The market at the center of Urelias Territory had never been particularly impressive, but Antony had always liked it that way.
Two rows of stone-and-timber shops ran along a broad road paved with uneven pale bricks, canvas awnings stretched above baskets of vegetables and freshly baked bread, and the morning air carried the mixed scents of roasted grain, fruit, herbs, and the faint sweetness that naturally followed most Angel settlements.
Above the rooftops, several Angels flew lazily between buildings on pairs of white wings, though calling it flying might have been generous considering how low most of them stayed.
The Angels of his territory were not the magnificent six-winged beings depicted in ancient murals, nor were they powerful warriors capable of splitting mountains with holy light.
Most had only one pair of wings, limited mana, and enough strength to handle ordinary monsters around the territory without getting themselves killed.
Which was perfectly fine as far as Antony Urelias was concerned.
"I am telling you, the Demons are going to break through first," an older Angel declared as he slammed one hand against the wooden stall in front of him, making several red fruits jump inside their basket.
His wings twitched behind him as he looked around at the gathering of men with the expression of someone revealing an indisputable truth.
"The Nephilim have been holding that eastern ridge for almost three months. Three months! You don’t sit behind the same defensive line for three months unless you have already lost the momentum. Give it another two weeks and the Demons will tear through them."
The Angel standing opposite him immediately scoffed. "You said that two weeks ago, Gerard."
"And I was nearly right."
"You were completely wrong."
"Nearly right and completely wrong are not the same thing."
"They are when I have twelve silver coins sitting in my pocket because you were stupid enough to bet against me."
Laughter spread through the small gathering, and Antony leaned against the edge of the nearby produce stall while folding his arms across his chest.
His own wings rested comfortably behind him, the white feathers occasionally shifting whenever the breeze moved through the marketplace.
He looked no different from most of the Angels surrounding him except for the small golden insignia attached to his dark tunic, an understated mark identifying him as the Lord of the territory.
Gerard pointed accusingly across the stall. "Keep laughing, Orlan. When the Demon Lord takes the Ridge of Val and forces the Nephilim back toward their core city, I want every coin you owe me delivered personally to my house."
Orlan snorted. "Your wife would take it before you even touched it."
"That woman has no authority over my gambling money."
"Gerard, she came here last month and dragged you home by the ear."
"That was a private marital disagreement."
"She threatened to pluck your wings."
"Again, private."
Antony chuckled with the others, earning an annoyed glance from Gerard.
"My Lord, I expected better from you."
He raised both hands. "Don’t involve me in this. I learned years ago that interfering between a husband and wife is one of the fastest ways to get attacked by both of them."
"You are saying that because Lady Roxanna has trained you well," Orlan said with a grin.
His smile immediately narrowed. "Careful."
That only made the Angels laugh harder.
Despite the title attached to his name, there was very little ceremony surrounding Antony when he walked through his own territory.
He had never wanted it. Urelias Territory was small enough that almost everyone knew him personally, and after ten years, requiring people to kneel every time he entered the market would have become exhausting for everyone involved.
There were barely a few thousand inhabitants within his borders, and many of the older Angels had known him since the first confusing days after his arrival.
A translucent screen suddenly appeared before Antony’s eyes.
[Urelias Territory]
[Lord: Antony Urelias]
[Territory Core: Red]
[Population: 3,872]
[Registered Combatants: 611]
[Territory Stability: 94%]
[Territory Prosperity: 67%]
[Current Territory Evaluation: Red Core - Lower Tier]
Antony stared at the familiar information for a moment before releasing a quiet laugh through his nose.
Three thousand eight hundred and seventy-two people.
Meanwhile, according to the latest reports, the Nephilim territory currently fighting the Demons had a population somewhere above four million.
And that was only one major territory participating in the war.
Antony dismissed the screen with a thought.
"What’s funny?" Orlan asked.
"Nothing. I was just reminded of how poor we are."
Gerard frowned. "We aren’t poor."
"Our entire population could probably fit inside one district of the Nephilim capital."
"Population isn’t everything."
"They have flying fortresses."
Gerard became quiet.
