve as "Crusade Strategic Advisor."
This was not only a subtle intimidation and integration of the outer city powers. It was also an intentional trial, pressing Colt to his limit, tempering him into something stronger.
"As you command, President," Magnar answered softly.
At that moment, the light in the office rippled faintly, as though a stone had been dropped into a still lake.
From those ripples, a figure separated itself from the shadows and coalesced soundlessly before the desk.
He wore a uniform of dull gray without insignia. His face was ordinary, forgettable.
But his eyes—his eyes were obsidian stones, calm and unyielding, forged by countless trials.
It was Walter, Dalton's Minister of Intelligence.
The same mysterious powerhouse who had once killed an orc high priest at the city gates with a single strike.