Chapter 1: The Great City and its Inhabitants

Ah, the Great City of the Netherwards—a sprawling, labyrinthine marvel of stone, steel, and sorcery, ruled by the Imperial Family with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove (probably stolen from some unfortunate noble who blinked at the wrong moment). This behemoth of a metropolis is no mere city but an empire unto itself, a web of ducal territories, each overseen by powerful families who kneel (some willingly, some less so) before the indomitable House of Netherward.

And who better to tell you of its many wonders and lurking horrors than I, Benetton, the illustrious and shadow-weaving feline, assistant to none other than Grand Duke Mhelfrancovince and his formidable wife, Grand Duchess Nikkimae? While the humans bicker over titles and lands, I observe from the highest perches, slipping through the darkness like a whisper of doom—or a particularly persistent tax collector.

The Imperial Capital Region is a vast, pulsating heart of power, beating with the lifeblood of countless souls who swear fealty (or pretend to, for now). Within its mighty bounds lie cities with names that roll off the tongue like poetry—or like curses spat by a dying rival. Glastheim, a fortress of indomitable might, where the banners of the Emperor cast long, foreboding shadows over its marble halls. Camp St. Roguensburg, a military bastion filled with warriors who have long since forgotten the taste of fear (and possibly hygiene). Magaylandia, where alchemists and mad inventors turn science and magic into something dangerously indistinguishable. Phatimah, a jewel of commerce where merchants peddle everything from enchanted artifacts to secrets that could topple dynasties.

Then there's Zantonius, a city of scholars and scribes, where knowledge is hoarded like gold, and betrayal is but an academic exercise. Sancta Helena, the holy seat of the Empire's faith, where priests chant divine hymns while sharpening their daggers beneath their robes. Lunamilla, a place of masked balls and whispered conspiracies, where one misstep in a dance could mean a dagger between the ribs. Redia Imperia, Andromeda, Pangkoysburg—each with its own tale of ambition, treachery, and the occasional ghost looking for unfinished business (or just good company).

Ah, and let us not forget Okangstadt, Memoyden, and Mecton, where the factories never sleep, and the air hums with the ceaseless thrum of industry. Yannita, Saint Ives, and Elyboy Coast, where fleets sail under the Empire's banner, ensuring that the seas remain firmly under Netherward control. Pecoton and Vincit Omnia, where the nobility feast while the common folk toil, as is the natural order of things.

Korallensburg, Sandfort, Pageaux, and Saint Jameson—all strongholds of ancient houses with grudges as old as their bloodlines. GoSoco Hills, LePasanne, Cashewton, and Coburn-Huang, where wealth flows like wine, and treachery is a cherished tradition. Zudarius, DaClizaunt, Waraylandia—ah, even the names reek of power and ambition, each city a cog in the vast machine of the Netherward Empire.

And yet, in the darkest alleys of Nordsummeria, the hidden chambers of Tandaya, and the forsaken ruins of Samaria East, whispers of rebellion stir like a storm on the horizon. Will they succeed? Highly unlikely. But oh, how delightful it will be to watch them try!

From Mairete to Leyteña Sur, from Veilrund to Techlovaughn, the Great City stretches on, an empire without equal, now thrust into an unknown world brimming with new opportunities—and new prey.

But for now, I shall retire to my well-earned perch, my tail flicking with the satisfaction of knowing that all is as it should be: the strong rule, the weak serve, and I, Benetton, remain ever amused by it all.

Ah, what a splendid world it is.

Ah, the Great City. Where the cobbled streets clash with the gleam of polished steel and the clang of arcane runes hum in the air like an overzealous bard trying to impress you with their magic tricks. Picture it, if you will—a sprawling metropolis where technologically advanced marvels and mystic wonders rub elbows in the most delightful of manners. Bullet trains zip past like a breathless messenger carrying secrets from the future, while automobiles cruise along the streets, their engines humming with the promise of progress—or maybe it's just a bit of rust. Airplanes soar in the skies, their wings shimmering like polished obsidian, while electrical contraptions blink and buzz in every corner, casting eerie glows that would make any sorcerer's cauldron look quaint. And then, of course, there's magic. Arcane forces woven into the very fabric of life, from levitating chandeliers to enchanted pocket watches that can predict your doom with alarming accuracy. It's a world where science and magic aren't just roommates—they're married, for better or worse. And believe me, it's often worse.

