The tension in the intimate council chamber was thick enough to choke on. The tragic fate of Lord Kael's three sons, the staggering military loss of one thousand Antmen, and the looming external threat of the collapse of the trade with Bloodbeard Pirates had pushed the gathered leaders to the very brink of despair. Yet, through it all, it was the chilling, almost unnatural stillness of Lord Velas Arcanis — the Patriarch of the Arcanis Clan — that finally exhausted Antares's patience.
Antares's direct question still hung heavy in the air like a drawn blade: "What great, unseen danger has the Arcanis Clan failed to warn the kingdom about?"
Lord Velas, the ancient scholar whose pale, almost translucent skin and flowing pure-white hair marked his elven heritage, finally stirred. When he spoke, his voice was not the high, academic tone one might expect from a master of magic, but a low, mournful sound carrying the weight of deep, generational pain and decades of quiet failure.
"Your Majesty," Velas began, his purple eyes avoiding direct contact with the King, "the danger is not unseen. It is inside us. It is decay."
He rose slowly from his seat, his slender frame trembling slightly as he gestured with one delicate hand. "My Clan — the keepers of knowledge and the source of the tribe's mystical defense — is dying. In the Arcanis Clan, which once boasted thousands of mages capable of wielding true mana, only three hundred individuals still show any real capability or potential to manipulate ambient mana. The rest… are mundane. No different from any common worker or forager. Furthermore, there have been few Ashfang clansmen who have manifested any meaningful mana abilities — those who call themselves shamans number barely ten."
Velas's tone tightened with raw despair. "Most healers in the entire tribe come from our reduced ranks. We cannot replace ourselves. I have tried to fight this curse for decades. I installed a policy of aggressive polygamy on every Arcanis male capable of accessing mana, forcing them to father multiple children with any Antwoman showing even the slightest hint of magical talent."
He looked directly at Antares, a desperate plea shining in his ancient purple eyes. "Even under this desperate policy, the mana-wielding genes refuse to transfer reliably. The children are strong and healthy, but magically vacant. We are fading, Your Majesty. Soon, there will be no one left to maintain the ancient wards that protect our deepest tunnels, no one to heal the inevitable wounds of our warriors, no one to counter the dark sorcery of our enemies."
Antares made a conscious effort to ignore the mental image of the old lord frantically chasing Antwomen across the settlement in his zeal to save his bloodline. He focused instead on the chilling implications of this magical drought. Without mages, the tribe's defensive capabilities would collapse. Healing would become primitive. Strategic advantages in war would vanish.
"What is the cause of this rapid decline, Lord Velas?" Antares asked, his tone now deeply serious, all traces of earlier lightness gone.
Velas swallowed hard, the memory clearly still traumatic even after decades. "It began decades ago, after the last major conflict with the Goblins of the Dead Wastelands. They assaulted us not with steel or numbers alone, but with vile, arcane warfare. They unleashed a contaminant — a truly filthy disease they called Mana Pollution. It was a plague that specifically targeted and consumed those capable of manipulating ambient mana."
Velas's voice cracked with remembered horror. "I watched my older sister — who was set to become the next Clan Patriarch — succumb. The mana inside her literally boiled away, killing her within a single cycle. Mana Pollution had a one hundred percent fatality rate for the afflicted. It killed my brothers, my teachers, my closest friends. It slaughtered our magical caste, leaving us with barely a tenth of our former power."
Antares sat perfectly still as a wave of profound understanding washed over him. He finally knew why the entire tribe had looked at him with such shock, awe, and terror when he had first shown signs of magical life after waking from his coma. The previous Ant King had not simply died of illness — he had been claimed by this very plague.
Mana Pollution kills 100% of its victims, Antares realized silently. And I survived it. I am nothing short of a walking miracle — an insult to the Goblins' greatest weapon.
He broke his concentration for a split second and instinctively checked the System.
**[System Message: Welcome back, Host.]**
**[Current Essence Points: 7,000]**
Antares quickly and silently issued a query to the System, testing the limits of his power in this critical political vacuum.
*Can I use Essence Points to resolve the Arcanis Clan's mana decline?*
The System instantly complied, scanning Lord Velas first, then expanding the analysis across the magical lineage of the entire Arcanis Clan.
