Chapter 265: Banality of Opulence

Cecilia sat on her throne, looking down at the Vulpus gathered below. They were grimy, travel-worn, their gear mismatched and poorly kept, but there was weight in how they carried themselves. She could tell they were capable fighters.

Over the past year, her dear friend’s improvements had taken deeper root. Her mind felt clearer now, less emotional, more controlled. It was easier to see things as they were, without distraction or hesitation.

With the gate found, the final act was approaching. Once the hive poured into Hell, it would tip the balance in that searing quagmire. Here, the Vulpus would serve in the war against the elves. Her dear friend had also found the dark naga, a force suited for an amphibious strike into the Wood of the Ancients. Two such strikes, combined with a southern overland push, would stretch the elves thin. She highly doubted they could withstand it.

Still, something about this group felt off. They stood unevenly, some shifting their weight, others glancing around. Cecilia paused at the thought. At times discipline could reduce flexibility. Her dear friend had complained about that with his hive, often calling them a blunt instrument. Irregulars had their uses. Deep strike commandos, snipers, saboteurs, such forces were in short supply in the empire.

“I assume you are General Abel,” Cecilia said calmly, her gaze settling on the weathered, greying fox missing half an ear.

“Aye,” General Abel replied, notably without bowing.

Cecilia ignored the lack of propriety. At the end of the day, her designs for them were as irregulars. Forcing them into formality would only erode that function. Let the nobles preen in their feathers. Everyone had their role to play.

“You seem well travelled. I hope I haven’t imposed on you by summoning you directly. Unfortunately, my time is pressed, so I apologise for the rush,” Cecilia said.

There was a subtle shift among the Vulpus some small glances and slight tension. They did not buy the sincerity. Not even a little. Good, it meant they were not fools.

“Well, I thank you kindly for the hospitality. And it’s no bother. We rangers ain’t so soft,” Abel replied evenly.

Cecilia raised a brow, mildly impressed. It seemed these soldiers were shrewd in their own way.

“That is good to hear. I do tire of soldiers looking disgruntled by a little fatigue,” Cecilia said, probing further.

“Well, to me, Your Majesty, as long as my men listen to orders and shoot straight, I don’t rightly care what they talk like,” Abel replied evenly, a faintly predatory grin on his face.

Cecilia let out a quiet chuckle, more genuine this time, and allowed herself a small, sincere smile. “Hm. I think we can work together. I believe I’ve held you all long enough. Please, get some rest for the day. If you require new clothes, a tailor will attend to you shortly. You will have them by the next sunrise. As for today, enjoy the hospitality in my palace,” Cecilia said.

Abel tipped his hat slightly in thanks. Mighty kind of you, Your Majesty,” he replied.

Later, Cecilia retired to her room. As expected, her dear friend was already there, inhabiting the body of one of his minions.

“Told you you’d like them,” he said with a chuckle.

“Yes, I do enjoy hardened soldiers. Their reliability is something I appreciate,” Cecilia replied, a quiet laugh following.

“So, what say you, friend? Are you certain they are as useful as you claim? Their numbers are greatly diminished,” Cecilia pointed out.

“True, but I don’t think we’ll be using them as front line grunts, no?” her dear friend said with a grin.

“No, we won’t,” Cecilia replied, picking up a spyglass and looking through it idly. “A ranged role would suit them better. Snipers, perhaps. We will have to see how well they perform in that capacity.”

“Well, all I can say is they’re better shots than what we have now. Fire and move, fire and move. They’re quite good at that,” her friend said.

“Yes. Mounting one of these atop a rifle would work well. The trials here have been lacklustre. It’s just not reliable or accurate enough,” Cecilia mused, setting the spyglass aside.

“There are standout shooters in the Empire, from what I hear,” her friend said.

“Yes, a handful. Most can’t get the scopes tuned properly. It is difficult to adjust the guns in the field,” Cecilia muttered.

“Well, the Vulpus does this thing called zeroing. Might come in useful. And they shoot better than our snipers even with iron sights, so they must be doing something right,” her friend said.

“If that is true, then yes, agreed,” Cecilia replied, reaching for a prototype Vulpus-style revolver her dwarven smiths had made, complete with cartridges.

“An effective design,” Cecilia muttered, turning it over in her hand.

