Chapter 145: Another Parlay

Sunlight filtered through the jagged holes in the high vaulted ceiling, casting long, dusty beams across the great marble nave. Dust motes danced in the pale light, drifting over overturned pews, shattered silver censers, and long tapestries that hung in charred ribbons from the high stone walls.

The silence inside was absolute. Outside, the distant rumble of diesel generators and transport trucks was muffled to a faint, hollow hum, replaced by the cavernous drip of water leaking from cracked drainage pipes somewhere in the dark triforium.

John walked slowly down the central aisle.

Beneath his boots, the polished white marble was cracked into spiderweb patterns. In some places, deep scorch marks scarred the stone where stray missile fragments had penetrated the roof. Every twenty paces, carved statues of ancient saints and imperial patriarchs stood along the pillars, their stone faces chipped by shrapnel, their sightless eyes staring down at the foreign invaders walking through their most sacred ground.

At the far end of the sanctuary, raised upon seven tiers of polished black obsidian steps, sat the Divine Dais.

And upon that dais rested the throne.

It was not a seat meant for a mortal monarch. The throne was carved from a single, massive block of celestial quartz, radiating a faint, residual white luminescence that pushed back the gloom of the cathedral. Its backrest rose ten feet into the air, shaped into the flared plumage of a great radiant phoenix, inlaid with veins of pure, refined mithril and adorned with gold filigree that shimmered with the remnants of ancient divine enchantments.

This was the seat where Goddess Viona had received the worship of four million souls.

From this very chair, she had looked down upon the commoners, the nobles, and the foreign sumonees. From this chair, she had casually waved her hand to discard an E-rank reject into the abyss, laughing at the insignificance of a boy who possessed no magic.

John stopped at the base of the obsidian steps.

He tilted his head back, his dark eyes fixed on the empty seat.

"Quite the monument," Richter murmured, coming to a halt two paces behind John’s right shoulder, his weapon lowered toward the flags.

"Well this is supposed to be the strongest empire on the planet," John said. "For sure they’d want something to symbolize that. But to think this empire is ruled by a Goddess.I’m going to take a seat."

"Well sir you deserve that, you defeated her after all," Richter nodded, stepping back to let John pass while his eyes remained watchful on the high vaulted gallery.

John began his ascent up the seven obsidian tiers.

Each step felt solid, cold, and heavy beneath his combat boots. He reached the summit, standing directly before the towering expanse of celestial quartz. The faint divine light humming through the stone brushed against his fingertips like static electricity, weak and flickering, stripped of the overwhelming presence it must have held when the Aegis still bathed the coast in its golden dome.

Without hesitation, John turned and sat down.

The smooth, chilled crystal met the coarse fabric of his field uniform. It was designed wide and imposing, built to elevate a deity high above kneeling supplicants. Yet John simply rested his forearms on the mithril armrests, his gloved hands loose, his gaze sweeping down the grand nave toward the shattered entrance.

"Doesn’t feel divine," John muttered, his voice carrying clearly down the empty hall.

Elenore walked to the base of the dais, pausing at the bottom step with her carbine slung securely across her chest. She looked up at him, her expression guarded. "It looks natural on you, Commander. But this place wasn’t meant for treaties or peace talks. It was designed to make mortals feel small."

"It failed," John said flatly.

He unclipped the small encrypted radio unit from his chest rig, placing it directly onto the polished quartz armrest beside him. The black plastic and rubber antenna looked completely alien against the shimmering mithril inlay.

"Report from the harbor perimeter, Richter," John commanded, leaning back into the throne’s high backrest. "Where do we stand with the primary beachhead?"

Richter keyed his throat mic for a brief second before looking up. "Delta and the lead Marine elements have finished clearing the main warehouse strip. Three supply docks are structurally sound enough for heavy ramps. The Seabees are already moving in with bulldozers to push the pulverized masonry into the water and create a level staging yard. By 1600 hours, we’ll have the first battalion of armor rolling off the transports."

"And the casualties from the final strike?"

"The imperial garrison in this sector ceased to exist after the third missile ripple, sir," Richter replied. "A few scattered paladins tried to hold the lower gate with tower shields, but the autocannons chewed them up before they could organize a line. The civilians are terrified. They’re huddled in the cellars and plazas, expecting us to burn them out."

"We aren’t here to butcher peasants," John said. "Set up checkpoints along the southern thoroughfares. Distribute MREs and water rations through the civil affairs units. Anyone who approaches without weapons gets tagged and moved to the holding areas outside the logistical corridors. Anyone who carries steel or channels mana gets put down instantly."

"Understood, Commander," Richter said.

"Also, I’m going to need a representative from them. At this point, I’d think a negotiation is possible," John finished, his eyes narrowing as he gazed down the long central aisle. "Someone with actual authority among the surviving nobility or the provincial bureaucracy. Now that Viona has abandoned them, someone has to sign the surrender."

Richter let out a low, humorless grunt, adjusting the sling of his weapon as he looked up the obsidian steps.

"Sir, with all due respect, that negotiation failed from the start," Richter said bluntly. "And not just because Viona is insane. It failed because this empire doesn’t even know how to conduct one."

John tilted his head slightly, listening.

"They don’t understand the concept of a nation-state, Commander," Richter continued, gesturing toward the towering stone pillars and the fallen statues of saints. "In their history, diplomacy has only ever meant one of two things: an absolute monarch giving orders to vassals, or a god accepting tribute from worshippers. They have never sat across a table from an equal power in their entire existence. To them, parley isn’t a legal channel to avoid mutual ruin—it’s just a pause to maneuver champions and sharpen daggers. They saw Phillip not as an ambassador backed by an industrial power, but as a weak mortal walking into an altar."

"That was before," John said and continued. "That was when they had a golden dome over their heads and a goddess standing. Now she’s gone."