"In short, I can't jump in, or I'd crack your forefathers' pact. So it's on you." Eli shrugged, like a leaf catching a careless breeze.

"Who knows what you're scheming." Yor shot Eli a look, disdain curling like sour smoke.

Back when he was lost in fog, the Queen pushed Eli right in his face, calling him the key to salvation.

He went with it, like pocketing a coin found in the road.

This guy couldn't swing in a fight, but his schemes were razors up his sleeve, each keener than the last.

When crises blaze like a pot boiling over, you throw it to him. All in all, he's decent.

Now he dragged Yor to the doorway and chattered on like sparrows under the eaves. Yor still couldn't tell what he wanted.

Eli saw Yor brush his words off like dust, and he shrugged again, a loose reed in wind.

The plan he'd set up was a fishing net full of tears.

If the enemy caught it, he'd be mopping up spilled ink alone.

No, he needed to draw the lines in sand and spell it out.

Eli patted Yor's shoulder, his face all righteous steel. "Hey, buddy, remember: your Queen only asked me to help. You want me as your nanny? That won't fly."

Yor put on his own righteous mask. "Yeah, I get it. Quit giving me that look and beating the same drum. It's dull, man."

"So you do know it's dull." Eli sighed, his breath thinning like smoke.

"We're not fools. You know my point. Think it through. If someone at my level steps in, I'd turn the field into a one-man storm. You know that."

"Then the old monsters would mobilize as one, and they'd march to purge the old monsters on your side. You get me."

Yor just shrugged, rain off a duck's back.

"How many times do I have to say it? Seriously." Eli sighed, his words falling like pebbles into a dry well.

"Like I said, my tier can't just stroll into wars," Eli said. "If I'm spotted, your Elf Race is done. Got it?"

"Then why pretend you're above it? You've already got one foot in the river. What more do you want?" Yor laughed, light as wind.

"That's not the same. I just tweaked a few strings. Said a few lines. That I can manage." Eli sighed, like a tired bell.

"But your plan pushes me under open sun," Eli said, eyeing Yor's blank face. "If I appear, a sky hammer will fall on you. The worst kind."

Uncertainty pricked at him, cold as rain. He didn't know what exactly would follow.

But the intel painted humans as a forest of power, vast and tangled vines.

Once it leaks to other races, sparks ride the wind.

Some humans would hoist the "justice" banner and open a formal crusade against the Elf Race’s territory.

It was the storm he least wanted to see, at least for now.

Speaking of…

Eli rubbed his chin, as if weighing stones in his palm.

He thought he'd glimpsed the Demon Race, shadows flickering on the horizon.

But Edlyn had told him earlier—

—the Demon Race should be lying low, nursing wounds like embers under ash.

If they joined now and got seen,

they'd draw a thousand fingers—spears pointing, all at once.

It could yank the wildfire from the Elf Race and make it leap onto them.

Never mind the weakened Demon Race— even the sturdy-looking Elf Race couldn't withstand a coalition tide of races.

That pricked his curiosity, like an itch behind the ear.

The Demon Race aren’t lambs; few fools run with those wolves, right?

What bait hangs there, moon under water, that they'd risk so much…?

Yor saw Eli gearing up for a long rant, then his voice snapped like a string.

Curious, Yor leaned in like a sparrow tilting its head. "Hey, you—what's up?"

Eli didn't answer, his eyes turned to some distant tide.

Just now, as the Demon Race crossed his thoughts, a graceful silhouette darted through his mind like a swallow.

It startled him, cold as ice sliding under the ribs.

Demon Race? They were his enemy in a past life. So sudden… drums from an old battlefield.

Wait, no. Weren't they wiped out? Why does ash still birth so many sparks?

Confusion swelled, fog swallowing old paths. How much had he forgotten?

Eli frowned. Again, her smile rippled through his mind like moonlight on water.

Eli squinted, palm on the ache, thunder behind his eyes. "…Who are you?"

"Hey??"

…

"The Elf Race’s push feels odd," the goateed elder said, his brows knitting like storm clouds.

"They should be riding the surge. Why freeze like a river overnight?"

"Who knows." The "man" with an octopus head stroked the wet ropes of his face.

"Hey, Beastkin, the Seafolk paid no small price to join this war. Shouldn't you show something?" He smiled, teeth like pale shells.

