Chapter 391: The Wolf in the Grand Hall

The silence that followed Ethan’s counter-demand was not peaceful; it was the heavy, suffocating pressure of a collapsing star. The Deacon’s face, usually a mask of divine porcelain, twitching with a vein near his temple. The trap designed for a helpless pig had successfully lured a starving dire wolf into the heart of the home.

"You realize what you are asking for?" the Deacon’s voice was a low hiss. "The entire coastline? From the tropical keys of Florida to the frozen forests of Maine? This has been neutral ground—a buffer zone for the capital—precisely because no single force should hold the throat of the nation’s trade."

Ethan didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, his hands flat on the obsidian table. "You said it yourself, Deacon. You’re ’spread too thin.’ If I’m the one bleeding on the docks to stop the Outsiders, I’m not doing it as a tenant. I’m doing it as the landlord. Every port, every lighthouse, every tax office. Mine."

The Scavenger Leader sputtered, "And the Capital? D.C. sits right in the middle of that line! You expect us to hand over the seat of the Union to a... a newcomer?"

"If the Capital is too weak to defend its own backyard, perhaps it shouldn’t be the Capital," Ethan retorted, his eyes flashing with violet lightning. "But I’ll be generous. I’ll leave this building as a ’neutral embassy.’ Everything outside these gates, however, belongs to Royal. And I want the Union’s ’advisors’ out. No shared oversight. No ’joint task forces.’ A total withdrawal."

The Deacon’s fury was a physical heat, but as he looked at the smug, immovable face of the young man before him, a dark, jagged smile began to form. Let the greedy brat have his feast, he thought. The East Coast has drowned three joint armies in the last decade. When the next wave of Outsiders tears through his borders and butchers his family, he’ll come crawling back—or he’ll die in the dirt. Then, we pick up the pieces.

"I hope you understand the gravity of rejecting the Union’s hand," the Deacon said, his voice dropping to a temperature that frosted the water glasses on the table. He glanced toward the Matriarch Blackwood, seeking a sign of hesitation, but found only her predatory smirk. "To reject the Union is to reject our salvation. Usually, in times of catastrophe, the Union intervenes to preserve the sovereignty of its members. But since you demand a ’total withdrawal,’ know this: if your cities burn, if your men are slaughtered, if every soul under your banner screams for mercy... we will not come. Not a single soldier, not a single drop of water. You are alone. Is that understood?"

Ethan stood up, his chair scraping against the marble with a screech that sounded like a dying bird.

"I prefer being alone to being surrounded by a bunch of fossils who spend their time violating children and counting blood money," Ethan spat, his voice echoing through the rafters. "You’re not ’salvation,’ you’re parasites. And I’m done being the host."

The auditorium descended into absolute bedlam.

"Blasphemy!" shouted a Silver-rank leader from the back. "How dare he speak to a Deacon that way!"

"He’s signed our death warrants!" wailed a Gold-rank businessman whose main refineries sat in New Jersey. "If the Union leaves, the Scavengers will stop patrolling! We’ll be sitting ducks for the next rift opening!"

Ethan ignored the noise, pointing a finger directly at the Deacon. "You have twenty-four hours to clear your personnel out of my territory. If a single Union badge is seen on East Coast soil by tomorrow’s sunrise, don’t blame me for being ’ruthless.’ If they want to stay, they can pay the Royal Occupancy Tax. It’s quite steep."

The Deacon stood up, his aura erupting in a golden haze of "Spiritual Perception" that made the weaker leaders gasp for air. "Let it be recorded!" he thundered. "The East Coast is now the sole domain of Royal. The Union declares it an ’Excluded Zone.’ No aid, no trade, no mercy. Whatever happens there... stays there."

The room became a cacophony of panicked voices as the realization hit.

"My warehouses in Savannah!" one man cried, grabbing his neighbor’s collar. "The Scavengers are leaving! What do we do? If we stay, the Outsiders eat us. If we leave, we lose everything! Do you have any idea how much it costs to move a mana-refinery?"

"Where would we even go?" his neighbor replied, his face pale as a ghost. "Every other inch of land is owned by the Titans or the Sea Kings! They won’t just give us space. We’ll have to fight for every foot of ground!"

"This is a massacre," whispered another. "Royal can’t protect us all. They’re just one group. The Union is leaving us to die just to spite a boy."

Amidst the terror and the shouting, Ethan turned to the Matriarch. "Shall we? The air in here is starting to smell like fear and old age."

Anne stood, her silk dress rustling like a serpent’s scales. "Lead the way, King of the Graveyard. I want to see how you handle your new kingdom."

"Everything is under control," Ethan said, his voice a calm anchor in the storm of shouting. "Don’t worry."

Anne leaned in, her eyes reflecting the flickering holographic maps of the coastline. "You say that because you haven’t truly seen how terrifying the Outsiders are, Ethan. They don’t just kill; they erase. They are a tide that doesn’t recede."

Ethan paused, a cold light flickering in his eyes as if a sudden memory had been triggered. He turned back toward the high table, his voice booming over the noise, silencing the frantic businessmen in an instant.

"That reminds me," Ethan said, his gaze sweeping over the Obsidian leaders. "Hand over the exact coordinates of the Rift Points. All of them. It’s the least you can do to compensate for your utter incompetence in managing this region."

The air in the room seemed to flash-freeze. The Leader of Celestial, the Scavenger Ancestor, and the Leader of the Desert Oasis all went rigid, their faces contorting with a lethal fury. It was one thing to be outmaneuvered politically; it was another to be treated like defeated servants being ordered to surrender their secrets.

The Leader of the Desert Oasis—a man who had cultivated a reputation for stoicism—slammed his fist onto the table, cracking the obsidian surface. He didn’t look at Ethan; he looked directly at the Deacon, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"Deacon! I expect my losses to be fully compensated by the Union!" he snarled. "If not, I will be forced to go and collect that compensation personally."

He had only agreed to withdraw his troops from the coastal borders to put pressure on Ethan, assuming Royal would be crushed under the administrative weight. He never imagined Ethan’s appetite would be so voracious that he would swallow the entire coastline in a single bite. The loss of the Oasis’s hidden maritime refineries and trade outposts was a catastrophic blow to their bottom line—one they hadn’t actually intended to lose permanently.