"Your Majesty, this isn’t exactly proper hospitality."
Jarrett struggled against the crushing pressure, managing only to lift his head a few inches. His knees were locked to the stone steps, his bones screaming under the weight.
"We don’t welco you on Natson Island," Mila Moore snapped, cold fury flashing in her eyes. "Take your soldiers and get out."
Jarrett forced a stiff smile.
"If I rember correctly, during a succession period, outsiders are permitted to land. Thanks to that tradition, the island’s hostile environnt conveniently disappeared."
"The succession is over," Rowan rcer said calmly, amusent flickering in his gaze. "I’m the King now. Or did that sohow escape you?"
Jarrett froze, then hurriedly changed tack.
"Your Majesty, there’s been a misunderstanding. We’re here to bring prosperity and civilization. To help you manage this island better. You would remain the exalted King, of course."
Rowan tilted his head.
"So you enjoy spreading prosperity and civilization."
He flicked his wrist.
A distorted shimr tore through the air. In the blink of an eye, Jarrett and his two gene-soldiers were struck by transfiguration magic. Their bodies twisted, shrank, and collapsed into three squealing white pigs.
Unlike ordinary transfiguration, Rowan’s spell preserved consciousness.
Jarrett knew exactly what he had beco.
Squealing in terror, the three pigs bolted toward the helicopter, desperate to escape. Surely Behemoth had a way to undo this.
"Take them to the pens," Rowan said casually. "Let them spread prosperity and civilization properly."
With a gesture, the pigs lifted off the ground and landed helplessly in the arms of several island guards.
"Your Majesty," Mila said with open glee, "we don’t keep white pigs in the palace. Only wild boars. Their tempers aren’t great."
Rowan smiled.
"Perfect. Let them share civilization with the boars. Encourage cultural exchange. Lots of it."
The pigs scread louder as they were carried away.
On the flagship, Ron Keller watched the feed with a dark expression.
"A foolish King," he muttered. "Fine. Saves ti."
He activated the first phase of the invasion.
The operation unfolded in three stages.
Phase One: low-lethality rounds and tranquilizers. Capture as many targets alive as possible.
Phase Two: for high-threat individuals who resisted, switch to specialized ammunition. Kill and retrieve bodies.
Phase Three: full assault on the palace. Secure the Sacred Tree at all costs. Eliminate any remaining resistance.
"Report," Ron barked.
"No civilians encountered. No ambushes."
"Market secured. All mbers detained."
"Arrived at the Haven."
"The Haven is resisting fiercely. Requesting elite reinforcent!"
Ron issued commands rapidly.
"Deploy Hyena, Demoman, and the Hunter units. Send ten additional gunships. Capture the Hanged Man alive. Recover Sean while you’re at it."
Gade frowned, reviewing the data.
"No islander resistance. No Sentinel interference. Too clean. Have they all pulled back to the palace?"
"Probably," Ron said dismissively. "This new King likely gathered everyone there for a last stand."
That suited Behemoth perfectly. Concentrated enemies ant maximum firepower efficiency.
"Still," Gade added, "avoid damaging the Sacred Tree."
"Relax," Ron replied. "They’ll be even more cautious than we are. The fight will happen at the palace entrance, far from the Tree. And don’t forget—we have an insider."
He tapped the palace schematics on the screen.
Every Sentinel’s ability. Every weakness. The palace layout. All provided by Elia Jones.
Without outside interference, this operation was foolproof.
"Fair enough," Gade conceded.
Half an hour later, another report ca in.
"Haven neutralized. The Hanged Man and all mbers secured. Sean recovered."
Ron smiled.
"All units," he ordered, "switch ammunition. Converge on the palace entrance."
He turned to Gade, energized.
"You handle command here. I’m going to the front. I want to personally oversee the capture of the Sacred Tree."
"Be careful," Gade said simply.
As Behemoth’s forces closed in from every direction, other hidden factions moved with them.
Disguised in stolen uniforms, operatives slipped through the ranks. Each group had eliminated a squad and taken their place, hiding their presence with their own thods.
"Holy hell," Evan Clarke whispered, adjusting his helt. "Isn’t that Rowan rcer? How did he beco the King of Natson Island?"
Standing among the disguised troops, Evan looked up just in ti to see Rowan seated calmly on the throne.
Rowan t his eyes.
And winked.
Evan nearly choked.
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