Chapter 1373: Tension between the Allies-2

Planet Brava – Mid-belt Sector 100

"Hah..."

Bang.

"Are we done now yet?"

Bang.

"Do we have an agreement in this damn day or not?!"

Caesar’s voice thundered across the chamber, thick with ire and the unmistakable weight of authority. He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the edge of the round negotiation table, his knuckles whitening from pressure. The table, made from dense blackstone mined from the under-crust of Cravon 9, had withstood decades of war-room debates—yet it creaked beneath Caesar’s fury like glass beneath a hammer.

On the opposite side sat an old man who, despite his stately appearance, now resembled a wilting monument. His thick white mustache twitched as he frowned. He stared down, not meeting Caesar’s eyes. A few droplets of sweat beaded at the top of his scalp and slowly made their way down his temple.

After several seconds of silence, the old man finally muttered in a voice barely louder than a whisper:

"...I... I still believe we could forge a better arrangement."

He looked like a man in his late fifties or early sixties—though in reality, age meant little at this level of power. His body was wide-set, heavy with old muscle and older pride, though not quite obese. His attire was that of nobility: royal-cut velvet, deep purple and black, embroidered with a fading family crest. To any outsider, he would seem formidable—a patriarch, perhaps even a former warlord. But now, beneath Caesar’s withering presence, he seemed... diminished.

Bang!

Caesar’s hand crashed down on the table once more.

"That’s enough!" he snapped. "Listen to me, old fart. If we don’t finalize this deal

today

, I don’t want to see your face ever again. Is that clear?!"

Before the elder could respond, a younger man stepped forward from behind him, his movements frantic, his voice almost pleading:

"W-Wait! Please! Your Grace, Caesar!"

The young man raised his arms quickly, as if physically trying to hold the negotiation from falling apart.

His hair was styled meticulously, parted clean down the center and held in place with some sort of oily polish. His long neck emphasized an unusually prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed with every nervous gulp.

"We’ve come so far—why abandon it all now? We’re

so close

! Please, just a bit more time."

Then, almost desperately, he turned to the elder.

"Grandfather—please!"

Caesar’s eyes narrowed. He turned toward the young man—Petsu—and gave him a long, cold stare. His voice lowered, but carried even more weight than before.

"Petsu... if it weren’t for the fact that you serve His Majesty directly I would’ve ended these talks the moment they began."

He leaned slightly toward the boy.

"Your grandfather has no interest in a fair deal. He’s spent too long wallowing in the filth and politics of the Iron Boar. He’s forgotten what

real value

means. He doesn’t understand what it means to own a living, breathing planet. He still thinks in crumbs and leftovers, not empires."

The old man opened his mouth in protest, but Petsu cut in before he could speak.

"Please, Your Grace. No one here doubts the honor of what you’re offering. We’re only trying to find a balance that gives both sides pride—"

"Pride?" Caesar spat the word like venom. "You speak to me of pride when your family was

days

away from exile? From disbandment? When your ’pride’ was selling favors to pirate clans and begging for alliances from dying houses?"

The old man clenched his fists on his lap but remained seated, his head bowed ever so slightly. The sting in Caesar’s words was deliberate—and deeply personal.

Their

first offer

had been generous beyond anything the Maizer family could have expected: full rights over Planet Seramon, including the sacred

Refining Rights

—the authority to refine the world’s spirit as they saw fit. In addition, they were granted bloodline sanctity—the right to preserve their family name, crest, and legacy in unaltered form for generations to come. To any founder of a fading noble line, such terms would have been considered salvation.

Indeed, the elder patriarch had nearly accepted that deal outright.

But then... he learned, through Petsu, that the one offering these riches—this land, this future—was

Human

.

And in that moment, greed crept into the old man’s soul.

Subtle at first—just a question, a what-if. Then it took root, and blossomed into ambition.

Further talks yielded more. The family secured the right for their World Cataclysm-level members to earn control over entire planet each—if they accumulated enough military points, gained through conquest and service. The Maizers had never dreamed of ruling their home world. Now they were negotiating for multiple.

Then came the request for a planetary development fund, something that would have been laughed out of the room in any traditional court. But Caesar didn’t laugh. He approved it, and the amount offered dwarfed anything the Maizers had ever managed to gather in a thousand years.

And now...

Today...

