The dark void of the sanctuary was agonizingly quiet. Red sat motionless on his throne, his dark eyes locked onto the holographic display floating in front of him.

The projection showed the tense face of Iron-Arbiter. The God of the Second Continent shifted uncomfortably under the Sovereign’s unblinking stare. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and nervously adjusted his armored collar.

Red let the silence stretch. He enjoyed watching the older deity squirm.

"They should connect any minute," Iron-Arbiter finally muttered, unable to handle the crushing tension any longer. He offered a strained, apologetic smile. "The Third Continent is under severe pressure right now. The human Heralds are pushing their desert borders relentlessly, so they must be personally coordinating their front lines. I am sure they did not intend to keep you waiting, Sovereign."

Red leaned his cheek against his knuckles. ’Let him ramble,’ he thought, keeping his expression completely neutral.

He did not actually care if the desert deities showed up at all. He had no genuine intention of acting as their selfless savior. His crosshairs were fixed solely on the Fourth Continent. King Voranthar had killed him, and Red was going to burn Aethelgard to the ground in retaliation.

That revenge was personal.

However, marching his Vanguard across the ocean meant cutting directly through the Third Continent’s territory. If he was going to slaughter the Vanguard’s enemies anyway, he fully intended to squeeze every possible resource, artifact, and concession out of the desperate desert gods in exchange for his "help."

A sharp chime echoed through the sanctuary, interrupting Iron-Arbiter’s nervous excuses.

Two new digital panels materialized alongside the existing feed. The visual distortion quickly cleared to reveal the two surviving rulers of the Third Continent.

The first avatar was a shifting silhouette of crimson sand that barely held a cohesive humanoid shape. Tattered golden silks wrapped around its swirling torso, and two hollow, burning embers served as its eyes. It radiated an aura of dry, suffocating heat even through the screen.

The second feed displayed a striking woman carved entirely from polished obsidian. Thick brass jewelry coiled around her neck and wrists. Dark, venomous water constantly wept from her blank, pupilless eyes, pooling against her collarbone before evaporating into purple mist.

Red sat up slightly and laced his fingers together over his lap. He studied the two battered gods for a long moment before offering a chilling, polite smile.

"You are late," Red stated.

The obsidian woman frowned, wiping a streak of black venom from her cheek. "We are fighting a losing war against anomalies, Rubedo. Time is a luxury we no longer possess."

"Then let us not waste any more of it," Red replied smoothly. "Iron-Arbiter informed you of my impending arrival. Tell me exactly what the Third Continent is willing to offer the Seventeenth to ensure your survival."

The sand avatar flickers with visible agitation. The burning embers serving as his eyes flared brightly through the holographic feed.

"Offer?" the sand god laughed, producing a sound like grinding rocks. "We offer you absolutely nothing. We do not need your help."

The obsidian woman nodded in agreement. Her venomous tears sizzled sharply against her brass jewelry.

"Iron-Arbiter invited you into this alliance," she added coldly, her voice echoing with deep exhaustion. "We did not ask for you. You are a Rank fourteen, Rubedo. Expecting us to pay you for an unwanted intervention is insulting."

Red didn’t react. He remained perfectly still on his throne, projecting a wall of total neutrality while the older deities vented their frustrations.

Leaning closer to his visual feed, the sand god continued. "I am Rank twenty-two, and my counterpart here is Rank twenty-three. We command the very elements of our world, yet the human Heralds slaughter our followers daily since their magic completely bypasses our defenses. If deities of our caliber are currently bleeding out, what could a fledgling like you possibly accomplish?"

A sudden clang interrupted the feed as Iron-Arbiter slammed his metallic fist against his own armrest, startling the two desert rulers.

"You are completely blind to the reality of this war," Iron-Arbiter snapped, his previous nervous demeanor vanishing as he glared at his peers. "I am Rank nineteen, yet my domain was entirely occupied by the enemy until I was left powerless. Rubedo deployed a vanguard of just fifty thousand soldiers who shattered that enemy hold in mere months, and that exact army is marching on the western shipyards as we speak."

The desert gods exchanged a doubtful glance through their respective screens before Iron-Arbiter leaned forward to emphasize his point.

"Do not judge a god by a system number," he pleaded earnestly. "Rubedo is currently mobilizing an additional one and a half million troops, bringing an ocean of blood to your shores. If we combine his reinforcement fleet with my local forces and your surviving desert armies, we can permanently crush the Fourth Continent and end this war for good."

Red stayed entirely silent, casually resting his chin on his knuckles so the older god could act as his personal salesman.

Across the digital interface, the obsidian woman crossed her arms over her chest. The dark venom continued to stream down her impassive face, revealing just how unimpressed she was by the passionate speech.

"Raw numbers mean absolutely nothing against Heralds," she dismissed smoothly. "A million fodder troops will simply feed the dunes. Your vanguard has only fought regular soldiers, Iron-Arbiter, meaning they have not faced true monsters yet. We are far from convinced."

The sand god shifted his swirling form closer to the visual receiver, radiating a wave of dry heat through the connection.

"If you are truly confident in your forces," the desert deity rasped, crossing his arms, "then prove it to us. There is a fortified Herald outpost on the eastern dunes that we cannot break. Send your vanguard to conquer it, and we might consider—"

"No," Red interrupted flatly, his voice slicing through the feed like a blade.

The sand avatar paused mid-sentence. The burning embers in his eyes flickered with genuine confusion, clearly unaccustomed to being spoken to so casually by a lower-ranked deity.

Red leaned forward and dropped his polite facade entirely. He stared directly into the camera, his expression hardening into one of absolute disdain.

"Let me clarify the exact nature of this meeting," Red stated, his tone dripping with cold condescension. "I am not auditioning for your approval. You are currently losing a war you have fought for years, meaning your high ranks are nothing but empty numbers attached to incompetent leadership."

Iron-Arbiter already knew how Red was as he has been acquainted with him for the past few months, but the two gods were soon going to learn how diplomatic relations are made.