Now, if we're to explore this magnificent beast of a city, we must begin with its heart—the throbbing, ever-pulsing center of power: Glastheim. Ah, Glastheim, the very seat of politics in this Empire of ours, where the air is thick with ambition and the smell of politics... which mostly smells like stale wine and deceit, but I digress. The Glastheim Palace Complex, a sprawling structure of marble, obsidian, and egos, is where the Imperial Family resides in all their grandeur—or perhaps in their delusions of grandeur, depending on who you ask. It houses the Imperial Government, the Imperial Assembly, and various other imperialities that one can only dream of—or fear. It's here that decisions are made, plans are hatched, and plots… well, those are often hatched in darker corners, where the light doesn't dare to reach. It's a place where the throne feels a bit too comfortable, and the dagger feels a bit too sharp.

Then, of course, there's Camp Saint Roguensburg. Ah, how the mere name sends a shiver down my fur. It is the beating heart of the Netherward Imperial Armed Forces—a veritable playground for those who adore war toys. Picture it: guns that fire faster than a drunken noble can slur his words, drones that buzz through the skies like giant, malevolent flies, and battleships that could sink an entire fleet with nothing more than a casual glance. Submarines that slide through the depths of the oceans like ghosts, and mechas that stomp across the battlefield, looking for all the world like a drunken giant on a bad day. Tanks? Oh, we've got tanks—big ones, loud ones, and ones that can probably flatten an entire city block without breaking a sweat. And let us not forget the artillery that echoes through the mountains like a thunderstorm that has far too much rage in it. It's a place where the military might of the Empire is not only flaunted but worshipped like a god—because, of course, it is.

Magaylandia, on the other hand, is the Empire's economic heartbeat—a city where wealth flows like the endless streams of wine at a royal banquet. If you want to know where all the gold hides, follow the glittering trail of coin that leads straight to this glorious den of trade and industry. And who could forget Pangkoysburg, Okangstadt, Memoyden, Mecton, and Yannita? Ah, these are the cities closest to the hearts of our dear rulers—Mhelfrancovince, Airanikka, Mhelangelus, Mhelpatrikus, and Caraianna. Each city bears the names of those privileged enough to claim it as their personal dominion—much like how a dog claims its territory, marking it with pride. Mhelfrancovince, of course, has the ever-impressive Pangkoysburg, where industry and prestige coalesce into a beautiful, slightly dangerous dance. Airanikka's Okangstadt is the beating heart of innovation, full of strange gadgets and even stranger ideas. Mhelangelus's Memoyden is a city of mystery, where dark corners hide secrets, and Mhelpatrikus's Mecton is a realm of battle-hardened warriors, each one convinced they could conquer the world if they just had a little more time, and maybe a slightly larger sword. And Caraianna's Yannita? Well, it's a city that thrives on strategy and politics, where every whisper could mean a life lost or a fortune gained.

Yes, the Great City is many things to many people—an empire of power, progress, and perpetual drama, where the high and mighty sit comfortably in their palaces, plotting their next move, while the rest of us—well, we remain ever-watchful, and perhaps a bit too amused.

Ah, Mhelfrancovince—the ever-dutiful Minister of Imperial Defense and Security, or MIDS, as the bureaucrats so eloquently abbreviate it. He, alongside his formidable wife, Grand Duchess Nikkimae, oversees the massive, steel-clad beast that is the Netherward Imperial Armed Force, or NIAF—because, of course, everything must have an acronym in this Empire, lest the scribes get carpal tunnel writing out those gloriously long titles. Together, this power couple holds the security of the Netherward Imperial Clan, the Imperial Government, the sovereign territories, and all imperial interests in their ever-watchful, well-manicured hands.

Now, one might assume an armed force of such prestige would have distinct branches—perhaps a navy that rules the waves, an army that marches with thunderous might, or an air force that soars like a vengeful falcon. But no, dear reader, that would be too simple. Instead, the entire military is consolidated into combined-arms teams, a rather ambitious attempt at unity that requires every soldier to be equally adept at wielding a rifle, commanding a battleship, piloting a mech, and—if necessary—exorcising a particularly stubborn demon from an occupied fortress. It's an approach that keeps them versatile, deadly, and, let's be honest, slightly overworked. These teams operate under immediate supervisors, who in turn answer to the Ministry of Imperial Defense, a grand institution managed by the ever-efficient, ever-bureaucratic Imperial Government of the Netherward Realms.

And what a military it is! The active soldiers alone number approximately 1,651,855—and that's just the ones officially counted. The number likely swells when one considers mercenaries, shadow operatives, and the occasional necromancer with a standing army of reanimated volunteers. It is a force that stands ever vigilant, protecting the empire's borders, interests, and, most importantly, ensuring no one gets too ambitious about sitting on the imperial throne without an invitation.

But an organization of this magnitude cannot function on brawn alone—it requires an intricate web of departments, each more impressive (and more convoluted) than the last. Allow me to enlighten you:

The Imperial Armory: A vast labyrinth of steel, enchanted metals, and weaponry capable of leveling cities, guarded by blacksmiths who look more like warlocks than artisans.