They still dared to haggle.

"I don’t understand—what’s the problem if each of us receives an annual salary of twenty thousand energy pearls?"

The old man furrowed his thick white brows, clearly agitated.

"We’re respected World Cataclysms. Our mere presence shifts the tides of battle. And if we

do

intervene, who could possibly stand against us? Is 120,000 pearls a year truly such an outrageous number?"

Caesar’s face twisted with visible disgust.

"Your presence didn’t shift

anything

when we took Seramon. And your ’intervention’ didn’t even match the weight of a mosquito’s wing when we stormed into your own territory."

He leaned forward, voice dropping in tone but doubling in sharpness.

"Your name is Raen Mazler, right?"

He didn’t wait for confirmation.

"Listen carefully, Raen. If we wanted to

hire

, we’d hire. If we wanted to

buy

, we’d buy. And we’ve already done both. But

you

—you want the privileges of being a full-fledged member of the Empire, while still demanding to be paid like a hired mercenary.

You’ve got skin thicker than fortress stone. I’ve never met anyone like you."

He narrowed his eyes, almost hissing the words.

"A salary of 120,000 pearls a year? Your family vaults have

never

seen a number that high, you brazen fraud!"

"This is unacceptable!" the old man burst out, puffing his enormous mustache in fury—but he didn’t move.

His eyes, as if involuntarily, flicked toward the silent figure standing just behind Caesar. A terrifying presence—a man whose very stillness exuded danger.

Caesar didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"Go search for what’s ’acceptable’ elsewhere, then. And don’t show me your shameless face—or the faces of your grasping family—again unless it’s with a

yes

or a

no

. I won’t negotiate a single further term until I see tangible benefit from your existence."

He waved a hand as if brushing aside something foul, then slowly turned his chair away.

"That will be all. I’d like to rest now."

"Hmph!"

The old man rose with an angry grunt, storming out of the tent in a stiff, indignant march—Petsu following close behind, trying to calm him with hurried whispers.

As the flap of the war-tent settled behind them, a voice came from beside Caesar.

The speaker was a broad-chested man clad in white ceremonial wrappings, a turban wrapped tightly around his head. He had an oversized nose, thick black mustaches that looked like a falcon could perch on them, and a deep scar that sliced across his face, dividing it almost symmetrically.

He finally spoke, his voice low and concerned.

"...That kind of treatment might turn them into enemies, my lord."

Caesar didn’t even glance his way.

"They won’t. I’ve seen their kind too many times. He always comes crawling before important battles, or whenever we’re forced to halt operations. And every time I promise him what he wants, he leaves before the battle begins—claiming he needs ’time to think’—only to return later with more demands."

He waved dismissively.

"Some men don’t understand goodwill. The more you give, the more they take. People like that—treat them like dogs and servants, and they’ll finally start to realize who they’re dealing with."

Clap. Clap.

A slow, deliberate clapping echoed from around Caesar.

A new voice—smooth, theatrical, almost playful—cut through the atmosphere like a ribbon of silk.

"Incredible. What powerful words. You really

are

your father’s son, hehehe."

"Who’s there?!"

Caesar jumped slightly, his reflexes honed by war. His spiritual awareness surged to the ring on his hand—a spatial artifact—and for an instant, his fingers twitched, ready to draw something from it.

Whoosh.

In the blink of an eye, a third person was inside the tent. A woman, standing gracefully, her very presence like a gust of perfume and wind. Behind her danced nine flowing tails, glowing with hues of fiery orange and sunset gold.

She appeared directly in front of the scarred man, lowering her chin playfully onto two fingers.

"A mid-level World Cataclysm?" she said, eyes glinting like firelight.

"No wonder you’ve stopped requesting additional support, Caesar Burton. So tell me—where exactly did you acquire

this

new backing of yours?"

Caesar didn’t react with panic or surprise.

Instead, he placed both hands behind his back and spoke with unnerving calm.

"Asher. Go finalize the deployment settings. We move in ten minutes."

"Yes, my lord."

The man named Asher moved quickly, not even sparing the mysterious woman a glance. He had no desire to remain in the presence of someone stronger than himself.

After the man exited the tent, Caesar turned slowly, his face expressionless.

Then he said, in a flat voice with formal poise:

"...Lady Elinor. Your visit has brightened my day—and illuminated this entire planet."