Chapter 71: Glitch Loophole
Clay threw his head back and laughed so loudly that the sound rolled across the broken battlefield like thunder.
"I knew it. I knew it!"
His eyes shone with triumph while he walked forward with far too much pride for a man who had merely abused a defective system.
"Even if I make Maid Cy complete the missions for me, it does not count as an order when I use thoughts."
He slapped his own chest once.
"Because it was your glitch."
He pointed into empty air.
"Your glitch!"
The system remained silent.
Clay’s grin only widened.
"Oh? Nothing to say now?"
No answer came.
He narrowed his eyes.
That silence felt different from ordinary silence. Usually the system argued back, defended itself, made excuses, or attempted to lecture him like a tired old teacher dealing with a troublesome child. This time it gave him nothing.
Not a word.
Not even a complaint.
Clay’s smile slowly thinned.
Interesting.
He could almost feel something behind that quietness. Not anger. Not embarrassment.
Fear.
The thought made him pause.
Afraid of what?
It was certainly not afraid of him. He was clever, yes. Handsome, perhaps. A genius without equal, obviously. But the strange tension he sensed did not come from personal fear.
It felt more like something watching from farther away.
Something larger.
Something that disliked rules being bent.
Clay’s eyes sharpened for a brief moment.
Then he snorted.
If there is something above you, it can wait its turn.
He continued basking in victory while muttering to himself in delight, unaware that everyone around him had begun staring.
Borzoi still knelt with lowered head.
The surviving warriors remained frozen.
Even Cerys looked at him with a strange expression.
Clay was in the middle of laughing again when a cough came from the dimensional crack.
"Ahem."
His face soured instantly.
He turned toward the crack with open irritation.
"What?"
Several figures stood on the other side, their images wavering through the unstable opening. The distant Warchiefs had gathered near the border of the portal, and even the old Shaman leaned forward with uncommon interest.
One of them bowed his head respectfully.
"Young Warchief, if we serve you, will you grant us power like Borzoi received?"
Clay blinked.
Then his eyes brightened.
He turned inward at once.
System.
[Yes.]
If I grant them some of my power, will my own potential decrease?
[Not if the target’s mana capacity remains below the Nascent Mana Soul threshold.]
Clay rubbed his chin.
So I can hand out scraps and lose nothing meaningful.
[That description is crude.]
But accurate.
[Mostly.]
He smiled and looked back toward the crack.
"Yeah."
The answer came so casually that several of them stiffened.
"But only if you do not surpass the Nascent Mana Soul Realm."
Silence spread beyond the crack.
The gathered Warchiefs exchanged glances filled with disappointment.
Even the Shaman looked as if he had swallowed a bitter herb.
For men who commanded tribes and crushed armies, being told they could only receive gifts beneath a certain ceiling was not pleasant.
Clay enjoyed every second of it.
Then another voice spoke quickly.
"What about our younger generation?"
A second followed.
"Our heirs."
"Our bloodlines."
"Our warriors yet to rise."
"Our daughters and sons."
Clay lifted one brow.
Now that interested him more.
Young people were easier to shape, easier to bind, easier to make grateful.
He folded his arms.
"As long as they satisfy me."
The figures beyond the crack straightened immediately.
Clay continued with a calm tone that sounded almost lazy.
"They can solve things for me."
He raised one finger.
"They can do things for me."
A second finger.
"They can keep my peace peaceful."
He nodded to himself.
"That one is important."
The Warchiefs immediately began speaking among themselves.
At first it was low.
Then louder.
Then so intense that even the sound of the battlefield faded behind their discussion.
"We can send our finest youths."
"My clan’s heirs are disciplined."
"My daughters are skilled in medicine."
"My sons can hunt ten beasts alone."
"We have craftsmen."
"We have scouts."
"We have scholars."
"We have singers."
"We have attendants."
"We have women of beauty and men of loyalty."
"We can rebuild roads."
"We can guard borders."
"We can gather treasures."
"We can offer tribute every month."
"We can train armies in his name."
"We can spread word of his glory."
"We can cleanse lands of monsters."
"We can create shrines."
"We can protect his resting place."
"We can send servants."
"We can send cooks."
"We can send bodyguards."
"We can send obedient fools if that is what pleases him."
Clay listened with growing amusement.
One voice rose above the others.
"My tribe swears from this day forward that no decision harmful to Young Warchief shall ever be made."
Another followed.
"My tribe swears that any enemy of Young Warchief shall be enemy of our bloodline."
Another.
"My tribe swears to answer summons without delay."
Then more.
"My tribe swears yearly tribute."
"My tribe swears military support."