"Wolred, don't get greedy. The war isn't over. It's not time to split spoils, yet you're so eager?" The goateed elder started to speak, but a domineering voice rolled in from behind.

"Oh. Dear Chief Orek, hello." Wolred bowed to the tiger-headed khan, bending like seaweed in a tide.

"You Beastkin still cling to that look—mixed forms. You can wear a human body, yet you keep the tiger's mask."

Orek raked Wolred with a knife-edged gaze. "Aren't you the same?"

Wolred shrugged, tide-cold. "Sorry. The human parts you see are my food. I can eat them anytime."

He bent and took a few bites; blood welled like ink. "Hm? You still think I'm like you?"

"Enough. Cut the babble. I know the Seafolk’s strength—sea-born, toothless on sand. What are you after on land?" Orek said, annoyance a gritty wind.

Wolred’s octopus eyes—black pearls hiding tides—gave nothing away. He shrugged with the bleeding body. "Why pry? It’s not Beastkin business."

"We set it in advance—shares by merit." Wolred smiled, blade in velvet. "You won’t renege, will you, Chief?"

"No. You keep bringing it up; it’s tiresome. Don’t mind me, octopus." Orek snorted, frost in the breath.

Wolred lacked the organs for expression; most Beastkin here couldn’t read the tide behind his mask.

Years ago, the Siren Tribe bowed to the Demon Race. They’d been one with the Seafolk, then split off like a shoal breaking away.

Recently, most young had reached just before Sacred Rank and Transcender, yet they stalled under a glass ceiling of ice.

After nearly a century of digging, they learned the Sirens had taken away much Seafolk essence—the seed of the tribe.

It touched the Seafolk’s future; they sealed it tight, a chest under waves.

Now the Beastkin have struck at the Elf Race, a thunderclap across a quiet night.

It was a great thunderbolt hammering the serene night sky.

Once, the Hero fractured the land and the tribes. Now the plates were shifting to start anew.

It meant a new war had lit, and the deck would be reshuffled in a storm.

In times like this, the wider your net, the better your catch.

Today the Beastkin strike Elves; tomorrow, another wind will pick another prey.

As of now, only the Seafolk match humans in number, a shoal facing a city of swarms.

Their territory presses humans down, sea outweighing shore.

As the reshuffle starts, signs point to the Seafolk cresting—tide to a full moon.

Once, because of the Hero, humans sat atop the world, a flag on a mountain.

That stirred discontent everywhere. The Seafolk—no weaker than humans—took the first brunt, teeth grinding like surf.

And the Sirens carried off half the tribal essence. The new generation couldn’t break that peak; wings clipped, the Seafolk had to turtle in their seas.

Now, they could take the first cut at the Elf Race.

Graft the Elf Race’s essence into the Seafolk. Then, even against the sprawling human armies, the Seafolk could meet them head-on like cliffs against waves.

And with Elf positions, the Seafolk could summon great tsunamis to drown the land, the moon pulling tides to their side.

By then, the world would flip its board—new day, new sky.

Wolred smiled; the net felt tight in his hands.

The Beastkin were short-sighted. They thought the Seafolk couldn’t hold land; the land would be taken back. So they agreed to the alliance, counting chickens in fog.

They didn’t know the Seafolk had been plotting for ages, deep currents under calm water.

…

"Hey, Era, where’s your clan? I can’t see any Fallen Angel signs." Reni hugged her long spear, her pout a ripe plum.

She’d trailed Era through this territory for ages, miles of thorny paths.

She was bored stiff, weariness puddling like stale rain.

Era sighed, a reed-flute sound. "Where would the Elf Race lock them?"

Reni shrugged, willow-light. "Hey, Era, are you remembering wrong?"

"Impossible. Unless the Hero slaughtered them all, they’re locked inside Elf lands. I’m certain, iron as a mountain."

Irritation flared like sparks. Era stood hands on hips, impatience plain.

In truth, impatience beat fast in her chest like a drum.

Beside her, a sharp-tongued one buzzed like a mosquito. It was maddening.

Reni sighed, breath soft as mist. "I don’t know how the Demonic Lord is doing. Lord Zero and Lord Janus have slept so long. We’re stuck running Demon Race affairs… such a pain."

Era clapped her hands over her ears like a clam snapping shut. "Aaaah! You little dummy, can you be quiet?!"