The report sat on the mahogany desk, its edges glowing with the faint blue light of a secure mana transmission.

General Roric Vale did not touch it. He simply stared at the text floating above the parchment, his heavy brows drawn into a sharp, rigid line that made the deep wrinkles on his forehead look like scars.

The Ghouls had struck the secondary transport vein leading into the Spire.

"How dare they," Roric whispered, his voice low, vibrating with a heavy resonance that made the glass inkwell on his desk rattle.

He slammed his fist down, the thick wood groaning under the brief leak of his Diamond-rank aura.

"Do they want to expand the scale of this war?"

Attacking the transportation lines was a direct declaration of total, unmitigated conflict. It was not a border skirmish or a routine raid on the outer trenches.

The transport lines to the Spire were the lifelines of the entire sector. They dictated the flow of resources, reinforcement rotations, and medical evacuations.

For decades, both humans and Ghouls had maintained an unspoken, ironclad rule. Regardless of how bloody the front lines became, the transport tracks remained untouched.

It was a matter of mutual survival. Breaking that rule meant inviting the kind of destruction that could leave an entire sector barren for a generation.

Yet, the Ghouls had broken it.

Roric leaned back in his heavy leather chair, forcing the hot anger out of his lungs. He closed his eyes, letting his analytical mind take over.

He needed to look at the board clearly. Humans were not the only ones who relied on transit logistics.

In fact, because humanity had not yet fully conquered the Spire, their transportation network was primarily used to send fresh challengers up and bring the veterans down.

Even if the Ghouls managed to sever every single transport line in the human sector, humanity could adapt.

They could find another route. They could march. They could reach the Spire by walking across the barren flats if they truly had to.

It would be slow and costly, but it was entirely possible.

For the Ghouls, however, the situation was completely different.

The Ghouls had recently converted the lower rings of the Spire into an official vanguard station. Because it was a newly established vanguard, its dependence on their main nexus cities was absolute.

It required a constant, massive stream of raw energy and material sustenance just to keep its core stable. If humanity chose to retaliate in kind and struck the Ghoul transit corridors, the resulting supply famine would collapse their vanguard within a month.

The Ghouls were a brutal race, but they were not strategically illiterate. They knew their own vulnerabilities better than anyone.

So why did they still dare to touch the human lines, all knowing how far human ego could reach?

A dark, cold premonition settled into the pit of Roric’s stomach.

They wouldn’t risk their own vanguard unless they already had a guarantee that humanity wouldn’t be able to strike back, or if they had already secured an advantage that made the vanguard obsolete.

"We have to present this data to the Marshal immediately," Roric said, raising his eyes to the messenger standing across the desk. "Assemble the communication array. This requires a full conclave."

The messenger, a younger officer wearing the pristine, unstained uniform of the Central Command staff, did not move toward the door.

He adjusted the leather strap of his satchel, his expression carrying a strange, detached sort of compliance.

"The Marshal is already aware, General," the messenger replied, his tone entirely too flat for the weight of the news he carried. "In fact, he has already issued a direct mandate for the Eastern Front."

Roric’s gaze sharpened.

A cold knot tied itself in his chest. The protocol for a transport violation was absolute. The Marshal should have initiated a direct mental link with him the moment the report cleared the archives.

To send a low-level staff messenger with a written mandate during an existential crisis was highly irregular.

This was a situation that required a gathering of all eighteen Diamond Crusaders to deliberate on the tactical shift.

"What are the contents of the mandate?" Roric demanded.

"He ordered your front to take appropriate action," the messenger stated simply.

Roric froze. A brief, stunned silence filled the office.

’Appropriate action.’

In the lexicon of Central Command, those two words were a transparent euphemism for immediate, aggressive retaliation. It was an order to take revenge.

To Roric, the directive felt entirely absurd.

Marshal Vance was a cautious, methodical leader who had held the human factions together through three separate system lapses.

He would never make such a volatile, high-stakes decision without consulting the primary sector commanders first.

To launch an uncalculated counteroffensive into Ghoul territory right after a tactical breach was practically begging to walk into an ambush.

Noticing the dark reluctance written plainly across the old General’s face, the young messenger cleared his throat, a hint of administrative arrogance creeping into his posture.

"General Hadrian has already taken the initiative and assumed command of the advance vanguard," the messenger added, his eyes shifting away from Roric’s face.

"Impossible!" Roric shouted, rising from his chair so quickly the heavy piece of furniture skidded backward across the stone floor.

The air in the room grew instantly heavy, the atmospheric pressure dropping as his Diamond core responded to his sudden shock.

He knew Hadrian better than most. The man was an old rival, a Diamond Crusader who was notoriously greedy for military merit and higher-tier core rewards.

But Hadrian was not an idiot. He was a seasoned veteran who understood the structural layout of the Crusade better than anyone.

He wouldn’t simply jump into a glaring tactical trap just to satisfy a vague mandate from Central Command.

The messenger offered a brief, disrespectful shrug, his fingers tapping against his leather satchel.

"I am only delivering the words I was ordered to deliver, General," the young officer said, his voice tightening as he tried to maintain his composure under Roric’s gaze.

"You know the exact retributions if you fail to comply with a direct mandate from the Marshal. If your hesitation results in avoidable losses for humanity, the military tribunal will not consider your past service."

The words came out smooth, but the underlying intent was unmistakable.

It was a threat.

A clerk from the inner districts was standing in his private office, using the Marshal’s name to threaten a Diamond powerhouse who had spent decades bleeding for the Crusade.

How daring!

A sudden, terrifying pressure erupted from Roric’s frame. The ambient light in the room seemed to dim as his aura expanded, the sheer density of his mana wrapping around the messenger’s throat like an invisible, heavy hand.

The stone walls of the office groaned, tiny hairline fractures spiderwebbing through the mortar near the ceiling.

"Are you threatening me, boy?" Roric asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, rhythmic growl.

Only then did the young messenger realize the fatal mistake he had made.

The administrative authority of Central Command meant absolutely nothing when standing three feet away from an active Diamond-rank warrior whose instincts had been forged in the slaughterhouses of the lower rings.

The boy’s face turned completely pale, his knees trembling violently as the heavy aura pressed down on his shoulders, forcing his lungs to labor for a single scrap of air.

He quickly lowered his posture, bowing his head as deeply as his trembling spine would allow.

"I... I do not dare, General," the messenger stammered, his eyes wide with a sudden, genuine fear for his life.

Yet, even as he bowed, a dark, venomous thought flickered behind his panicked expression.

’You just wait, you old bastard.’

That specific, ugly mental transmission was exactly what Ayla heard when she turned the corner and entered her grandfather’s private courtyard.

Her golden eyes caught the faint shimmer of Roric’s aura vibrating through the heavy oak door of the office.

She stopped a few paces away from the threshold, her silver braid resting perfectly still against her grey military uniform as her passive perception mapped out the entire interaction inside the room.

Her calm gaze slowly settled on the messenger, and the messenger felt a sudden chill behind his back.