Hikma made another [Conceptual] Seal for [Vision] and a hologram of Rem emerged.

“Yo, Orwell, does a little divine beam slap enough off you to negotiate?”

Orwell chuckled. His wounds started sealing itself. His invincibility might crack, but defeating him was still too much for Horizon Dawn. Rem’s slowness discounted him as a reinforcement. Melody hadn’t fully mastered her power. They lacked firepowers to overwhelm Orwell’s defense and regeneration. More importantly; nothing stop Orwell could from calling quit and retreating to safety.

Orwell ate a massive amount of damage in today, but Horizon Dawn suffered more than they looked. Luxinna launched 2 [Jewel Sword], a penetration arrow, countless [Guard Flora] and [Assault Flora] within a window of thirty minutes. Her heavily injured shoulder needed medical attention. Hikma tethered at the edge of burnt-out after his stand against Orwell. Melody tanked the several tons of ice, with her stamina-hogging dragon-mode taxing her entire fight. [Emerald Purity] was a stalemate breaker, but the continual of Orwell’s pulse narrated Rem’s inability to spam that attack. 

Horizon Dawn pushed Orwell to his limit, but they needed more to triumph against Orwell backed by the Leyline’s reserve.

“You talk like you have another shot with that dragon,” Orwell retorted.

“Excuse me,” Rem paused the conversation. “Shyme, I am negotiating. If you fire that mortar, I will announce your crush to everyone present with quotes straight from your diary. I am certain you don’t want Cy to discover the sickening sweet passage. And yes, Cy is alive and listening. Your life-stele sucks. Get a better one.”

…

Shyme didn’t buy it. She switched away from the scrying sphere. Her finger hovered over the firing button with killing intent. Before she brought that finger, Rem’s voice struck with zero mercy in a tone of a love-struck Shyme.

“The clan headquarter have summoned me. Of course, they do, I am the clan head’s favorite. Even Grustav is jealous of me. This is it! I can’t wait to meet my uncle again. Uncle Titus must be waiting for my arrival with participation. I know father is handsome, but uncle is even cooler. The way he walks. His smell. His husky voice. I wish I could.,.”

“No!!!!!!” Shyme took horrific psychological damage. She squirmed on the floor, clutching her face like someone splash a napalm there, squiggling like an earthworm. “No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. NOOOOOOO!!!!!!”

Charon viewed the development with a twisted sense of joy she couldn’t explain. The hidden Chuang Tianshang inside her greatly enjoyed Shyme’s suffering.

“Isn’t that…”

Lancaster remembered glancing at Shyme’s diary, but he politely shelves the brief sentence he gleamed in his head until now.

“So, our mistress crushes hard on her uncle,” Charon smirked. “How cute.”

Shyme’s face was redder than tomato. The graceful mistress of Enma clan tried to withstand Rem for less than twenty seconds and got reduced to scrap metals.

“I-”

Her secret got exposed before her enemy and complete stranger. No amount of money or assassination could remedy this.

“I CAN’T GET MARRY ANYMORE!!!!!”

The young mistress of the most powerful clan beneath the sky sobbed to the heaven. Her rosy red face was adorable with tears. Her fox-ear flopped down with misery.

“How adorable,” Charon smacked her lips.

…

Men and women alike witnessed the merciless character murder of a 33 Stars. Their reaction was predictable.

“Did he just quoted a 33 Stars’ diary?” A young noble barely believed the mysterious man's accomplishment. “Does he have a death wish?”

“Nah,” Melody answered. “I believe that man wholly accepts death and thus liberates himself from fearing it.”

“Hard-fucking-core,” the young noble gaped. “Isn’t that guy Hal Jordan?”

“That a fake name,” Luxinna mercifully told him. “He always uses fake aliases.”

“So that is Samadi,” Chamomile Elragorn’s expression was inscrutable under the layer of shadow. But her eyes burnt with glaring rage. Her anger focused at the mysterious masked man conversing with Orwell.

…

“Still talking me into surrendering?”

Orwell opened with his presumptive question.

“While I wish so, that opportunity clocked out ages ago. Sorry to inform you, Orwell, but after piling 3 million body-bags, lowering your execution sentence is nigh-improbable. Good news, we are not judge, jury and executioner. Bad news, we will hand your ass on the platter to the Grand Empire. Those parts are unnegotiable. What I am offering is the fallout agreement.”

“Fallout agreement,” Orwell chuckled. “Never heard of that.”

“Because everyone thinks they will win until they lost,” Rem sighed. “Overconfidence is a plague of the world. Just ask Hex. But again, his voice box is one organ you never fix.”

Orwell tensed.

“You know?”

“Dude, we share a distaste for Chamomile, but limits exist for a reason,” Rem’s disapproval was cold. “You should destroy that project now. It is a waste of resources. You won’t kill anyone with him. I will free Hex. I owe him that. If you have doubts, watch my eyes, Orwell. I dare you.”

Orwell didn’t take the bet.

“Let change the subject…”

“HELL NO!”

Chamomile barged into the conversation, screaming.

“What the hell are you doing to the Captain?”