**[System Analysis Complete:]**
**[The Arcanis Clan carries residual, heavily diluted blood of ancient Elven ancestry — the original source of their innate, high-grade magical ability. Over generations of desperate interbreeding with non-magical Antmen to replenish numbers after the plague, this crucial Elven Gene has become too dilute to spontaneously activate the mana organ (the 'mana chamber' in the heart).]**
**[Solution: Host can use Essence Points to chemically stabilize and forcefully awaken the dormant Elven Gene in suitable individuals.]**
**[Cost per Individual: 300 Essence Points (Awakens Novice Mage Rank).]**
Antares processed the revelation with cold precision. The problem wasn't some unbreakable curse — it was genetic dilution. With enough Essence Points, he could reverse two thousand years of decline and instantly replenish the core magical defense of the tribe. He had the solution.
But he needed a dramatic, unforgettable political staging to introduce it without revealing the existence of the System.
He remained quiet for several long seconds, calculating the cost (300 E.P. per mage) and the political leverage this miracle would grant him. The Lords around the table — Yajin, Kael, Sira, and the visibly worried Velas — watched their new King with bated breath, convinced he was formulating either a divine decree or a crushing military solution.
Antares finally broke the silence, but not with a decree. Instead, his tone shifted to something almost conversational.
"Lord Velas," Antares said, the earlier coldness vanishing from his voice, "I have been hiding something from this council, and I believe now is the time to reveal it. But first, satisfy my curiosity. How many healthy children, in total, have your thirteen wives given you?"
Velas stammered, deeply confused by the sudden, bizarre change in topic. "Your… Your Majesty? I have a total of thirteen wives, who together have given me one hundred and forty-one healthy children. I was forced to be zealous in my duty."
The room went utterly silent. Even for the Ant Tribe, where Antwomen had a notably high fertility rate, one hundred and forty-one children was staggering. This tribe, which had once numbered in the millions before ancient food shortages forced previous Kings to implement strict birth control laws, had become highly conscious of population management. Lord Velas had flagrantly flouted centuries of tradition for the sake of clan survival.
Antares chuckled softly at first. Then the chuckle grew into a full, deep laugh that echoed off the stone walls of the chamber. One hundred and forty-one! Even the great King Solomon of ancient legend would have raised an eyebrow.
He abruptly stood up, forcing himself to adopt a mask of terrifying authority. The amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, dangerous glare that made several Lords in the room instinctively straighten.
"Lord Velas Arcanis!" Antares's voice boomed, carrying a supernatural chill. "You have knowingly transgressed the ancient Law of Birth Control, instituted by King Morthos Antis himself! You have played games with the sacred future of this kingdom's resources! You stand guilty of the gravest crime of political irresponsibility!"
Cold sweat instantly ran down the backs of every Lord present. They knew the laws. They knew the punishment for mass reproduction could be severe — exile, demotion, or worse. They expected Antares to strike the old scholar down or impose harsh sanctions.
The room waited, silent and breathless, for the divine punishment to fall.
Then Antares's face cracked into a massive, wide smile, and he laughed again — a joyous, tension-releasing sound that left everyone stunned.
"I'm joking!" Antares declared, waving a hand dismissively. "I only wanted to lighten the mood. The fact is, Lord Velas, your disobedience may have saved your clan. It would have been a great loss to lose the only clan capable of wielding mana in any meaningful capacity."
He paused, letting the relief wash over the room before continuing with deadly seriousness.
"Now, listen closely. I want you to immediately gather thirty individuals from your clan — any thirty will do, regardless of gender. They must be physically fit, but their current magical talent is irrelevant. Bring them here. I have a solution for your clan's decline, and it requires this room to be empty except for those I choose."
Lord Velas, wiping sweat from his brow, bowed so low his forehead nearly scraped the floor. Gratitude and utter confusion warred in his ancient purple eyes. He quickly exited the chamber to carry out the King's strange command.
With the heavy weight of the crisis temporarily lifted, Ian — Antares's ever-capable right-hand man — spoke up smoothly.
"Your Majesty, with the Arcanis Patriarch gone and a period of waiting ahead, may I suggest we serve the guests? This meeting has drained everyone, physically and emotionally. It is past time we shared a meal."
