Chapter 128: No

On the large holographic map in the center of the room, Port Solis was completely outlined in glowing red threat markers. Carrier Strike Group Twelve held its defensive perimeter five miles offshore, perfectly positioned on the deep blue water. High above the capital, the live feed from the MQ-9 Reaper drone showed the ruined coastal city under the gray morning sky.

At the highest battlement of the harbor keep, the white silk standard snapped in the coastal wind.

Below the live video, the decrypted optical message sent by the imperial light-mirrors blinked across the secondary monitor in clear red letters:

Imperial Authority acknowledges the terms. Her Divinity agrees to cease all offensive operations. Capitulation will be signed on one condition: a face-to-face parley between heads of state at the forward harbor quay. Supreme Commander John Smith must attend in person.

John Smith stood with his hands resting flat on the edge of the steel table, staring at the flashing text. He had not slept in thirty-six hours, but his eyes were sharp, cold, and entirely focused.

Standing across from him, Brigadier General Phillip leaned over the console, shaking his head.

"It stinks, John," Phillip said, crossing his arms over his chest. "It stinks from top to bottom. A self-proclaimed goddess doesn’t lose her foundries, her bridges, and her granaries for four days straight and then suddenly turn into a polite diplomat overnight. She stood on the seawall throwing giant firebirds at our carrier. Now she wants a quiet little chat on a stone dock?"

"She doesn’t want to chat," John said, his voice flat and detached. "She wants me within arm’s reach."

"Exactly," Phillip agreed, pointing a calloused finger at the drone feed. "This isn’t an offer of surrender. This is a classic decapitation strike. In her feudal mindset, our military is just a massive peasant levy bound to a single warlord. She thinks that if she cuts the head off the snake, the entire United States military apparatus will freeze, panic, and go running back into the sea."

"She doesn’t understand modern chain of command," John remarked coldly. "She thinks in terms of kings, divine bloodlines, and singular champions."

The heavy hydraulic blast doors at the rear of the war room hissed open with a rush of air.

Colonel Richter strode into the room, his heavy combat boots echoing against the concrete floor. He was geared in full tactical composite armor, a modified sidearm resting on his thigh, carrying himself with the lethal posture of a seasoned special forces operator. Walking in right behind him was Elenore, an assault rifle secured against her plate carrier, her sharp eyes scanning the operational maps before locking onto John.

"Sir, we just saw the decrypt from the drone," Richter announced, stopping two paces from the table and planting his feet wide. "You are not walking onto that stone quay without an iron wall in front of you. If you go to that pier, my Delta team is attached to your hip."

John looked at him. "What’s your plan, Richter?"

"Six-man close protection diamond formation," Richter answered without a second of hesitation. "Titanium ballistic shields, localized mana-dispersal smoke canisters on hair-trigger pins, and short-barreled carbines loaded with high-penetration tungsten rounds. If an imperial delegate so much as twitches a finger toward a hilt, my men will put three holes in their skull before their brain can send the signal to their arm."

Elenore stepped up beside Richter. "I’m accompanying the detail as well, Commander."

John looked at the two of them.

He saw the fierce loyalty on Richter’s face. He heard the genuine conviction in Elenore’s voice. They were ready to throw their bodies in front of swords, spells, or shrapnel to keep him alive.

And he was thankful as he knew those two would never betray him, as Ritcher was his summoned personnel while Elenore, well their relationship has been developing.

Then, he remembered the arrogant, mocking sneer on Goddess Viona’s face when the divine appraisal stone showed his stats.

She hadn’t even granted him the courtesy of an honorable dismissal. With a casual flick of her manicured wrist, she had cast him into the subterranean abyss—a pitch-black pit crawling with flesh-eating horrors—leaving him to be torn to shreds while his fellow summoned heroes were handed holy swords, legendary spears, and sacred staves.

John had survived that pit by using his military system. He had learned the hardest lesson of his life in that dark pit: trust was a lethal luxury. Words were cheap. Solemn promises from deities and monarchs meant nothing.

He had no intention of ever putting his life on the line for a handshake.

"No," John said, cutting through the room’s tense atmosphere.

Richter frowned, his brow furrowing beneath his helmet. "Sir?"

"You won’t be guarding me on that quay, Richter," John stated calmly. "Because I’m not setting foot on that pier."

Phillip leaned back against the console, a knowing smile touching the corner of his lips. "So you’re rejecting the meeting?"

"A total rejection is bad tactical doctrine," John answered, stepping around the table to zoom in on the satellite map of the harbor. "If we reject the parley outright, Viona will realize her bait didn’t work. When a narcissist realizes their trap has failed, they become unpredictable. She might resort to scorched-earth suicide spells inside the city, or execute the remaining civilian population before our humanitarian lines can push through. We don’t want a chaotic bloodbath in the streets if we can prevent it. We play along with her script."

"Then who takes the table?" Elenore asked, looking between John and Phillip.

"A proxy," John said, turning his cold gaze directly toward Phillip.

The room fell silent.

Phillip didn’t look surprised. He stood up straight, his face settling into a grim, professional mask. "You want me to take the chair."

"You’re my second-in-command," John said clearly. "You wear the stars of a Brigadier General. You hold the legal authority of the United States Armed Forces Forward Command. To whatever scouts or spies she has watching through high-powered telescopes from the harbor towers, an armored officer stepping off a naval transport with a military escort fits the exact profile of the foreign leader arriving to claim his surrender."

"And if she tries to murder me the second I step on the stone?" Phillip asked with a slight grin, showing no trace of fear.

"She will," John said bluntly. "I have no doubt in my mind that this is an assassination trap. Viona believes she can kill the supreme commander and throw our fleet into chaos. And if they are really genuine, they’d accept a representative who will represent me."