Antony continued, "Three of them."
Orlan cleared his throat. "We have the western watchtower."
"The western watchtower leans."
"It has character."
"It has structural damage."
"We repaired that."
"You tied a support beam to it."
"It hasn’t fallen."
He stared at him for several seconds before eventually nodding. "I cannot argue with that."
Another round of laughter passed through the group. That, more than anything, was why Antony had never felt ashamed of his territory.
The world beyond their borders might have considered his Angels weak, but Urelias Territory was peaceful.
People ate well enough. Houses were maintained. The roads were safe. Children, what few there were, could cross from one side of the settlement to another without worrying about raids or monsters.
Antony had spent years improving irrigation channels, reinforcing defensive walls, expanding farms, establishing workshops, and slowly stockpiling enough emergency supplies that one bad harvest wouldn’t kill half his population.
It wasn’t glorious or earn him a place on any ranking boards, but he liked it.
One of the younger Angels standing nearby scratched his cheek before asking, "Do you think the Nephilim and Demons will actually destroy each other’s territory cores?"
The mood became slightly more serious.
Antony shook his head. "Not unless one side completely collapses. They’re fighting over land, not extermination. Destroying a territory core ruins too much of what they’re trying to capture."
Gerard nodded sagely. "Exactly. That’s why I’ve been saying the Demons have the advantage."
"You weren’t saying that five minutes ago," Orlan complained. "You were talking about momentum."
"It’s connected."
"It isn’t."
"It is if you understand warfare."
"You sell apples."
"I can sell apples and understand warfare."
Antony ignored them as another notification flickered briefly at the edge of his vision, this one showing a public territorial report he had already read that morning.
[Regional Conflict Update]
[Nephilim Dominion - Violet Territory Core]
[Demonic Territory of Vharos - Violet Territory Core]
[Conflict Status: Stalemate]
[Contested Territory: 1,284 square kilometers]
[Estimated Losses: Updating...]
Violet.
Antony looked at the word for another second before dismissing the notification.
His own core was red, the lowest recognized territorial color.
There were Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
Seven major stages, each representing an almost absurd increase in territorial capacity, resources, defensive strength, and the authority a Lord could exert over the land under their control.
Urelias Territory had remained red for ten years.
The Demons and Nephilim currently tearing an entire region apart were both violet territories, ruled by species considered S-ranked in overall racial potential.
There were six entire colors between them, the difference was soo big that he never thought of covering it.
Antony smiled faintly, it was absolutely none of his business.
One of the Angels beside him suddenly sighed. "We really did get lucky with you, Lord Antony."
His attention shifted toward him.
The speaker was a middle-aged Angel named Henric, one of the millers who worked near the southern fields.
He had flour dust along one sleeve and the sort of broad, weathered hands Antony associated more with farmers than supposedly divine beings.
Gerard nodded. "That much is true."
Antony raised an eyebrow. "Where did this suddenly come from?"
Henric shrugged. "Listening to news about Lords throwing hundreds of thousands of soldiers at each other over mountains made me think about it. Ten years ago, we had what? Barely a thousand people left?"
"Less," Gerard answered. "Eight hundred and something."
"Eight hundred and forty-six," Antony said automatically.
Several heads turned toward him.
He shrugged. "I remember."
Of course he remembered. There were some numbers a person simply never forgot.
Henric smiled. "Eight hundred and forty-six, then. Half our farms were dead, monsters had taken the northern woods, the old settlement wall was falling apart, and most people expected the race to disappear within another generation. Then some sixteen-year-old boy fell out of nowhere, became our Lord, spent his first month asking questions about everything, nearly poisoned himself eating blue frost berries, and somehow decided he was going to fix the place."
Gerard began laughing. "I had forgotten about the frost berries."
"I hadn’t."
"You ate seven."
"I was hungry."
"They’re poisonous."
"I discovered that."
"You slept for two days."
"I was sixteen and had just been thrown into another world. My decision-making was not at its peak."
Orlan grinned. "And yet somehow we survived you."
He smiled, but his attention slowly drifted away from the conversation.
(PS: The core colours match the rainbow)