The Imperial Defense College: A grand institution where strategists, tacticians, and the occasional war criminal refine their craft, ensuring that every campaign is as efficient as it is devastating.

The Imperial Security Council: A shadowy collective of the Empire's most paranoid minds, tasked with anticipating threats before they even think about existing.

The Imperial Civil Defense: Essentially a group of well-trained, highly disciplined individuals whose primary task is ensuring that when war comes knocking, the civilians don't answer the door.

The Netherward Realms Imperial Armed Force: The backbone of the military, a disciplined legion of warriors, mages, and mechanized war-beasts who enforce the Empire's will with steel and fire.

The Imperial Auxiliary Defense and Security Force: A reserve force, composed of retired veterans, ambitious nobles, and unfortunate peasants who were told they'd "only have to serve in case of an emergency"—a phrase that history has proven to be an outright lie.

The Disaster Management Authority: A division that cleans up the messes left behind by the rest, whether it be war, natural disasters, or the occasional eldritch horror that someone was foolish enough to summon.

The Netherward Realms Imperial Military Academy: A prestigious institution where the Empire's finest officers are forged, trained in the arts of war, strategy, and—most importantly—how to keep their heads firmly attached to their shoulders in political intrigue.

The Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense: Because in an Empire as vast and ancient as this, ghosts, demons, and ancient curses are just another Tuesday.

The Defense Technology Advancement Board: A gathering of the Empire's brightest minds, constantly inventing newer, deadlier, and occasionally morally questionable weaponry to ensure that Netherward supremacy remains unchallenged.

And there you have it—the mighty war machine that keeps the Great City and its empire standing, an intricate dance of discipline, bureaucracy, and sheer, unrelenting firepower. One can only wonder what grand conflicts lie ahead, for a military this formidable is never left idle for long. War, after all, is the only business that never goes out of fashion.

Ah, Mhelfrancovince. The man, the myth, the absolute nightmare lurking in the corridors of power, cloaked in shadow and occasionally dusted with the remains of unfortunate souls who dared to cross him. He is a force of nature wrapped in the trappings of nobility, wielding magic with all the grace of a seasoned warlord and the unholy creativity of a mad alchemist with too much time on his hands. Light, Dark, and Earth—his aptitudes, a trifecta of power that allows him to illuminate the battlefield with celestial radiance, drown his enemies in the abyss of the void, and quite literally reshape the land beneath their feet should he feel inclined to drop a mountain on an inconvenient diplomat.

But why stop at mountains when you can have ninjas with assault rifles, Desert Eagles, and katanas? Yes, you heard that right. The man commands a shadow army, a battalion of silent assassins who prefer to operate under cover of darkness, emerging only to dispense swift and merciless justice—or to ensure that an enemy commander's morning tea is seasoned with just a hint of poison. Some say they move unseen, slipping between dimensions like whispers on the wind. Others claim that they merely have an excellent tailor. Whatever the case, they are the ghosts that haunt the living, and when they strike, it is not with mere steel, but with the thunderous roar of modern firepower laced with an artistry that only centuries of discipline can refine.

Yet, when he tires of mere mortals, Mhelfrancovince has other tools at his disposal. Necromancy. That most delightful of dark arts, the one that turns battlefields into recruitment centers and cemeteries into barracks. Why bother drafting new soldiers when the fallen can simply be raised anew, given fresh orders, and sent shambling toward the next objective? Skeletal warriors, ghastly specters, and those unfortunate enough to retain just enough consciousness to remember they were once human—all dance to his will, a dreadful ballet of the damned.

And then, of course, there are the Obsidian Golems. Towering monoliths of living rock, their surfaces black as the void and twice as unforgiving. When words fail and diplomacy collapses into the usual chaos of war, he simply summons a horde of these monstrous titans, each capable of crushing a cavalry charge beneath a single footstep. Entire fortresses have crumbled under their relentless advance, their fists striking with the force of a thousand battering rams. They do not feel pain, nor fear, nor hunger—only the will of their master, and the quiet satisfaction of turning enemy soldiers into very fine red mist.

And yet, despite this fearsome arsenal, Mhelfrancovince is not merely a brute force tactician. His Psionic powers, granted by his Dark Magic aptitude, elevate him from mere warrior to a walking nightmare wrapped in royal finery. Telekinesis—so that his enemies may experience the uniquely horrifying sensation of being thrown into the sky and left there. Telepathy—so that he may hear their thoughts before they even realize they are betraying him. Cyberpathy—though most of his foes are too medieval to possess anything resembling technology, one can never be too prepared for a world that advances faster than its kings can comprehend. Spatial Manipulation—because sometimes the simplest way to win a battle is to move the battlefield itself, shifting castles into bottomless chasms or ensuring an entire enemy fleet sails directly into a conveniently placed whirlpool.

