Beheld the test co from the ic kits of intergactierce—the new and improved battle mech armor, a veritable titan among tin s!

  It stood at a t, why-even-bother-with-dders height, having ditched the quaint charm of its 8'5" predecessors for a bulkier, brawnier build that promised to make doors everywhere tremble in their frames.

  Where the first version pranced around battlefields with the delicate grace of a ballet dahe test model thundered across the terrain like a fged tank on a caffeine binge.

  Its sturdy exoskeleton was fed from a new, unpronounceable alloy, rumored to be sourced from the core of a ron star—because, of course, when it came to military overpensation, only star guts would do.

  This new suit was not just a pretty face with an intimidating body. No, it was smarter, too!

  Equipped with an AI co-pilot, the mech could make tactical decisions faster than a politi disavowing past statements.

  Its on systems had been upgraded from "mildly arming" to "do we really need a tactiuke for a sidearm?" levels of firepower, ensuring that whatever it poi became a poignant historical footnote.

  trol-wise, the designers apparently decided that the previous interface, which required three doctoral degrees and a sacrificial to operate, erhaps a tad inaccessible.

  The new trols were as easy as pying a video game!

  P this marvel of destructive efficy was not yrandma's AA battery pack but a miniature fusioor, because nothing said "overkill" like harnessing the power of the sun to fuel your m ute of mayhem.

  In summary, if you ever dreamed of striding into battle encased in several tons of sci-fi superiority, all while casually obliterating obstacles with the nonce of swatting a fly—this test battle mech armor wasn’t just your ride; it was your throne!

  “Let’s buy them.”

  In an office, trimmed with the kind of opulehat suggested 'money is no object', a man leaned ba his chair, the leather creaking uhe weight of his decision.

  He faced a group of individuals dressed in transparent blue robes that still reflected the light to hide what’s under.

  "We'll take 20," he decred with a casual flick of his wrist, as if a round of drinks rather than a fleet of high-tech battle mechs.

  The futuristically dressed sales team barely masked their glee; the ission on this deal would likely fund their rip to their quer.

  "And what will be the cost?" the office-dwelling magnate inquired, his voice dripping with the boredom of a man aced to buying rather than being sold to.

  The lead salesman, his smile sharp enough to slice through starship hulls, replied, "A fortune, sir. We require payment in pure, high-grade mana storaight from the mine. A hundred of them."

  “That’s basically thievery," the buyer mused, swirling his drink. "Very well, sider it done."

  As the sales team departed, visions of mana stones dang in their heads, the man chuckled to himself.

  "Better be worth their weight in gold," he muttered.

  Just when the man was about to celebrate his purchase, the polished doors of the office swung open again.

  This time, it was not to seal deals on war maes but to usher in the worried visage of the butler, a man as finely groomed as the gardens of the pad equally as rigid.

  "Yrace, buying this much modern on could be seen as treason to the kingdom..." he ventured cautiously, his voice carrying the tremor of a leaf in a hurrie.

  "And who would dare accuse me of such a thing?" retorted the Duke of Veryon, his surning the room a few degrees colder.

  Veryon, a duchy known less for its beauty and more for its maations and power pys within the Edensor Kingdom.

  "The king of this kingdom is my nephew—and only a twelve-year-old boy," he scoffed, the words dripping with a mix of familial disdain and aristocratic arrogance.

  "Yvain is smart enough not to intervene in his maternal uncle’s business. If he’s being a good boy, wouldn’t he get one or two good things from us too?"

  The duke's voice was slick with the oil of political manipution, suggesting gifts as mere tokens of benigism rather than pieces in a much rger game of thrones.

  The butler, ever the picture of loyalty but internally questioning the wisdom a man who viewed royal blood as a mere footo his ambitions, merely nodded.

  As he exited, the duke leaned back, a smile creeping across his features—a smile that was all teeth and no warmth.

  Barely had the door clicked shut behind the butler, it flew open again, this time with a gusto that nearly unhi. The butler, usually the epitome of posed servitude, burst into the room with the urgency of a man chased by his own shadow.

  "Yrace!" he gasped, cheeks flushed with the sprint from whatever courier had accosted him with the news.

  The Duke of Veryon, who had been relishing his ret dealings in high-grade onry with the smug satisfa of a cat in a sunbeam, looked up sharply.

  The butler's disheveled appearance was a stark trast to his usual meticulous presentation, suggesting the tidings he bore were of substantial weight.

  "The capital has sent word," the butler panted, his words tumbling out as if he were auing them off at record speed. "Young King Yvain has accepted King Burn’s offer to surrender!"

  The news struck the duke like a misfired spell, ued and a tad inve. His pns of familial manipution, so beautifully id out, now seemed in vain.

  “That’s just how he is. First, he tched on Man Le Fay. Now that she’s gone, he hugged ahigh—Burn of Soulnaught. Just like that bitch… How pathetic.”

  Duke Veryon recalled how his younger sister decided to marry the royal family and had a terrible end.

  "Until the very end, they still wouldn't grovel for our support, huh? Madeline… and her son."

  ***

  SLAM!

  “Are you crazy?!”

  Burn leaned back, a sardonic grin pying at the ers of his mouth as Yvain's indignation filled the air, the young king's sm oable sending a reverberating echh the opulent chamber.

  "Why?" Burn replied with feigned innoce, shrugging as if discussing the weather rather thae of kingdoms.

  "With or without you by my side, they're going to scurry around in the end, anyway. Take the western nobles, for instance, snugly close to my borders. They’ll be the first to ditch your bahe moment things look bleak."

  Yvain’s eyes faltered.

  Burn leaned forward, his voice dropping to a spiratorial whisper. "They'll swear fealty to me faster than you say 'traitor,' abandoning Edensor without a backward gnce.”

  “Then watch as the dominoes fall: the southern duchy’s family will sprint to the sea, hoping to sail away from their troubles, while the northern duchy will scamper innd, probably knog on Inkia Kingdom's door fe."

  "And then," Burn tinued, his smirk widening, "there's your maternal family, the esteemed Veryon.”

  Yvain frowned. His hand trembled hearing the name.

  “Oh, they'll put on a good show, brandishing their swords and baring their teeth, but when the dust settles and they see the writing on the wall, they'll e crawling to me,” Burn calmly narrated it a-matter-of-fact-ly.

  "I'm sure that in the sario where you oppose me or end up dying at my hands, they will beg to manage Edensor uhe Soulnaught fg, hoping to salvage some shred of dignity by administering the very s that bind them."

  Burn chuckled softly, watg Yvain's rea, enjoying the dispy of predictable noble maneuvers as if he were a chess master watg pawically attempt to avoid iable capture.

  It was the real future after all.

  "You see, it's not madness, young Yvain. It's merely... iability."

  Yvain's eyes wavered. He gazed into Burn's fident eyes, his own filled with defeat as he asked, "Is it really that bad? This kingdom..."

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  A/N:

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