“Knowledge is the burden,” Rem advised. “Fall back, Chamomile, this is one information his subordinate should remain ignorant to.”

Orwell's added with an insidious grin.

“He is right, you know. It would be infinitely better if you never meet him again,” Orwell chuckled. “To be honest, I highly anticipate that reunion. I can’t wait to record your expression and I am still curious whether he can recognize you.”

“You monster!” Chamomile prepared to charge at Orwell.

“Hikma, she is going to kill herself. Stop her.”

[Aegis] emerged from the ground and locked Chamomile's feet with [Holy Armor].

“Free me. I need to kill him.”

Rem snorted.

“Isn’t that attitude got your comrades annihilated and Hex captured? Sorry, Vice-Captain, but I already have too many bodies on my conscience. I might fail to save Hex, but I won’t let him waste his death.”

Upon hearing Rem’s statement, Chamomile exploded.

“Why do you care!? You are Wayward’s collaborator like Orwell!”

Rem raised his eyebrows. It appeared a harsh reality check was in order.

“Aren’t you a bigger Wayward’s collaborator? You work with him for solid six years.”

“You are defending him?” Chamomile accused. “That man kill his own men, kill my friends, and murder Captain Hex. He is a traitor! What nerve you have to shake hands with that monster before saving us!? Don’t pretend like you are a hero, you are just another Samael Wayward! A lair behind a mask plotting against us!”

That was a mixture of resentment, powerlessness and denial cumulated from the horrific event of the last twenty-fours hours. Chamomile was looking for someone to blame. Wayward wasn’t here to receive her wrath, nor could she inflict any harm on him. Thus, Chamomile opted for the next best alternative. She pinned her despair on the mysterious man she didn’t understand.

The consequence was horrific.

“If I want a bloodbath, you would already die,” Rem addressed the raging woman with winter cold. “Before claiming your grievance on getting betray: take off that uniform. It is being needlessly tainted.”

Rem directed his gaze at the uniform of the royal-knights.

“What the hell are you talking about!” Chamomile was too enraged to care.

“Sorry, I don’t speak hamster.”

Chamomile fist punched into an illusion and accomplished nothing.

“I am not even here,” Rem started the verbal murder. “Do we need a room, Chammy? A leather chair and cedar wood desk, a large oval desk, and maybe a dinner — honey roasted pork. It what you ate with your father, isn’t it? That smiling face. That expectation. Wonder how daddy’s heart will bleed when he learns his little girl is this pathetic? Guess the Corrupter sent him to an early grave as a favor.”

“SHUT UP!”

Chamomile screamed.

“Shut what?” Rem taunted the hysterical woman. “That daddy didn’t come home? Or that the whiny coward poured her father’s teaching down the drain with every forged document? Or that spineless bitch whose clutching on her father’s protégé, quivering with fear at the inevitable day he leaves..”

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

Chamomile punched the illusion for every syllable. Failing to hurt the image, she turned her attention at Hikma, but Rem expected that.

“Oh, if Chronicler shut the illusion, the negotiation is over and Orwell will have no qualm about attacking you next.”

That statement made Chamomile realized she stood between the disturbed Hikma De Darwin and an amused Orwell Mehest.

“He is right,” Orwell confirmed. “This is too amusing to pass up. Hey, Jordan, how much do you know about Chamomile?”

“As much as I know you.”

Unable to do anything, Chamomile flopped on her knees and bawled.

“Why does this have to happen to me?” Chamomile screamed. “What did I do to deserve this!?”

“Nothing.”

Rem expanded his answer with a speech.

“You did nothing to deserve a tragedy, but nothing to prevent it. You learn nothing from your pain. Gain nothing from your lost. You refuse to accept your inability to control another man’s madness by blaming everyone but yourself. Thus attains no wisdom nor clarity. You breathe day-by-day with no inspiration, no dream. You are a sheep, representing nothing, so by mathematic logic, you fall against anything.”

Rem crushed Chamomile further. 

“Can you guess why I mention your uniform? That is a symbol of Venistalis’s defender. Your father, your Captain and your friends wore it, but you understand so little about its implication. That uniform separates the civilian from combatant. A symbolic evidence of your contract with Venistalis — your vow — to protect its soul and soil at expenses of your life. Its wearer has no right to complain about dying or being massacred by a betrayer because wearing those gears is an open invitation to everything desiring this city’s destruction to shoot you. It is the price to the power and admiration you enjoy. A sheep like you is tainting that symbol by using it as a fashion statement. Strip. Animal inspired by nothing should stick to a birthday cloth, not ceremonial garments for corpses of honor.”

The stomp was brutal. Rem didn’t need [Mentalism] to shatter her will. A single speech was all he used to fold Chamomile like a piece of paper, reducing her to a shell-shock sobbing wreck. A Death Star would be more merciful than force-feeding the truth and shame down Chamomile’s throat.

Rem left the annihilated, psychologically charred body of Chamomile to face the opponent of today.

“Back to business,” Rem stated. “There are no possibilities of getting you a pardon or lighten sentence. Great work. Orwell, you are among few enemies I cannot save from their eventual self-inflicted death. Kudos. Congratulation time over and arrives the hour of damage control. My offer—to you and the nobles representing the Grand Empire—let it end here.”