But he is not alone in his reign of commanding dread and utter efficiency. His beloved Nikkimae, Grand Duchess of Strategy and Subtlety, is a force to be reckoned with in her own right. Light, Earth, and Water—her magic nurtures as easily as it destroys, shaping the land and the tides alike, ensuring that their dominion is not merely powerful, but unchallenged by even the forces of nature themselves. Where Mhelfrancovince shrouds the battlefield in darkness, she brings forth the tides, summoning hurricanes upon enemy navies and causing rivers to devour entire armies like some vengeful, all-consuming serpent.

And then, as if their shadow legions and undead hordes weren't horrifyingly creative enough, there is Beta-02, "Apis Mellifera"—an army of humanoid bees. Genetically engineered to be the perfect fusion of man and insect, these 30,000 Worker Bees and 50,000 Drones form a hive-minded force of unrelenting efficiency. Their very presence on the battlefield is a biological horror story, their serrated weapons slicing through plate armor like butter, their venomous stingers ensuring that even those who survive their first onslaught soon succumb to agonizing paralysis.

Led by Lieutenant General Duke Edgarius von Korallensburg, a man whose reputation for discipline is rivaled only by his disturbing fondness for honey, the Bee Legion swarms over the Empire's enemies like a living storm, their buzzing a harbinger of doom that precedes absolute annihilation. Those who underestimate them quickly find that the sting of a single bee is a nuisance—but the wrath of an entire hive? That is a reckoning.

And so, the Grand Duke and Duchess stand supreme, their dominion secured by an arsenal of dark sorcery, psionic might, undead legions, golemic titans, and an army of genetically enhanced bee-warriors. Few dare to challenge them. Fewer still live to regret it. And as for those who do? Well, let's just say that when the Netherward Empire declares war, it is not so much a battle as it is an extinction event.

Ah, Grand Duchess Airanikka, the ever-diplomatic, ever-strategic Minister of State and Foreign Affairs. A woman of elegance and iron resolve, whose mere presence at the negotiation table is enough to make lesser diplomats question their life choices. Beside her stands her ever-dutiful husband, Rodiuspierre, a man whose name alone sounds like he should be leading a charge into battle, yet instead finds himself navigating the murky, treacherous waters of international politics. Together, they orchestrate the grand dance of diplomacy, where words are sharper than swords, treaties are more binding than chains, and a single misstep could mean war, embargoes, or, worse—having to host another tedious banquet with self-important emissaries who mistake arrogance for intelligence.

To manage the unending complexities of diplomacy, Airanikka commands a sprawling bureaucratic empire of departments, each more tedious yet crucial than the last. Imagine, if you will, a grand chessboard where every piece must be precisely positioned to maintain the delicate balance of power. Let me introduce you to the key players:

The Office of International Economic Relations – Where economists and trade negotiators engage in verbal jousts over tariffs, trade routes, and the occasional smuggling scandal involving priceless artifacts, illicit spices, or, on particularly scandalous occasions, an entire fleet of battle mechs disguised as fishing boats.

The Office of Mediation Affairs – A thankless institution dedicated to ensuring that minor disputes between nations do not escalate into full-scale wars, usually by convincing two warring parties that neither side can afford the damages.

The Maritime and Ocean Affairs Office – Where salty old admirals and sea-worn bureaucrats argue over naval dominion, underwater resources, and the ever-present concern of leviathan sightings that may or may not be exaggerated for funding purposes.

The Office of Migrant Workers Affairs – A noble endeavor to ensure the Empire's labor force abroad is treated with dignity and respect—or, at the very least, not exploited to the point of rebellion.

The Office of Consular Affairs – The lifeline of every unfortunate citizen stranded in a foreign land, often called upon to bail out foolish nobles who drank too much at a foreign gala and woke up engaged to a princess they do not recall meeting.

The Office of Civilian Security – Tasked with ensuring that Netherward citizens abroad do not find themselves abducted, assassinated, or otherwise inconvenienced by the political turmoil of other nations.

The Office of Public and Cultural Diplomacy – The masterminds behind the Empire's soft power, ensuring that Netherward art, literature, and cuisine spread far and wide, subtly reminding all who indulge that their civilization is, naturally, the pinnacle of culture and refinement.

The Office of Treaties and Legal Affairs – Where scribes and legal scholars pore over centuries-old documents, ensuring that no foreign power finds a loophole allowing them to, say, legally claim an entire province because of a misworded agreement signed three centuries ago.

