Prime Minister Jarad’s office sat at the top of the capital’s administrative tower, a room lined with reports rather than trophies, its only decoration a modest cleric’s staff mounted above the hearth that he had not personally wielded in combat in over a decade.
He was level ninety, same as most of the council seated beneath him, his class built entirely around healing and administrative support rather than anything resembling a fight.
It was, in the peculiar arithmetic of Bria’s government, exactly the right kind of strength for the job.
A prime minister who could throw a punch was rarely one who could hold a kingdom’s paperwork together.
Councilor Vessa sat across from him, equally unremarkable in a fight and equally indispensable in the room, her own cleric’s mark tattooed faintly along one wrist.
She set a thick stack of reports on the desk between them and rubbed her eyes.
“The Ranking Tournament opens in six weeks,” she said.
“We need the roster finalized before the announcement goes out to the provinces.”
Jarad nodded slowly, pulling the top report toward him.
“Walk me through the current eight again.
I want it fresh before I sign off.”
“Rank One remains Grandmaster Osric, level seven hundred, unchanged for the better part of a decade now.
No challenger has come within striking distance.” Vessa flipped a page.
“Rank Two, Lyra Duskbane, level six hundred and fifty, still the fastest blade in the kingdom by every account we have.
Rank Three, General Thaddeus Korr, level six hundred, commanding the eastern defense forces personally through this entire civil war.
Rank Four, Battlemage Mireille Sancroix, level five hundred and fifty, and frankly the only reason the capital’s outer wards haven’t buckled under the strain the fighting’s put on them.”
“And Five,” Jarad said, though he already knew the answer.
“Lord Baldrik Reinhart.
Level four hundred and eighty.
Swordsman.” Vessa’s mouth tightened slightly.
“Whose son, as it happens, is the reason we’re having this particular conversation.”
Jarad set the report down.
“Carlson.”
“Sixteen years old,” Vessa confirmed.
“Awakened at level ninety not eight months ago, which alone would have made him the talk of the capital season. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
He’s since climbed to level one hundred on his own merit, no small feat for a boy that age, and the court’s already calling him a sword saint in the making.
He carries a skill called Disappear.”
“I’ve read the report,” Jarad said.
“Forcibly teleports a monster to the location of something stronger than itself.
Elegant.
Cruel, in the right hands.”
“Effective, more importantly,” Vessa said.
“Which brings us to the actual problem.”
She slid a second report across the desk, this one thinner, more urgent in its handwriting.
Jarad scanned it, his expression flattening with each line.
“Three Behemoths,” he said.
“Level one hundred each, converging on a single village near the western border.”
“Confirmed by two separate scouting parties,” Vessa said.
“The village has a monument, thankfully, so the Star’s Blessing is holding the barrier for now.
But three named Behemoths working in concert is not something any barrier is built to withstand indefinitely, and every ranker capable of handling that kind of threat is currently occupied holding the eastern front together.”
Jarad exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The civil war had already cost them more than either of them cared to say aloud in a room this small, entire garrisons pulled from border duty to hold the capital’s own fractured nobility in check, and every week that passed left villages like this one further outside the kingdom’s ability to actually protect.
“Send Carlson,” he said finally.
Vessa’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“He’s sixteen.”
“He’s level one hundred with a skill built specifically to relocate exactly this kind of problem somewhere it becomes someone else’s,” Jarad said.
“Have him identify the strongest active threat in the region beyond that village’s borders and send the weakest of the three Behemoths to meet it.
Let the other two think twice about whatever coordination they’ve worked out between them.
It buys us time until Reinhart or Korr can be spared from the front.” This story is hosted at g.com.
“His father won’t be pleased.”
“His father is currently our fifth strongest blade and cannot be spared either,” Jarad said.
“Reinhart will understand the math, even if he doesn’t enjoy it.”
Vessa made a note, then set her pen down, glancing at the next folder in her stack with a slightly lighter expression, the kind of small relief that came from finally reaching the part of a long day’s reports that didn’t involve a civil war or three converging Behemoths.
“On a happier note,” she said, “the lower ranker trials are shaping up to be the most interesting season we’ve had in years.
Beyond Carlson, we’ve flagged three others worth the court’s attention this cycle.”
“Go on.”
“A girl out of the southern provinces, level seventy at only sixteen, a dagger specialist who’s already cleared two C rank dungeons solo.
A boy from the mining guilds, level eighty, some manner of earth affinity magic none of our scholars have fully categorized yet.
And an orphaned street fighter from the capital’s lower district, level sixty five, no formal training at all, who apparently beat a licensed adventurer twice his level in an unsanctioned duel outside a tavern last month.”
Jarad allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
“Every generation thinks it’s produced something the last one didn’t.”
“Every generation is occasionally right,” Vessa said.
“Speaking of which, you’ve heard the rumors out of Elvensia and the beastman territories.”
“The elf girl and the demon lord’s boy,” Jarad said.
“Saria and Dako.”
“Court gossip has both of them strong enough already to challenge their own kingdom’s tenth ranked fighter, and they’re barely sixteen themselves.” Vessa shook her head, half amusement and half genuine unease.
“If either of those numbers holds up under real scrutiny, we’re looking at a generation unlike anything the continent’s produced in living memory.”
“Thank the stars the Ranking Tournament stays within our own borders,” Jarad said dryly.
“The day some fool proposes a continental ranking system comparing Bria’s best against Elvensia’s, against the beastman clans, against whatever Abarat’s raising in secret, is the day every prime minister on Astra develops a permanent headache.”
Vessa laughed, short and tired, and reached for the next report on her stack.
Neither of them, in that entire conversation, spoke a single word about a mountain village called Teria, or a boy who had walked out of it two days earlier carrying a level two the whole world would have laughed at, and a fortune of experience buried inside him that made every number discussed in that room look small by comparison.
Some stories simply hadn’t reached the capital yet.
Not all of them would arrive in time.