“So, tell me more about this mansion,” she initiated a new conversation. She typically was the one to do so, bubbly as she was.

  “It’s a fairly impressive one,” Rykard said ftly.

  “No boasting about that?” Helenn noted.

  “The estate was given to me by my family, a golden package to send me away in,” he expined to his third haremette. “There’s nothing about it to be proud of. I wasn’t involved in its construction, its pnning, or in creating the nation that allowed the materials to be gathered.” Rykard yawned. “It’s mine just because it was given to me. It has very little value to me. However, I’ll fill it with those that do, and with time it will become something I can boast about.”

  “Oh, oh, can I build like… rails?”

  “Like guardrails?”

  “No like… minecart rails, and then you put a big thing on it, a train, powered by mana crystals, and then you get anywhere else in the area within minutes.”

  Rykard hummed and rubbed his chin. “We have absurd amounts of metal and you’ll have plenty of time… but that sounds like a lot of specialized bour. We’ll talk more about it when we get you situated.” His eyes spotted their target in the distance. “That’s our current situation.”

  The north-western temple was a scorched skeleton of itself. Remarkably much of the structure was still intact, although the outward appearance and actual integrity were seldom the same when it came to burned complexes. The surrounding area was busy with activity, people moving logs around to either help keep up walls they had damaged in anger or creating new structures around it. Rykard would see which of the two it was soon enough.

  Under the light of the st sliver of the sun, he stopped. This clearly was not a happy crowd, he could guess that much from a distance. It was time to consider his approach. He had chosen the hammer as his tool of conquest, but he did not have to make every issue a nail.

  Especially not if he could summon every tool he could think of.

  Rykard threaded his might through the needle of his will and penetrated the veil once again. In a few moments, he had pulled in an obedient entity. To run in himself was an unnecessary risk, not to mention below his station. He was a king and since there was no time issue here, he might as well have something tell them to come to him.

  The entity manifested in a swirl of fading sunlight. That initial moment of coalescing energies gave Rykard great hopes regarding his messenger. What greeted him once all was said and done was a bare chested centaur wielding a great trumpet. His skin glowed a soft orange, his fur was a bright orange, and his hooves were as bck as an eclipse.

  An all around impressive creature, doubtlessly, although held back by his ck of further marks about him, not to mention his size. The centaur stood barely taller than Rykard himself, despite having the lower body of a horse.

  “You’ll do,” Rykard decided and the ambassador entity bowed his head in understanding. “Inform whoever lives down there that king Rykard of New Eden wishes to pary with their leadership and bring them back here.”

  “As you wish, great summoner,” the centaur stated, his voice as pleasant as freshly baked bread. Then, at high speed, the entity galloped ahead of them.

  “You can just do that?” Helenn asked, in awe. “I thought the demon stuff was like… something prepared.”

  “You still underestimate my might,” Rykard chuckled and pulled her down with him. He sat down on a cut down tree stump and began to fondle the left tit of the shortstack in his p. “You’ll understand this simple truth in due time: I am sovereign.”

  Helenn shivered head to toe and nuzzled against him, while he used her chest as his personal handwarmer. In the distance, the centaur had reached the temple already. With every passing second, the ambassador entity became more pronounced. His glowing skin retained the light of the fading sun, while day turned into night, and soon he was the only thing that glowed.

  The sound of the horn echoed out, the scattered people coalesced. Gestures were made, too far away for Rykard to catch what words accompanied them. Before long, the centaur turned around, a single person in tow.

  To lend some additional credence to his entrance, Rykard illuminated his surroundings with magical lights. Just small dots, easily summoned by a flick of his wrist, that basked everything around in soft silver. Smiling, still groping the cherub, Rykard looked at the lone man that followed his summoned ambassador.

  He was a tall man, muscur, bald, and war-scarred. A long, greying beard hid most of his lower face from view. A pair of swords hung from leather straps on his belt, both of them recently polished. Heavy boots caused twigs and pine needles to break under each of his steps.

  Rykard could not have asked for a more definitive incarnation of a local man of influence, considering the character of this Hexagon. “You are king Rykard?” the man asked, a hint of respect in his gruff voice. He looked at the cherub in his p for a moment. “Is that Helenn?”

  “Yup, yup,” the cherub responded first.

  “I decided I wanted her,” Rykard said and combed through the cherub's hair. Now that night had truly set in, her own golden glow was apparent. “Pay her no mind, she’s here to look pretty.” The shortstack giggled happily at the objectification. “Let’s instead talk about your fealty to me.”

  “...We just burned down the st distant power that controlled us,” the war veteran said, barely holding back a growl. “Now we sit in a bsted fucking void, and some foreigner sends in a sparkly fucking centaur, then asks for fealty? The hell are you? Do you know what is happening?”

  ‘Expining this over and over again is going to get old quick,’ Rykard thought. ‘Still, no way around it.’

  Rykard took a deep breath and then just gave the veteran the rundown of events. What the great game was, the ineptitude of the local priesthood to not have known about it, what Rykard’s pce as a contestant was and the conquest he therefore was going to enact.

  The veteran listened to it all, only occasionally nodding or shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he scoffed when it was all said and done. He looked over his shoulder, back to the temple. “You know, I thought it was an incredible waste to burn down the building. I’m happy though that those bastards died screaming.”

  Rykard shrugged, not caring either way. “Your revenge was justified - although I still have killed three of the locals who thought I was part of their target group. I could have spared them, but they made the mistake of attacking me and for that they had to pay. I brought the priests in the temple I found first to an even more gruesome end.”

  Turning back, the veteran eyed the king critically. “Why do you tell me this?”