The Office of Policy Planning and Coordination – The great weavers of long-term strategy, forecasting not just tomorrow's treaties but the next decade's alliances, rivalries, and, of course, the occasional well-planned coup should diplomacy fail.

But diplomacy alone does not keep the peace—no, no. In an empire as vast as the Netherwards, where wealth flows like rivers and power is a currency of its own, there are always those who would seek to undermine stability through assassination, coercion, or outright war. And so, Airanikka commands her own personal army, Delta-01 "Storm Troopers," a name chosen for its ability to strike fear into the hearts of enemies and inspire grandiose recruitment posters.

This force, officially known as the Sovereign Guard of Grand Duchess Airanikka, is led by the formidable Lieutenant General Fin Saber, a man as sharp as his name suggests and whose mere presence on the battlefield is rumored to reduce enemy morale to dust. The army itself is a carefully assembled war machine, consisting of:

Six Infantry Divisions – Hardened soldiers trained in urban combat, jungle warfare, and, most importantly, escorting diplomats through hostile territory without getting them killed (a skill that requires both martial prowess and saintly patience).

Three Artillery Divisions – Masters of long-range devastation, their primary duty is to remind foreign adversaries that disrespecting a Netherward envoy could result in their palace mysteriously ceasing to exist.

Three Tank Divisions – Iron-clad behemoths that ensure the negotiation table remains favorable to the Netherwards, often by parking ominously just outside diplomatic summits.

One Expeditionary Infantry Division – A specialized unit deployed when diplomatic efforts fail, treaties are burned, and subtlety is abandoned in favor of reminding the world that "diplomatic solutions" can, in fact, come at the end of a well-placed sword.

These warriors, clad in battle armor infused with both technological enhancements and arcane enchantments, operate with a single objective: to secure, protect, and, if necessary, obliterate anything that threatens Netherward diplomacy. Ambassadors, ministers, and foreign envoys under the Empire's protection can rest easy knowing that Delta-01 is ever-watchful—though whether their presence offers reassurance or a quiet reminder that the Empire tolerates no nonsense is a matter of perspective.

Such is the grand stage of Netherward foreign affairs, a realm where words hold the power of armies, treaties are sharper than swords, and at the end of the day, it is not just diplomacy that maintains peace, but the ever-present, looming possibility of utter annihilation should anyone be foolish enough to betray the Empire's trust.

Ah, Airanikka and Rodiuspierre—a duo so dazzling in power and elegance that they could make lesser rulers weep into their goblets of inferior wine. She, the Grand Duchess of Diplomacy and the Minister of State and Foreign Affairs, and he, the ever-loyal strategist, her partner in both love and the fine art of geopolitical chess. Together, they wield magic as effortlessly as they command empires, their combined aptitudes of Light, Air, and Water forming a trifecta of elements so versatile that they could end wars before they even begin—or ensure they last long enough for their enemies to deeply regret every life decision leading up to that point.

Let us begin with Light, the magic of radiance, divinity, and, in their capable hands, the spectacular art of weaponized diplomacy. Where others see illumination, Airanikka sees a way to blind her adversaries with celestial fury, leaving them reeling as her words weave webs so intricate that even the most seasoned politicians find themselves ensnared. With a mere flick of her wrist, she can bathe an entire assembly hall in golden light, her very presence commanding the attention of rulers and warlords alike, leaving them unsure whether they are in the presence of a saint—or a conqueror who simply prefers to negotiate before sending in the war machines.

And then, there is Air. Oh, the things one can do when they command the very breath of the world. It is not merely the whisper of diplomacy that bends kingdoms to her will, but also the howling gale that tears the banners from enemy fortresses, the storm that grounds entire fleets before they even dare set sail. Airanikka is not merely a stateswoman; she is the tempest cloaked in silk, the hurricane disguised as a diplomat. A gentle breeze to carry her words across a council chamber? Easily done. A sudden, devastating squall to send an enemy delegation sprawling in terror, just to make a point? Also well within her capabilities. The last ambassador who attempted to outmaneuver her found himself spiraling helplessly in a whirlwind, his carefully prepared arguments scattered like leaves in a storm.

And let us not forget Water, the element of life and death, of nurturing rains and relentless floods. If Airanikka is the storm, then Rodiuspierre is the tide, rising and falling as needed, sweeping aside obstacles with the patience of a seasoned strategist—or drowning them entirely when patience is no longer an option. Where she bends the currents of diplomacy, he bends the oceans themselves, a force of nature given human form. Rivers shift under his command, seas churn at his displeasure, and when battle calls, he can summon cascades of high-pressure water so sharp they slice through armor like a hot dagger through butter. There are stories—delightful, horrifying stories—of entire naval fleets being dragged beneath the waves, their captains left sputtering their final, bewildered words before the ocean claims them whole.

