Inquisitor Caelia Vance was a woman who prided herself on the accuracy of her predictive models. Her analysis of the "Librarian" as a master spy, and the subsequent "cold war" footing, was, she believed, a flawless interpretation of the data. The Empire's new strategy—to discreetly provoke a demonic invasion to force the Librarian's hand—was a risky but logical escalation. Her agents had already begun leaking carefully fabricated intelligence into Mordus.
She expected a reaction. Increased demonic troop movements. Probing attacks on the southern border. The slow, inexorable gathering of a great, dark army.
What she got instead was... silence. And then, utter confusion.
The first report came from an agent embedded in a border town. "Target Xylos is... withdrawing troops from the border," the agent reported, his voice filled with disbelief. "He has recalled three of his most aggressive legions. They've been replaced by a single, silent contingent of his elite 'Dreadguard,' who are just... standing there. Facing inward, not outward. It's not a posture of invasion. It's a defensive line."
Caelia's brow furrowed. That was not the predicted response. Perhaps it was a feint.
The second report came from a deep-cover operative within the Heresy of the Devout. "High Priest Vorlagos is in a rage," the spy whispered into his communication crystal. "His new plan to spread the 'Gospel of Lyno' has hit a snag. Several of his most important artisan-missionaries, the 'Theotects,' have been found dead. Murdered. The killings are clean, professional, and bear all the hallmarks of a demonic 'Whisperer' agent."
Caelia went cold. The demons were assassinating the Librarian's most ardent, if misguided, followers? Why? Why would King Xylos actively sabotage a movement that was causing so much chaos for his Imperial rivals? It made no tactical sense.
The third and most bizarre report came from the Grand Spymaster herself. She requested an in-person, high-security meeting with Caelia.
"We intercepted a communication," the Spymaster said, her shadowy face unusually pale. She pushed a translated transcript across the table. "Between two of King Xylos's top generals. We thought it was a code. Our best cryptographers worked on it for a week. It... wasn't a code."
Caelia read the transcript.
General Gorgoth: ...and the King wants another shipment of that fertilizer for his new flower garden.
General Malice: Fertilizer? Is he serious? The stuff smells like springtime and happiness. It's making my elite shock troops… pleasant. One of them wrote a sonnet yesterday. A sonnet, Gorgoth!
General Gorgoth: His Gloominess's orders are absolute. The Sacred Order of the Twin Blossoms requires thrice-daily tending. Have you heard their latest edict? Mandatory 'thoughtfulness' seminars for all new recruits.
General Malice: This is madness. Next you'll tell me he's cancelled Blasphemy Week.
General Gorgoth: He's replaced it. With 'Spontaneous Acts of Unexpected Niceness Week.'
Caelia read the transcript again. She pushed it back across the table. "This is a fabrication. A sophisticated piece of demonic counter-intelligence designed to make us believe their command structure is fracturing."
"That's what I thought," the Spymaster said, her voice a low, horrified whisper. "So I had a high-risk astral projection team scry the Demon King's throne room directly. The risk was immense, but we had to know." She slid a shimmering, magical image-plate onto the table. "They only managed to get a two-second glimpse before being violently repelled, not by hostile magic, but by what they described as an 'overwhelming sense of well-being.' This is what they saw."
Caelia looked at the image. It was blurry, distorted. But the details were clear enough. In the center of King Xylos's dread throne room, where a pool of blood should be, there was a small, well-tended flower patch, glowing with a soft, golden light. A small, sad-looking imp was gently watering it.
Inquisitor Caelia Vance, the most logical woman in the world, was confronted with a set of completely illogical data points.
The demons were pulling back from the border.
The demons were systematically eliminating the Librarian's biggest fans.
The Demon King, a being of pure evil and ambition, had apparently taken up horticulture and instituted mandatory niceness seminars.
Her brilliant, analytical mind whirred, desperately trying to assemble these impossible pieces into a coherent strategic framework. Her "master spy" theory was being stretched to its absolute breaking point.
What kind of spymaster was so powerful, so dominant, that he could not only neutralize his enemies, but could fundamentally rewrite their entire national ideology without ever leaving his house?
There was only one possible, logical conclusion, and it was so terrifying it made her previous theories seem like children's fairy tales.
She stood up and walked to the grand map of the world in the Emperor's strategy room. She looked at the Aethelian Empire. Then she looked at the kingdom of Mordus.
"We were wrong," she said, her voice barely a whisper. The Emperor and the Spymaster turned to look at her.
"We thought we were in a cold war," Caelia continued, her mind reeling with the sheer scale of her own miscalculation. "We assumed Mordus was a rival power, a second player in the game."
She placed a hand on the Aethelian Empire on the map. "We were fools." She then moved her hand over, and placed it on the demonic kingdom of Mordus.
"There is no rivalry," she stated, her voice hollow. "This... this is just his other hand. We have not been observing a conflict between two nations. We have been observing our master, the Librarian, playing a grand, continental game of chess against himself."
The Emperor stared at her, aghast. "What are you saying, Inquisitor?"
"King Xylos is not his rival," Caelia explained, the insane logic falling into place with perfect, horrible clarity. "He is his agent. A deep-cover, controlled opposition. He has been under the Librarian's influence from the beginning. Every demonic 'attack' was a calculated move in the Master's grand plan. He sent the Grokk not to destroy the sanctum, but to provide the Master with an excuse to demonstrate his power and solidify his hold over us."
"The current actions of Mordus are now perfectly logical under this new paradigm," she continued, her voice gaining speed as the theory solidified. "Xylos is assassinating the Heretics because they are an unstable, uncontrollable element that threatens the Master's true, quiet agenda. He is pulling his troops back from the border because the Master's 'assimilation' of the Empire is proceeding on schedule, and direct military conflict is no longer necessary. The flower garden? The niceness seminars? It's a psychological conditioning program. He is preparing his entire demonic population for their eventual, peaceful integration into the Librarian's new world order!"
The Spymaster looked like she was going to be sick.
The sheer, epic, world-spanning scale of the conspiracy was beyond anything they had ever conceived. The Librarian was not just a spymaster. He was a being playing a multi-generational game on a scale that made emperors and demon kings look like pawns on his board. And he had been for centuries.
Caelia Vance, in her ruthless pursuit of logic, had arrived at the most logical explanation for a series of completely illogical events. She had built a perfect, coherent, and utterly magnificent tower of incorrect conclusions.
"Your Majesty," she said, turning to the Emperor, her face grim. "Our situation is far worse than we imagined. We are not in a cold war. We have been, from the very beginning, nothing more than a particularly interesting puzzle box for a being whose games span heaven and hell. There is no strategy to defeat him."
She paused. "Our only remaining logical choice," she concluded, "is to find out... what he wants us to do. And do it, before he decides we are no longer a useful piece in his game."
The Empire's strategy had shifted again. From appeasement, to cold war, and now to a state of terrified, proactive, existential obedience. They had to figure out their designated role in the master's great game, or risk being swept from the board entirely.