Chapter : 212

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The hologram floated above her desk, casting a soft blue glow across the polished surface. It showed the entire battlefield from a top-down tactical view, with tiny figures moving across a digital map. Hera's sharp, highly judgmental green eyes tracked every single movement with the precision of a hawk watching a field mouse. She did not blink. She barely breathed. Her long, wavy golden hair spilled over one shoulder like a river of silk, and her elegant white and gold gown was arranged perfectly around her as if she had been placed there by a professional stylist. Which, of course, she had.

The rest of the Empire had spent the last few days obsessing over the obvious highlights. Princess Iris's brilliant leadership. Naomi's incredible speed. The dramatic moment when the angelic avatar had shielded the final tower. The sports channels had replayed those moments a thousand times, and the public had eaten them up like candy. But Hera was not the public, and she was not interested in candy. She was interested in strategy, and strategy was a meal that required careful, methodical chewing.

Her green eyes were not on Iris. They were not on Naomi. They were fixed, with laser-like intensity, on the small, messy figure standing on the rusty tower in the corner of the battlefield. Ken Eliot. The boy with the untucked shirt and the sleepy eyes and the complete lack of any formal combat training. The boy who looked like he had wandered onto the battlefield by accident on his way to a convenience store. The boy whose tiny cyan bullets had sent elite soldiers flying across the arena like leaves in a hurricane.

Hera watched his lazy, uncoordinated dodging for the fifth time in this particular replay. He stumbled sideways. He tripped over nothing. He ducked at the last possible moment, not with the practiced reflexes of a trained warrior, but with the clumsy, desperate lean of a man trying to avoid a falling book. And yet, every single time an enemy got close to him, something happened. A tiny spark of cyan light. A sudden, violent Knockback that sent the attacker sailing backward. It was not elegant. It was not graceful. It was not the kind of magic that won awards at the Imperial Academy.

But it was devastatingly, terrifyingly effective.

Hera paused the hologram and leaned back in her chair. She pressed one perfectly manicured fingernail against her lower lip, thinking. Her mind was not like other people's minds. Where others saw chaos, she saw patterns. Where others saw luck, she saw opportunity. And where others saw a messy commoner who had somehow stumbled into victory, she saw something far more valuable.

Ken Eliot was an irregular. In the highly structured, carefully choreographed world of the Succession War tournament, where every team followed formations and strategies that had been refined over generations, an irregular was the most dangerous thing on the battlefield. You could prepare for a strong attacker. You could plan for a fast runner. You could counter a powerful defender. But you could not prepare for someone who did not follow any rules, because there was no rule to counter. Ken Eliot was unpredictable. He was chaotic. He was, in the cold, calculating language of military strategy, a tactical wildcard.

And Hera Belmontia loved wildcards. Wildcards won wars. Wildcards broke stalemates. Wildcards were the difference between a predictable defeat and an unexpected victory. Having a totally unpredictable disruptor on her team, someone who could shatter the enemy's carefully laid plans just by being his clumsy, absurd self, would be a massive asset for the upcoming tournament rounds.

The thought settled into Hera's mind with the finality of a judge's gavel. She wanted Ken Eliot. No. She needed Ken Eliot. And Hera Belmontia was not the type of woman who let her needs go unfulfilled.

She reached for the small golden bell on her desk and rang it once. The sound was crisp and clear, cutting through the silence of the office like a tiny silver blade. Not five seconds later, the tall white doors of the office opened, and a woman stepped inside.

Jenny was, by any objective measure, the most perfect servant in the Belmontia Empire. She was tall and lean, with a fighter's build that was visible even through her crisp, spotless white and gold uniform. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight, severe bun that looked like it could deflect arrows. Her face was sharp and disciplined, with high cheekbones and cold, focused eyes that missed absolutely nothing. She moved with the precise, fluid grace of someone who had been trained from birth to serve, fight, and never, ever make a mistake. She was Hera's best. She was Hera's sharpest blade. And when Hera gave an order, Jenny executed it with the speed and accuracy of a master swordsman drawing a blade.

"You called, Your Highness?" Jenny said, her voice clear and professional.

"I have a task for you," Hera said, still staring at the frozen hologram of Ken Eliot. A small, confident smile played on her painted lips. "You will go to the 13th Unit's estate. You will present an official, legally binding contract for a permanent servant swap. I am offering one of my senior servants in exchange for Ken Eliot. The terms will be generous. The paperwork will be flawless. And the 13th Princess will not be in a position to refuse."

Jenny's expression did not change. She simply bowed. "It will be done, Your Highness. When do you want this executed?"

"Immediately," Hera said, waving her hand dismissively. "Do not return without that boy."

Jenny turned on her heel and walked out of the office, her footsteps measured and silent on the marble floor. The white doors closed behind her with a soft, expensive click. Hera leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers, and smiled the smile of a woman who had never lost a game in her life.

"You will be mine, Ken Eliot," she murmured to the frozen hologram. "One way or another."

---

The 13th Unit's estate was not a grand palace. It was not a towering marble monument to wealth and power. It was a comfortable, slightly worn mansion that had clearly been designed for living rather than impressing. The paint on the walls was a little faded. The garden was a little overgrown, mostly because Risa's magic kept making the plants grow whether anyone wanted them to or not. The front gate was sturdy but simple, made of iron that had been painted black and then forgotten about for several years. It was the kind of place that said, "We live here, and we are fine with it," which was exactly the kind of message that the 2nd Princess's pristine white carriage rolling up to the front door was going to completely ignore.

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