But together? Ah, together, they are a storm given form, a tidal wave of influence and destruction wrapped in royal finery. They do not simply enter a battlefield; they arrive with the force of a hurricane at sea, their enemies already half-drowned before the first blade is drawn. With Airanikka's silver tongue and dazzling light, she blinds and bewilders, while Rodiuspierre—patient, calculating, and entirely unforgiving—ensures that those who underestimate them find themselves gasping for breath, either beneath the weight of crushing waters or amidst the howling winds of their own downfall.

To challenge them is to challenge the very forces of nature themselves. And nature, as history has shown, is not known for its mercy.

Ah, Mhelangelus, Grand Duke of Verdant Affairs, Supreme Arbiter of Trees, and the Netherward Empire's foremost advocate for keeping the world from turning into a wasteland of industry and unchecked ambition. A man of patience and principle—traits necessary when one's primary adversaries include greedy aristocrats who believe forests are mere obstacles to their latest mining ventures, bureaucrats who would pave over rivers in the name of progress, and, of course, the ever-looming threat of nature itself deciding it has had quite enough of humanity's nonsense.

By his side stands his formidable wife, Jozilaine, a woman whose connection to the natural world is only matched by her ability to make self-important land barons rethink their life choices with a single glare. Together, they oversee the great and terrible responsibility of managing the Empire's natural resources, a task that involves balancing environmental preservation with the insatiable hunger of imperial expansion. A thankless job, truly, for no matter what policies they enact, someone, somewhere, is always complaining—either the merchants wailing that there aren't enough trees being cut down for their ships, or the druids sobbing that too many have been felled.

To enforce order upon the chaos that is environmental governance, Mhelangelus commands an empire within an empire: the Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources, a sprawling institution filled with bureaucrats, researchers, surveyors, and men with very large maps who argue endlessly about land borders and mineral rights. Let us take a stroll through its labyrinthine halls and meet the departments responsible for keeping the world from imploding:

The Bureau of Environment Management – Where well-dressed scholars with ink-stained fingers draft policies on pollution control and sustainable development, all while being politely ignored by industrialists with deeper pockets than morals.

The Bureau of Mines and Geoscience – An assembly of geologists, engineers, and men who dream of striking gold, tasked with ensuring that mining does not cause more earthquakes than necessary. A fine balance between wealth extraction and geological catastrophe.

The Bureau of Forestry Management – The defenders of the Empire's ancient woodlands, forever at odds with lumber tycoons who see entire ecosystems as little more than future furniture.

The Bureau of Biodiversity Management – Charged with protecting the Empire's flora and fauna, this office regularly debates the ethical implications of hunting, conservation, and whether the newly discovered venomous bat-snake is an abomination or a national treasure.

The Bureau of Land Management – Where disputes over territory, ownership, and land rights are settled through rigorous debate, mountains of paperwork, and, when all else fails, the occasional well-placed bribe.

The Ecosystem Research Institute – A collection of eccentric scholars, mystics, and alchemists dedicated to understanding how nature functions—when they are not busy arguing over whether a magically enhanced cornfield qualifies as an unnatural disaster.

The Imperial Water Resource Agency – Ensuring that clean, drinkable water remains abundant, despite the best efforts of alchemists who keep trying to turn rivers into mana pools.

The Bureau of Ocean Resource Management – A prestigious institution that governs the seas, ensuring fishing remains sustainable and that krakens are not provoked into attacking imperial trade routes—again.

The Imperial Mapping and Resource Information Authority – Cartographers, surveyors, and mapmakers who determine the boundaries of the Empire, often adjusting them slightly when the military "accidentally" conquers an extra province.

The Bureau of Agrarian Reform – Tasked with overseeing farmland distribution, irrigation projects, and ensuring that noblemen do not steal peasant lands under the guise of "efficient resource management."

Of course, no minister can wield power without a personal army, and Mhelangelus is no exception. Enter Eta-01, the "Golden Army", a force as majestic as it is terrifying, its name evoking the shimmering fields of wheat they defend—or the gilded armor that makes them look more like statues than soldiers. Led by the formidable Brigadier General Hellboy Pearlman, a man whose name alone inspires both awe and mild existential dread, this force consists of eight battalions of clockwork mecha, towering constructs of steel and magic designed to enforce the Minister's will upon those foolish enough to defy the Empire's environmental laws.