"My tribe swears silence regarding sacred matters."
"My tribe swears loyalty of heirs."
"My tribe swears labor."
"My tribe swears devotion."
The old Shaman struck his staff against the ground to silence them.
Then even he bowed.
"The Bersuka faith will recognize the Young Warchief as one blessed beyond tradition. We shall guide all tribes to serve in your favor."
Clay nearly laughed again.
All this because I touched one shoulder.
He stretched lazily.
"Good."
Then he yawned.
"Now let me leave."
The Warchiefs fell silent at once.
"I need rest. Fighting your former Bersuka Tribe Warchief was disappointing."
Several faces tightened with shame.
Clay waved one hand dismissively.
"I expected more."
Then he turned and walked away from the crack as if dismissing kings.
Cerys followed immediately.
Borzoi remained kneeling.
The others did not dare stop him.
Clay took several steps, then halted beside Cerys.
He glanced sideways.
"Maid."
She bowed lightly.
"Yes, Young Master."
"You followed my orders."
Her ears warmed at those words.
"This is my thanks."
Before she could ask what he meant, Clay placed his hand on her shoulder.
The moment his palm touched her, the air around them changed.
Cerys inhaled sharply.
Heat surged through her body in a wave so pure and powerful that her knees almost weakened. It entered through the point of contact and spread everywhere at once, racing through veins, bones, muscles, nerves, and mana paths with frightening speed.
Her eyes widened.
The sensation was not painful.
It was overwhelming.
Every weakness inside her seemed to be dragged into light and reforged.
Her breathing became uneven.
"Young... Master..."
She could barely speak.
Clay kept his hand there casually, as if doing nothing important.
Yet beneath her skin, dark lines began to appear.
At first they were faint marks near the collarbone.
Then they spread.
Elegant patterns crawled down her neck, over her shoulders, across her arms like living ink. They wrapped around her back, circled her waist, descended along her thighs, and climbed upward again in layered symbols that pulsed with mana.
The marks were beautiful.
Ancient.
Dangerous.
Cerys trembled.
She felt stronger with every breath.
Her senses sharpened.
The world grew clearer.
Sounds separated into layers.
Heartbeats became distinct.
The smell of blood, dirt, iron, and distant rain entered her awareness all at once.
Her hidden assassin instincts awakened with terrifying clarity.
More lines formed.
The first set glowed briefly.
Then stabilized.
The second layer emerged above it, more complex, more refined, interlocking with the first like a second skin of power.
Warriors nearby gasped.
Then the third came.
This time the pressure spread outward in a visible pulse. Loose stones rolled away. Dust lifted from the ground. Several exhausted soldiers stumbled backward.
Borzoi’s head snapped upward.
His eyes locked onto Cerys.
"No..."
He rose halfway to his feet in disbelief.
He focused his senses upon the markings covering her body.
First phase.
He knew it instantly.
Then second.
His mouth opened.
Then third.
His hands began to shake.
But it did not stop.
The markings deepened once more, brightening with a fierce inner glow before settling into something stable and complete.
Fourth phase.
Borzoi staggered backward as if struck.
"That..."
His voice cracked.
"That is impossible."
He had never seen such a thing.
The previous Warchief could raise men slowly through years of war, blood rituals, and brutal training.
Clay had done it in moments.
And not to a chosen tribe warrior.
To a maid.
To the servant standing quietly at his side.
Borzoi’s mind reeled.
How generous... no... how terrifying.
If the Young Warchief could casually elevate a maid to a level beyond many elite fighters, then what kind of future awaited those who truly served him?
His heart pounded with renewed devotion.
The old master was dead.
Good.
The new one was greater.
Far greater.
He dropped to one knee again and lowered his head.
I must serve him well.
Meanwhile, Cerys stood frozen.
The final lines upon her skin faded beneath the cloth of her uniform, hidden from sight yet burning inside her like sleeping stars.
Clay removed his hand.
"There."
He sounded mildly satisfied.
"Do not waste it."
Cerys slowly looked at him.
Words failed her.
This man had discovered her secret, used her thoughts, demanded pampering, and now handed her power beyond reason as if gifting a ribbon.
She watched his back as he started walking again.
At last, understanding entered her heart.
I finally realize my job.
She spoke softly into the open air, barely above a whisper.
"My goal is to take care of Young Master."
Her fingers touched the place where his hand had rested.
"To follow his orders."
Her lips curved faintly.
"To pamper him... so he can escape loneliness."
Warmth filled her chest.
She took one step to follow.
Then a loud voice rang from behind.
"Wait!"
Several others joined at once.
"Maid of the Young Warchief!"