Silence.

“Let what stop what?” Lord Uther drifted into the clueless ocean.

“I don’t get it,” Andries found herself in the triangle of confusion.

“Again?” Added Eliza the marooned.

Rem explained his request.

“The cycle of hatred between the Deathless Clan and Grand Empire have yielded death-toll approaching over 5-millions counting today incident and causalities during the earlier administrations. Many of these are civilian’s death from looting a retaliatory attack. Continuous escalation of the conflict requires an arbitration. As a neutral arbitrator, I ask this high-scale counter-attack and its resolution be the last act of war between Grand Empire and Deathless Clan. Is that fine part with both parties?”

Everyone stared at Rem like he floated from heaven with wings.

“Wait. Wait, Wait,” One noble charted the course back. “You are giving him a pass.”

“No, Mr. Archibald, the proper term is a peace-deal,” Rem said. “However, that isn’t the point. The crux of your disapproval is you want payback. Maybe it’s revenge for the 3 million lives sacrifice in this city or the friends that die in the Central Palace raid, but you want more blood to spill. But will you pay the price? Oh right, your family never had an honest income.”

“What!”

“You paid the bill with blood money harvest from a trade-secret, tortured from a poor match-seller. Quite a good ink for enchantment scroll — salt, Grimme Water, and Spark Sand fermented for 2 months at ratios of 1:3:6. Oh, is that a production secret? Oops. No sorry. You deserve it. Hey, Andries, better noted it. You need daddy’s approval and handful of cash works on your old-man.”

Archibold’s face paled. Every noble deduced the game. Previously, they united for survival, but now that peace temporary returned and survival chance increased, they regressed to their base instinct. Men were wolves to fellow man. Rem recognized such statement held an extra weight to the Venistalis’s obsessive upper-class mired with grudge and competition. He decided to weaponized their flaws.

Tried to speak out at your peril. Your comrade’s greed would butcher you with enough nudging.

Objector raised his proverbial neck. Rem revealed his families’s industrious secret as example and brough consequence into the picture.

No one spoke until Andries realized she got enough favors to speak without being socially destroyed.

“How much…”

“How much secret do I know?” Amused was Rem’s tone. “I revealed Chammy’s most vulnerable moment like I witnessed it? Ask yourself about my method? How can I witness a little girl crying in her bed two decades ago grew into a worthless adult she is today?”

Andries had only one answered. A Skill that let a person witnessed the past. A naiver Andries might scoff at such a harmless skill until she saw its full potential from this mysterious Hal Jordan.

“Hal Jordan is a fake name,” Orwell stated his suspicion. “You should be famous for your competency.”

“I have some fame. They call me many things, but I go by Samadi.”

“So Samadi, you are saying you are cutting the cycle of revenge? You want to forgive me?”

“God, no. Yes, I might forgive you, but that doesn’t change the fact I must deliver punitive measure to ensure fairness and justice for the lost. You will die, Orwell, eventually. The nature of the deal aims to bring this conflict to a definite conclusion. If I win, the Grand Empire will execute you and let the remaining Deathless Clan members hiding in Phantasia rebuild in peace. If you triumph, you end your vengeance tour by nuking only Venistalis. No hopping to collect more heads in the main army or the country-side.”

Orwell smirked.

“You are not a diplomatic representative. Do you believed Emperor will end the cycle when he could take it out on my brethren?”

“He won’t,” Rem admitted, then gestured at the noble. “But they will — one highway or another. The Emperor’s political power lies with his key to power. I will act as your guarantor. Even if the Emperor scours every rock in Phantasia. He will find not a blink of the Deathless Clan.”

“You are putting faith that those nobles who helped the Empire wiped out my people will put their neck out to protect them.”

“Technically, I will handle the heavy lifting,” Rem shrugged. “But if I don’t have faith they can change, who will?”

That simple sentence changed the course of Grand Empire’s future.

Orwell chuckled.

“Why should I agree at the cusp of my victory?”

Rem stared back.

“Over half of your keystone shattered this last hour, I am not a betting man but obviously your odds just tank, Orwell.”

“Fine,” Orwell Mehest turned back and left. “My words are more solid than stone. It trust you have the innocent’s best interest in mind, Samadi.”

“Please, call your friend and tell them not retaliate after your death?”

“I can arrange,” Samadi watched at the nobles loathsomely. “Now, I want their words. If I fail, my people won’t pay for my sin.”

“Wait! You are trying to kill us a minute ago?” Lord Uther shouted out. “Only he receives all the benefits. Are you two expecting us to agree an agreement that lopsided?”

“He has a point,” Rem agreed. “What about another clause? A guarantee of safety and a ceasefire. Allow the civilian to evacuate to a safe-zone and cease engagement for a week to stabilize the injure.”

“Too long. 100 hours will do with the city projection network and your ability.”

“Fine, is that agreeable to all party?”

“Yes,” Orwell said.

“Maybe, but I need an extra terms.”

“Good, Chronicler get me a paper. I wanted a signature. Scribe this deal as legal binding document under Grand Empire’s law. Let harsh the fine detail there.”