These golden giants patrol the vast landscapes of the Netherward Realms, ensuring that illegal logging operations mysteriously vanish overnight, that miners who dig too greedily and too deep receive an unpleasant surprise from the depths, and that corrupt officials who sell protected lands to the highest bidder find themselves unceremoniously "relocated" to the nearest dungeon. Some whisper that the mechas themselves possess a form of sentience, their arcane cores imbued with the spirits of long-forgotten warriors who now serve as eternal guardians of the land. Others claim that they are simply machines, soulless but efficient. Regardless of the truth, one fact remains—when the Golden Army marches, it is not to negotiate.

Mhelangelus and Jozilaine wield the forces of Earth, Water, and Light, elements that allow them to shape landscapes, summon torrents, and blind their enemies with divine radiance. A fitting combination for rulers of land and sea alike. With their mastery, forests grow where none stood before, rivers bend to their command, and entire mountain ranges shift ever so slightly—usually to the extreme misfortune of those who thought they could challenge their authority.

And so, while other ministers wage war with steel and fire, Mhelangelus fights a different battle, one against greed, short-sightedness, and the ever-present threat of environmental catastrophe. For in the end, it is not just armies and wealth that sustain an empire—it is the land itself, and woe betide any fool who forgets this immutable truth.

Ah, Mhelpatrikus, the Grand Architect of the Netherward Realms, a man whose very presence reeks of mortar, steel, and the unmistakable scent of burnt eyebrows—the latter, of course, a side effect of his rather enthusiastic use of Fire Magic. One does not simply call him a minister; no, that would be an insult. He is the Lord of Stone and Steel, the Master of the Mortar, the Engineer of Destiny! His work is the very backbone of civilization, the foundation upon which empires rise and, should he so choose, crumble into dust like a poorly mixed batch of cement.

The Interrealms Highway System Management? His doing. Roads and Bridges Engineering Management? Also him. If there is a road, a fortress, a bridge grand enough to make lesser lords weep with envy, chances are Mhelpatrikus either designed it or laughed at its inferiority before building something vastly superior. Every arch, every towering bastion, every aqueduct that snakes its way across the land stands as a monument to his genius—or, more accurately, his obsession with making things unreasonably big, unnecessarily fortified, and, in some cases, mildly terrifying. The last town that tried to "cut costs" on one of his projects ended up with a mysteriously collapsing city wall, followed by an ominous letter that simply read, "Told you so."

His bureaucratic kingdom is an empire unto itself, filled with departments so vast and all-encompassing that some say you could spend a lifetime lost within its labyrinthine archives, only to emerge decades later with nothing but a dusty engineering manual and a newfound fear of clerks. His Bureau of Construction? The hammer-wielding behemoths that shape the land itself. His Bureau of Equipment? The keepers of siege engines so massive that one has to question whether they were built to defend cities or obliterate them entirely. The Bureau of Quality & Safety? Oh, a fine establishment indeed, ensuring that all infrastructure meets the strictest of standards—right before the Bureau of Research & Standards comes along and insists on making things even more absurdly durable, because "acceptable" simply isn't acceptable in Mhelpatrikus' world.

And of course, his armies, because what is an empire without a few legions stomping about in iron-clad splendor?

The Delta-02 "Iron Legions"—because of course, his forces would be forged of steel and fire, rather than mere flesh and bone like the rest of us plebeians. Assisted by Prince Armandokris, these titanic war machines march beneath the banner of Lieutenant Colonel Blackard Smithson, a man who, by all accounts, treats war the way a particularly ambitious blacksmith treats a chunk of raw ore—with plenty of hammering, molten metal, and an ungodly amount of sparks. Their battlefield? Urban and rural landscapes alike, where they stomp through villages and cities with all the grace of a collapsing cathedral, bringing both devastation and impeccable infrastructure in their wake.

And then, of course, the Delta-03 "Engineers", because Mhelpatrikus, in all his infinite wisdom, saw fit to have an entire battalion of builders, masons, and siege architects marching to war alongside him. Assisted by Prince Ariel, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Xelda Anguston, this **mobile task force of engineers doesn't merely repair fortresses—they construct them mid-battle. Give them a few hours, and where once stood a battlefield of broken stone and bloodied earth, there now rises a grand citadel complete with defensive walls, hidden compartments, and possibly even a decorative fountain. Because if one is going to build in the middle of war, one might as well make it aesthetically pleasing.

And let us not forget the magic that fuels this towering edifice of might and ambition. Light, Earth, and Fire—a trio as destructive as it is constructive. With Light, Mhelpatrikus can mold even the darkest battlefield into a beacon of radiant industry, a place where steel gleams and masonry stands unshaken. With Earth, he shapes mountains to his will, bends the land to serve as his canvas, and crafts fortresses that laugh in the face of siege weaponry. And with **Fire—ah, glorious, unrelenting Fire—he ensures that anything not worthy of his grand vision is swiftly reduced to rubble and ashes. Roads burn. Bridges crumble. Cities are "accidentally" set ablaze in the name of progress.