“As is this,” she said, picking up a shotgun prototype.

“Clever, really. It fires a cone of metal fragments. Difficult to miss at close range. Crude, but durable. This design philosophy might make our own rifles more reliable as well. From what I hear, our weapons are facing issues in Divonia. That stench and filth in the refugee camps is affecting our equipment,” Cecilia said.

“Their masks as well. The Vulpus have good ether mask designs. It could make our troops more durable in hostile environments,” her friend added, and she gave a small nod.

“But what interests me most is their factories,” he continued.

She glanced at him. She was aware of his frustration with the dwarves, so obsessed with their artisanal goods. Cecilia personally thought it was acceptable. Quality over quantity. Still, his point was worth considering.

“Yes. You call it an assembly line. Machines making more machines, workers each handling a single task instead of one master crafting the entire rifle,” Cecilia mused.

“It’s effective, and cheaper. It doesn’t need to look like art. It needs to kill whatever it’s pointed at,” her friend said.

“Yes… on that, I agree,” Cecilia muttered, her gaze resting on the weapons before her.

“Still, it seems inelegant, no?” Cecilia muttered.

“I find pulped angels to be peak art. Tasty art, even,” her friend replied, drawing a quiet chuckle from her.

“Well said, my dear friend. Still, perhaps we can attempt it, though I am certain the dwarves will not like it,” Cecilia said.

“They can evolve or die. That is the way of the world,” her friend replied with a snort.

“Or perhaps, my dear friend, we give them prestige projects. Let the machines handle the smaller items for the rank troops, while the dwarves focus on more important work. That way they feel valued, and still move in the direction we want. Think of it as refocusing them,” Cecilia said.

“Hm… elegant. It should work, given their hard-headedness,” her dear friend replied.

“Of course it will. Leave this to me. I am quite good at making people do what I want them to do,” Cecilia said with a small smile. Her dear friend let out a soft chuckle in response.

Yeah sure I’ll leave this stuff to you as always

If you ask me to run these apes I’ll just have them all killed…

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.♚.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

O’Neer strode into his room, smoke curling from the cigarette jammed between his teeth. He let out a slow puff as his eyes swept over the space.

Carpeted floors, thick and clean, muffling his steps. Hardwood furniture, polished smooth, every edge deliberate and unchipped. A wide bed with heavy linens, untouched and perfectly laid. A low table set with glassware that hadn’t seen a crack or stain. Even the air felt different, still and clean, without grit clinging to it.

He stepped further in, his boots pressing faint marks into the carpet.

Back in the Vulpina Wastes, nothing stayed clean for long. Dust worked its way into everything, clothes, weapons, even food. Wood splintered, metal wore down, and anything soft was either threadbare or gone entirely. Rooms were never really rooms, just spaces claimed for a while before the world took them back.

Here, everything felt… fixed and maintained.

He took another drag, exhaling slowly as his gaze lingered on the bed, then dropped to his own worn coat, still carrying the dust of where he came from.

“…Huh.”

For a moment, he just stood there, cigarette burning low between his fingers, as if deciding whether a place like this even made sense.

“O’Neer, get your sorry ass in here!” Abel’s voice carried easily through the hall. O’Neer took one last long drag before stepping back out into the corridor and thought to himself ‘Yeah that made more sense’.

The hallway was just as polished as the room, carpet running the length of it, walls lined with carved wood and soft light. A pair of attendants passed by, bowing slightly. He tipped his hat in return, offering a casual, “Ladies.”

They looked a touch surprised at that.

He turned the corner into Abel’s room and stepped inside. The rest of the group was already there, gathered loosely around the general.

The room was already thick with cigarette smoke. Wyatt, notably, wasn’t smoking. He was taking a slow drink from his hip flask, and it was definitely not water. O’Neer’s gaze flicked to the nearby table, where a decanter of amber liquid sat noticeably below where it should have been.

Well. Everyone had their vices.

“Before we start…” Abel said, drawing his pistol in one smooth motion and pointing it at an empty patch of carpet.

“Would you kindly fuck off out of my room.”

O’Neer followed the aim, eyes settling on the space. Then he noticed it. A slight depression in the carpet. Subtle, but wrong.

Something was there.

A figure shimmered into view, a human woman dressed in black, hands raised as she cautiously revealed herself.