  “You know why.” Rykard’s chin pointed at a deep scar that added a second trench west of the natural depression between the man’s pectorals. “I’m here as a conqueror. Your old rulers were inept and overstepped their authority. Your upstart followers are rash, inexperienced, and angry. I have no problem with burning down either party. Turn against me, and you will suffer the consequences.” He said all of that in a factual tone, not caring to intimidate the veteran. “You have seen war. You know the world is run by the victors.”

  The veteran’s jaw moved in little circles, as if he was chewing on something dense and firm. Time passed, as he thought. Time during which Rykard simply and patiently stared. His green eyes remained focused.

  “My men won’t respect you if I just decre you our king. I’m barely in charge as it is,” he finally decred.

  “What would make them respect me? A duel?” Rykard looked at the man’s swords. He doubted he was in charge because of seniority.

  “That could work, if you win,” the veteran responded.

  Rykard just showed a cocky smile and considered the option. Duelling the man in front of his fellowship could prove his right to rule. Alternatively, he could go the harder and even firmer way of storming the entire encampment. Foregoing the violent way and insisting on simple diplomacy could also work, despite what the veteran said.

  In the end, Rykard decided to go with the man’s idea. He was the local man of import, after all. “Alright then,” the king said and got up. Helenn hovered out of his p, to let him stretch and roll his shoulders. “Let’s do this then. You,” Rykard turned to the centaur, “announce the duel to the masses. Also expin to them the basics of their situation. I don’t want to repeat myself.”

  “As you command,” the ambassador entity responded with fluid obedience and galloped back the way it had come.

  By the time Rykard and the veteran arrived at the temple, logs and smashed furniture had been moved into a basic fighting ring. “Let’s get the rules straight,” the war veteran shouted, for everyone to hear. “You, foreign king, that holds the answer for why we are in this new world, wish to fight me for the loyalty of my men!”

  “You could put it like that,” Rykard responded with a smug smile.

  “This is a fight for leadership, a battle of prowess!” the veteran’s rough voice rose in volume the more he spoke, amping up the gathered crowd of thirty men and himself. “Victory is attained through ring-out, the enemy’s surrender, or a killing blow, understood?”

  Rykard contempted for a moment. That a killing blow was an option struck him as interesting. ‘This man is willing to die if it means to show what kind of means I would employ,’ the mage thought. “I agree to these conditions.”

  “Good. Then let us begin!” the war veteran said and climbed into the ring.

  “Actually, before we begin, I have one more thing to add.” Rykard’s eyes trailed over the gathered crowd. “It would be boring if I just beat your current leader. Let’s make this a marathon. Any and all of you that want to challenge me in a duel can do so. I’ll fight you in a row.” The announcement caused yet more stunned silence, if that was even possible. While the young and middle aged men began to recover from their surprise, Rykard pulled a little fsk from his belt.

  The liquid within was a reddish brown colour, darker veins swirling within. In that sense, it was remarkably simir to liquid meat. Rykard broke the wax seal that kept the gss stopper in pce and downed it in one swift gulp.

  Alchemy was an interesting science. Through stimution of various physical and metaphysical systems within the body, one could achieve a great variety of results. All one needed was suitable biomatter, the necessary talent, materials, and a dash of magic. Those that had less of the magic needed more of the materials, typically speaking.

  The Stable Mutagen that Rykard downed was something he had created as a cheap spdash mixture of what food he had found around the estate. That was enough for him, since he had the time and might to coax out of these materials more than was reasonable for the average person. Even he could only carry and maintain one of those Stable Mutagens at a time though. That was, for the time being.

  The men at this point were beginning to line up next to the arena. They ughed and joked, certain one of them could defeat this newcomer at some point.

  One of them had his finger extended in Rykard’s direction, letting him hear a particurly derisive comment. It got stuck in his throat halfway through. Rykard simply grinned. Everyone and everything around him was becoming smaller.

  Bones popped and thickened, as the muscle fibres around them surged in size and density. Rykard’s already athletic figure increased by four heads in height, until he towered above everyone else. His shoulders were broader than Helenn’s entire body stretched out, his hands paws that could have grabbed a bear by the throat, and his legs trunks of muscles that could keep his entire hulking stature moving.

  Rykard rolled a shoulder, feeling the st of the changes settle in. The mutagen had worked its wonders perfectly. He took a step and felt the ground shudder. Each time his soles hit the ground, there was a soft thud. Using Alteration in tandem with his growth had not been easy, but his clothes had survived the whole endeavour.

  Casually, Rykard stepped over the barrier, as if the toppled over tables were a fence made for a mouse. “You can fight first or st,” the king suggested, his voice distorted towards the deeper end of the male vocal spectrum. He didn’t quite like it. Not that it would st for too long. After a maximum of an hour, or earlier if he sped the process along, the effect of the mutagen would wane.

  “I will go… first,” the veteran tried to sound confident and almost succeeded.

  Considering the state of technology on this Hexagon, Rykard very much doubted they knew what he had done. Even if any of them did and would have protested that it was cheating, he would have disagreed quite simply. The veteran had entered with his weapons and Rykard was doubtlessly more competent at making his own mutagens than the man was at forging his own weapons.

  Next to the arena, the line of men eager to fight was visibly decreasing. Dozens of people took a step back and decided to prioritize being an onlooker over engaging the sovereign that had come around with an angel, a centaur, and the ability to turn himself into a hulking goliath.

  Those were the smart ones.

  “Alright, dies and gentlemen… well, the only dy here seems to be me, but still!” Helenn took it upon herself to be the referee. “We have our contestants. My big, sexy, hunk of manmeat, now with even more meat on him versus all of you! Imagine his shlong in that form… hmmmm… sexy to think about, probably too big even for me. I mean… ah, not the point right now. EHem! On my mark! Three… two… one… FIGHT!”