Antares readily agreed. He was starving, and the idea of breaking bread with his new council appealed to his political instincts. He did not want to be a distant, arrogant King. He wanted to be a leader who understood the suffering and hopes of his people.
"Do it, Ian," Antares commanded. "Prepare a meal for the council. Let us eat together while we wait for Velas."
The sudden rush of genuine laughter from the King had successfully detonated much of the earlier tension. Lord Velas had fled the council room, leaving behind an ecstatic yet bewildered silence. Ian, sensing the opportunity, quickly ushered the four remaining Pillars out of the counsel chamber and into the palace's grand dining hall.
"Please, gentlemen, Lady Sira," Ian's voice was smooth and professional, "His Majesty requests you join him for a moment of respite and shared hospitality. The Arcanis Patriarch will return shortly."
Antares, now moving with renewed energy, led the way. He walked with a light step, the oppressive weight of the throne and the Ancestral Hall lifted from his shoulders. As they reached the dining hall — a space less severe than the carved council chamber, lined instead with warm tapestries and illuminated by large, glowing crystal clusters — Antares turned to his steadfast guards.
"Eli, Levi," Antares instructed, gesturing toward the long, prepared table. "You both must eat. I doubt you have eaten anything since our expedition in the tower. Sit down and join us. This is a meal of unity, and you are part of the King's retinue."
Eli, the larger of the two, placed a fist against his chest in the traditional Antman salute. "With due respect, Your Majesty," his voice was a low rumble, "the duty of the King's Shield is constant. Our bodies can manage without respite. We do not leave your side."
Levi, equally massive, simply gave a silent, unwavering nod of confirmation.
Antares sighed, a gesture of exasperated fondness that was entirely genuine. He knew the loyalty of these Antmen was absolute, forged in the ancient customs of the tribe. He could not change two millennia of tradition in one sitting.
"Very well," Antares conceded, forcing a slight smile. "Stand sentinel, then. But do not let your stomach rumbling interrupt the state meeting."
The gentle joke eased the stiffness among the council members. Antares took his place at the head of the expansive table. Yajin and Kael sat across from each other, while Lady Sira took the position of honor to Antares's right, with Yanrid positioned discreetly further down. The empty seat next to Antares remained reserved for Lord Velas.
The palace servants — swift, specialized Antwomen adorned with white silks — began serving the meal. The spread was simple, reflecting the necessity of wartime rations, yet prepared with exquisite care. Dishes were presented one by one:
- **Celcane Sticks**: White, purple-flecked tubers sliced into neat sticks, crunchy and slightly sweet, reminiscent of carrot sticks from Antares's previous world.
- **Roast Meat**: Strips of smoked and roasted surface beast, lean and heavily spiced with herbs acquired through trade with the Bloodbeard Pirates.
- **Dried Fruits**: Highly concentrated, energy-rich berries harvested from the deep fungal caverns.
- **Midnight Flower Juice**: The King's favorite — the deep purple, slightly intoxicating, sweet drink that was also their primary trade good.
- **White Fried Mushrooms**: A dish Antares hadn't seen before — large, fluffy white mushrooms, boiled soft and then lightly fried in mineral oil, giving them a rich, savory crust.
"Ian," Antares inquired, gesturing toward the fungi, "these white mushrooms. Are these also cultivated by the Antmen?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty," Ian replied smoothly, standing near the King's chair, ready to assist. "They are a staple. Highly popular for their taste and the fact that they can grow almost anywhere with limited water supply."
Antares nodded, making another mental note of the tribe's complex underground agriculture. He picked up his utensils — intricately carved bone cutlery bearing the Ant King's sigil.
Before he could raise the food to his mouth, he paused, noticing the entire table was waiting. Yajin, Kael, Sira, and Yanrid all sat with hands folded or resting on the table, their eyes respectfully lowered. It was custom: no one ate before the King signaled permission.
A warm wave washed over Antares. This wasn't mere subservience; it was an act of communal respect and reverence for the central figure of the tribe.
Antares finally gestured with his hand, a welcoming motion. "Please, my friends. Eat. Let us discuss the future while we replenish our strength."
