By late afternoon, the magistrate arrived.
A stocky man in his late fifties, Roland De Vorn wore the dark green cloak of the regional office, worn and weather-stained, but immaculately kept. His brow furrowed as he entered the manor, clearly expecting to meet with a servant or an assistant.
Instead, he was brought directly into the estate's study—and there stood Argon Von Feind.
Standing.
Reading.
Alive.
And not just alive, but composed.
"Young Master…?" Roland blinked in disbelief, bowing immediately after recovering. "Forgive me, I did not expect—"
"To see me on my feet?" Argon closed the ledger and gestured calmly to the chair across from his. "Sit, Magistrate Roland. I've read your reports. I want the full truth now."
Still stunned, Roland took his seat, clearing his throat. "Yes, my Lord. Of course."
They began with the state of Red Nest City, the once-thriving heart of the Feind territory. Roland explained how the lack of active guard forces had allowed lawlessness to creep into the southern districts. Crime rates surged. Reports of extortion, smuggling, and inter-racial skirmishes grew by the day.
Argon listened, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"The patrols?" he asked quietly.
"Reduced to half strength," Roland admitted. "We've had to redirect most toward the border. The southern forestline has become unpredictable due to the refugee influx… and the monster activity beyond."
"And the criminals?"
Roland's jaw tensed. "Most are not born from the common folk, my Lord. They are remnants—former nobles, warriors, and outcasts of the destroyed southern kingdoms. Their lands in the Slatin Continent have been ravaged by demon blights. The survivors crossed into our territory seeking sanctuary, and we, bound by the Empire's goodwill and the House's long-standing principles, welcomed them."
Argon's gaze sharpened.
He remembered it then—one of the maps in the history tomes he'd reviewed earlier. This world was called Lunafreias. Eight continents. Eight distinct regions of culture, war, and power.
Their Empire—Anatolia—stood mighty in the Namericam Continent, the largest and wealthiest continent of the eight. Though not entirely peaceful, its wars were distant, its core lands stable. Anatolia was the jewel of Namericam, known for its strong army, disciplined nobility, and fair laws.
But the Slatin Continent, to the far south, was different.
Fragmented, volatile, fractured into dozens of small kingdoms constantly at war. The demonic invasions there had only worsened in recent decades, pushing many kingdoms to collapse entirely.
"And now their survivors flee north," Argon murmured, "to the borderlands of our empire."
"Yes, my Lord," Roland said, nodding. "We let them in by order of Imperial Decree and in accordance with your father's direction. It was an act of compassion… but it has come at a cost. The Feind Region is strong in land, yes—but it is stretched thin."
Argon leaned back.
"So we're upholding the Empire's duty. And while the people suffer, the garrison breaks apart trying to put out fires in every direction."
"Yes. That is precisely the case."
He paused, then added, "Tensions between the original residents and the refugees grow by the day. And worse… the refugee factions themselves are at odds."
Argon arched a brow. "Factions?"
Roland nodded. "The migrants have organized under three major leaders: the dwarves, led by a former noble—Clein Wallace—harsh, proud, and no friend to elves; the wood elves follow Emyr Hafiel, quiet and secretive; and the beastkin are under the rule of a warrior named Ogudei, fierce and charismatic. Each has brought their history with them—and their old grudges."
"They fight each other?"
"Often. The guards do what they can, but they are outnumbered. When a report arrives, it's already too late. We've had dozens of deaths in brawls that escalated into riots."
Argon's eyes narrowed. "Disregarding our goodwill. Forgetting whose walls kept them safe."
The magistrate lowered his eyes. "Yes, my Lord."
A long silence settled over the study.
Then Argon stood.
Roland stood as well, alarmed. "My Lord—!"
"We're calling a council," Argon said, his voice sharp with command. "Gather the leaders of the three factions. I want them in the Southern Council Chamber by midday tomorrow. You'll send the message yourself."
The magistrate hesitated. "Understood. But… your condition—"
"Is none of your concern," Argon said coolly. "The territory comes first."
At that moment, Dominic entered, carrying several reports, only to hear the last of Argon's statement. "My Lord, forgive me—but must you go in person?"
"I must," Argon replied, without hesitation. "This land was left to me. And I will not let it rot under my rule."
He turned to the butler. "How many household retainers are still combat-capable?"
"Roughly one hundred, my Lord. Trained, armed, and loyal."
"Good. Have them ready to move by dawn."
Dominic swallowed hard but bowed. "As you command."
With the room still tense, Argon crossed his arms behind his back, pacing slowly as he spoke again.
"This is not just a refugee problem. This is a governance failure. The council will answer to me—but so will the governor of this region. He was summoned, and yet I see no trace of him."
Dominic winced. Roland looked pale.
"If the man in charge of this chaos cannot obey an order," Argon said coldly, "then he will explain himself in chains."
His words hung heavy in the air.
Dominic bowed deeply. "I will make the arrangements, my Lord."
"Good. And bring me everything we have on the current state of the southern cities, agricultural output, internal trade routes, and supply chains. I want to know what I'm inheriting."
"As you wish."
Roland followed suit. "I will gather the refugee leaders and ensure the council meets at your word."
Argon nodded once, then turned his eyes to the window, staring southward—toward the distant lands he had yet to step into, and the gathering storm rising just beyond the border.
"Diplomacy first," he thought. "But if that fails… we remind them who owns this land."