“Now then,” Abel continued, voice low, “if the Empress wants you to listen in, she can request it. Of course, we won’t be speaking about everything important if she does. So right now, I see two paths. You can stay and listen to us talk about how nice your carpets are… or you can fuck off out of my room.”

“Or we could just shoot you,” O’Neer added.

A wave of shrugs and low grumbling agreement rolled through the gathered rangers.

“May I leave?” the woman asked, her voice even.

“Yeah, sure,” Abel said, lowering the pistol and easing the hammer down.

O’Neer watched as the so-called spy moved to slip past him into the corridor. As she did, he leaned slightly and blew a slow puff of smoke right into her face.

She twitched, shooting him a sharp look.

He just smirked, gave her a light shove to hurry her along, then flicked the cigarette butt after her. It bounced off the back of her head as she stepped out.

O’Neer snorted and slammed the door shut behind her.

“So, you think we’re alone now?” he asked, raising a brow as his eyes swept the room.

“Doubt it,” Abel grunted, lighting a fresh cigarette.

“Someone like that Empress wouldn’t rely on just one spy. And I doubt they’d be that easy to catch. The rats are probably in the walls or something,” O’Neer said.

“Regardless of whether there are rats in the floorboards, the rafters, or under the damned bed, we have a job to do. It’s simple. We’ve got a week here. Watch how these people live, ask the right questions, figure out whether this place is just hell with nice curtains,” Abel grunted.

“Upholstery or no, the empire will probably want something from us while we’re here too. So if we get the chance, we should head out at night and see the city. Even a town square in the Vulpina Wastes is relatively safe at noon,” Wyatt said, taking another deep drink from his flask.

“Then maybe you should hit the bar, Wyatt. Sounds like your kind of poison,” O’Neer grinned, lighting another cigarette. “I, on the other hand…”

“You’ll be walking the dead of night, watching the streets. You will definitely not be visiting any local brothels or tables of chance,” Abel cut in, voice low.

O’Neer didn’t protest. Not verbally.

But his ears dipped, and his tail lowered slightly before he gave a quiet, wordless nod.

“Right, recon.” O’Neer muttered.

“Yes. Captain. Recon.” Abel said, putting particular emphasis on O’Neer’s rank.

“As for you, Captain Wyatt, I trust you will know how to conduct yourself in a fashion that does not involve removing teeth from mouths, despite your fondness for drink,” Abel said, giving him a pointed look.

“Of course, General,” Wyatt replied, taking another drink before muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Good stuff…” to O’Neer.

“Alright, the rest of you get some rest. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. So look dignified,” General Abel barked. The others gave quiet nods and began to disperse.

Later, O’Neer stood disgruntled, arms stretched out in a T as attendants took his measurements.

On some level, he felt bad for them. He hadn’t bathed in two weeks. And by bathe, he meant dunking his head in a barrel and wiping himself down with whatever cloth wasn’t already ruined. Water wasn’t something you wasted in the Vulpina Wastes.

To the attendants’ credit, they showed no reaction. No hesitation, no shift in expression. They worked with quiet, perfect professionalism, as if this was no different from any other fitting.

Afterwards, he decided to take a bath. Apparently, each room had one, though he needed an attendant to explain how to use it, along with the strange liquids they called soap.

Once everything was set, O’Neer sank into the warm water, a luxury he had never known. For a brief moment, he just sat there, shoulders loosening.

Then he noticed the water turning a muddy brown.

He looked down, mildly disgruntled.

“…Right.”

With a small grunt, he reached over, pulled the stopper, and stayed seated as the water drained away beneath him. A moment later, fresh water began to fill the tub again, and he sat there, grumbling quietly to himself as it rose.

As the heat settled in, he tried the soaps, working them in until he was half covered in thick, foamy bubbles. For a moment, he just sat there, letting himself relax.

His gaze drifted around the bathroom. Clean stone, polished fittings, steady hot water without effort. It explained, at least in part, why everyone in this city smelled faintly of flowers.

But the real difference was the water.

O’Neer, ever reluctant to be impressed, turned it over in his mind. Maybe this place just had more rivers. More water, easier to draw. It didn’t take much to pull something out of the ground if you had enough of it.

He grumbled under his breath, still buried in rose scented foam.

If sand was impressive, we’d be the most impressive lot alive……