The conversation began tentatively at first, fueled by the excellent food. Kael and Yajin immediately plunged back into the logistics of the scouting mission for Kael's lost sons.
"We should instruct the communicators to prioritize the Jubba River mouth," Kael insisted, his voice slightly muffled by a mouthful of roasted meat. "If they were trying to bypass the Stagfall, they would need that water source before the climb."
"Agreed, Lord Kael," Yajin rumbled. "Yanrid will ensure the scouting pack knows the terrain near the Rock Caves well. My son's knowledge of that region is unmatched."
Antares ate deliberately, enjoying the robust flavors, but his eyes kept returning to Yanrid. The young commander ate gracefully and efficiently, listening intently but offering input only when asked. *Yanrid has a destiny higher than being a mere scout commander,* Antares determined silently. *His tactical genius must not be wasted on his father's old squabbles.*
Then, a sudden, cold calculation seized Antares's mind, overriding the cordial atmosphere.
He had sent Lord Velas to gather 30 Antmen. He performed the calculation again in his head:
**30 × 300 E.P. per awakening = 9,000 E.P.**
He had only **7,000 E.P.** remaining.
*I was overly ambitious. I cannot risk failing this display of power,* Antares thought, a knot forming in his stomach. *I must reduce the number without causing suspicion or breaking the political momentum.*
He needed a way to contact Velas, who was likely deep within the Arcanis Clan quarter. Without a word, Antares closed his eyes, concentrating.
A low, powerful hum — barely audible — filled the dining hall. The Lords watched in awe as two crimson-red, segmented antennae slowly emerged and extended from Antares's forehead, glowing with an intense, internal light. The transformation was startling and immediate — the hallmark of an extremely powerful Communicator Antman. The communicators were the rarest and most valuable assets of the tribe, their antennae serving as biological amplifiers for telepathic communication.
Antares used the ambient mana and the natural resonance of the Antmen's neural networks as a living communications grid. To his perception, every Antman in the colony was a recognizable frequency, an identifier. He used the mass of the population as a giant, living antenna array to pinpoint his target.
He found Lord Velas immediately, who was deep in the Arcanis Clan quarter, commanding and organizing the youths he had gathered to follow him back to the palace.
**[Velas!]**
The mental command crashed into the Patriarch's mind like a collapsing cave wall. Velas nearly dropped the young Antman he was leading. He looked wildly around, knowing there were no Communicator Antmen near him, recognizing the sheer, overwhelming power of the telepathic voice.
**[Your Majesty!]**
Velas managed to reply mentally, his mind racing with fear and reverence.
**[Reduce the delegation immediately. Bring only twenty individuals. No more, no less. Hurry, Patriarch. The council is waiting.]**
Velas was stunned by the direct mental order but did not question it. He instantly realized the King possessed the forbidden communicator gene.
**[It shall be done immediately, Your Majesty! I am assembling the twenty now and will return right away.]**
**[Good. Do not miss the fresh mushrooms, old man. They are excellent.]**
Antares sent the final thought, severing the connection.
He retracted his glowing antennae. They receded back into his skull just as swiftly as they had appeared, leaving behind only the astonished silence of the council. Antares felt a wave of nausea and a splitting headache — the exertion of using such raw, widespread mental power was taxing, even for him. He took a long, deep sip of the Midnight Flower juice, washing away the dizziness.
"My apologies," Antares said calmly, as if he hadn't just displayed a legendary genetic trait that very few in the tribe possessed. "Just a private matter with Lord Velas. He will be returning shortly with a slightly reduced party."
The meal continued, but the conversation had shifted. Yajin and Kael kept glancing at where the antennae had been, exchanging looks of deep respect and shock. Lady Sira watched Antares with an entirely new intensity. The King was not just a politician; he was a genetic anomaly and a power unto himself.
The meal concluded smoothly, the Lords finishing their dishes just as a commotion was heard at the door.
Ian stepped forward. "Your Majesty, Lord Velas has returned with the Arcanis party."
Antares stood from his chair, a cold, focused energy returning to his eyes. He surveyed the three council members who would witness the rebirth of the Arcanis Clan.
*Let the show begin,* he thought, a confident, predatory smile just touching the corner of his lips.