Ray stepped into the silver Echo Chamber. The heavy doors hissed shut, locking with a definitive, pressurized clack. The external runes shifted from blue to a glowing, active gold. Ray felt the familiar, weightless sensation of his consciousness being ripped from his physical body and projected into the digital ruins.
Outside the pods, Bruce Doyle turned to the audience, his exaggerated showman smile returning in full force. He knew exactly what the crowd was thinking.
"I know what you're asking yourselves, folks!"
Bruce laughed.
"How do you take a city of thousands with a hundred men? The answer is... you don't!"
The crowd leaned in.
"The secret mechanic of the Grand Finals is... Reinforcements!"
Bruce announced, winking at the Scrying Panes.
"The Shattered Citadel is not empty. The outer strongholds are populated by neutral garrisons and wandering mercenary bands. Our commanders can recruit them! Through dominance, negotiation, or bribery, they must build their armies from the ground up!"
Inside the illusion, the world materialized in a flash of hyper-realistic sensory data.
Ray opened his eyes. He was standing in the muddy, ash-choked outskirts of the Shattered Citadel. The air smelled of ozone and ancient decay. Arrayed perfectly before him, standing at absolute attention in the shadow of a crumbling watchtower, were his one hundred drafted troops.
Ray didn't immediately order a march toward the center.
Commander: "Standard protocol, Commander. Before we move into hostile territory, we conduct a full gear and supply inspection. I want to know exactly what assets the simulation provided us."
Ray nodded.
"First rank, present arms!"
Ray barked, his voice carrying the unnatural, commanding weight of his digital avatar.
"Quartermasters, front and center. Present supply manifests."
Three logistics officers stepped forward from the rear of the formation. They saluted smartly, carrying heavy, clinking leather satchels over their shoulders.
Ray walked the line. He inspected their rations, their whetstones, and their spare bowstrings. It was all standard issue. Then, he reached out and opened one of the heavy leather satchels carried by the lead quartermaster.
Ray's breath hitched slightly.
The bag was filled to the brim with heavy, gleaming Eldorian Gold Sovereigns.
Scholar: "Fascinating! We didn't draft currency, yet the simulation provided it based on our logistical troop selection! But look at the volume. It’s perhaps a few hundred coins. Not a king's ransom by any stretch."
Courtier: "You wound me with your crude mathematics, Scholar. A few hundred coins is a pittance to a king, yes, but to a starving mercenary captain guarding a worthless outer wall? It is a fortune. It is the price of an unlocked gate. It is the cost of a perfectly timed mutiny. Gold isn't meant to buy an army outright; it is meant to buy the leverage to steal one."
Ray scooped a handful of the heavy gold coins, letting them clink back into the bag. The Scholar and the Courtier were right. It wasn't a massive mountain of gold. It was enough to buy out a small, desperate mercenary band, or perhaps bribe the gate guards of a minor outer stronghold.
It certainly wasn't enough to purchase an army capable of taking the Central Keep. But the strict limitation on the capital confirmed a brilliant underlying mechanic: if bribery was possible, then social interaction was fully programmed into the neutral forces. If he couldn't afford to buy the entire city with coins, he would simply have to acquire troops through other means, diplomacy, intimidation, or leveraging the geography of one captured stronghold to force the surrender of the next.
Ray let out a low, deeply predatory chuckle, tying the satchel closed. The impossible math wasn't a military equation at all. It can also be an economic one. Luke and Eliza were likely out there right now, treating this like a desperate, tactical stealth mission or a brutal skirmish. They were playing a war game.
Ray was going to play politics.
"Listen up!"
Ray shouted, turning to face his hundred disciplined soldiers. He didn't sound like a general preparing for a glorious, bloody siege. He sounded like a CEO about to initiate a hostile corporate takeover.
"We aren't here to bleed for this city! We are here to buy it! Quartermasters, secure that coin. Scouts, fan out! I don't want you looking for enemy flanks; I want you looking for neutral banners and mercenary camps!"
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The troops saluted, their morale visibly spiking at the promise of avoiding a suicidal charge.
Ray drew his blade, resting it casually over his shoulder as he looked up at the looming, distant spire of the Central Keep. He was going to show the Statecraft elite exactly how a true mastermind can conquer a continent.
The ruined streets of the Shattered Citadel were choked with ash and the silence of a dead city. Ray Croft stood perfectly still in the shadow of a crumbling watchtower, his almost one hundred drafted troops holding a disciplined formation behind him.
He didn't have to wait long. From the shadows of the adjacent alleyways, his three forward scouts materialized, dropping to one knee before him.
"Report."
Ray commanded, his voice steady.
"Sir, the neutral garrisons have been massively reinforced compared to the intelligence you have provided."
The lead scout reported his breath showing in the cold air.
"The nearest small stronghold, a fortified tollhouse down the main thoroughfare, is garrisoned by exactly two hundred men. There is also a medium stronghold beyond that holds at least three hundred."
If Ray were a standard commander, the math would have been a death sentence. To siege two hundred entrenched defenders with only one hundred attackers was military suicide. But Ray hadn't just asked for a headcount.
"And their status?"
Ray asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Abysmal, sir."
The scout replied with a grim smirk.
"They are flying a mercenary banner, but their armor is rusted through. They are burning furniture for warmth. Our spotters observed several fights breaking out over dwindling rations. Morale is actively collapsing. They look bored, hungry, and entirely unpaid."
Within Ray's mind, his archetypes analyzed the data.
Commander: "Hungry men fight poorly in the open, but if you back them into a corner and threaten their lives, they will defend those walls with the desperate ferocity of trapped rats. A frontal assault is unacceptable."
Courtier: "A desperate, unpaid mercenary is not a soldier, Commander. They are simply an employee waiting for a better counter-offer. But a starving dog will still bite if it thinks you are weak. If we are to purchase their loyalty, we must first make them believe we hold their lives in the palm of our hands."
Ray smiled, a cold, calculated expression. The Scheming Courtier was absolutely right. To negotiate from a position of absolute power, he needed to project overwhelming, terrifying strength.