Mhelpatrikus does not merely build; he reshapes the very bones of the world itself. And should anyone dare question the necessity of his grand designs, he merely gestures toward the towering spires, impenetrable walls, and awe-inspiring roads that stretch across the land, and in a voice as unyielding as the stone he commands, simply states:

"You're welcome."

Ah, Caraianna, the White Empress of the Scalpel and the Mistress of Maladies, a woman whose very name strikes both fear and relief into the hearts of the sick and wounded. One moment, she's a divine healer, the embodiment of mercy and renewal, the light at the end of the festering tunnel of disease—and the next, she's conducting medical experiments that would make even the most hardened battlefield sawbones faint into their soup. To say she is devoted to her craft would be an understatement; to say she is obsessed would be far more appropriate.

Her dominion over health, medicine, and the delicate art of keeping people alive (or ensuring they don't live long enough to be a burden) extends across the entire Netherward realm. A vast network of hospitals, research institutes, and medical centers, each more well-equipped than the last, hums with the ceaseless efforts of healers, alchemists, and physicians. But let us not forget the bureaucratic behemoth she lords over, an empire of red tape so dense that even death itself would have to file a request form in triplicate before claiming its victims.

The Food and Drugs Administration? Ah yes, the gatekeepers of the consumable and the questionable, where concoctions are tested upon the unfortunate before reaching the masses. Ever wonder why some medicines cure blindness while simultaneously giving you a third eye? That would be them.

The Imperial Nutrition Council? A fine establishment dedicated to ensuring that every subject gets their daily dose of greens, meats, and whatever else keeps the populace from collapsing into malnourished heaps. Of course, some say their "nutritional recommendations" look suspiciously like rationing guidelines, but who's really keeping track?

The Netherward Health Insurance Corporation? A noble endeavor to provide aid to the sickly—if one is brave enough to endure the labyrinthine bureaucracy required to actually receive treatment. Some say that by the time your insurance claim is approved, your illness has already passed—or you have.

The Imperial Health and Medical Research Institute? The place where the brightest minds of the realm gather to poke, prod, and occasionally "accidentally" create monstrosities that need to be hunted down before they escape into the countryside. Truly, a beacon of progress.

And then, of course, the Empress Cyprian Medical Center, the crown jewel of healing and experimentation. A sanctuary where the wounded are patched together with thread, magic, and sometimes parts they weren't originally born with.

But let us not forget the Institute for Disease Control and Research, an ominous establishment where scholars, mages, and slightly deranged doctors seek to understand the plagues that ravage the land. Some whisper that the researchers there spend as much time creating new diseases as they do curing them, but such claims are, of course, entirely unproven. (Mostly because the people who ask too many questions tend to "mysteriously contract" something lethal.)

And should her vast network of healers and scholars fail to keep the realm in good health, Caraianna has other methods to enforce well-being—or at the very least, make those who disrupt her perfect vision of public health wish they were never born.

The Eta-02 "Drake Lords." Now, a woman of reason and science would normally not require a battalion of shapeshifting dragons and domesticated wyverns to enforce her rule. But Caraianna is no mere woman—she is a force of nature, a storm wrapped in silken robes, a physician with the power to both heal and obliterate. Commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Draco Flarion, this aerial armada swoops through the skies, ensuring that health violations are met with swift, draconic justice. Imagine, if you will, a plague doctor descending from the heavens atop a fire-breathing beast, shouting about improper sanitation. Terrifying.

And should the cold hand of pestilence refuse to release its grip on the land, Caraianna unleashes the Tau-02 "Jotunheim Army." Under the command of Brigadier General Olaf Schneeman, this frost-bitten force of towering Jotuns, Snow Golems, and glacial warriors descends upon outbreaks like a winter storm of divine retribution. Infected villages do not merely quarantine—they are encased in ice, frozen in time until the sickness passes, or until someone figures out how to defrost them without causing excessive property damage.

With Light Magic, she illuminates the darkest corners of disease, banishing plagues with a single touch—or blinding skeptics into obedience. With Water Magic, she purifies, cleanses, and ensures that no germ, no pestilence, no filth dares linger where she has decreed cleanliness. And with Air Magic, she wields the very breath of life itself, snatching it away from those foolish enough to speak ill of her methods.

Caraianna does not merely administer health—she dictates it, enforces it, and, when necessary, delivers it from the backs of dragons or the fists of frost giants. And should anyone dare question her doctrine of absolute wellness, they will find themselves either cured, frozen, or utterly incinerated for non-compliance.

Such is the mercy of the Grand Duchess of Health.