While Albion was calm, its people feasted and celebrated, and they didn't worry under the protection of the Goddess Rhongomyniad, Arthuria Pendragon.
The rest of the world wasn't as calm. They didn't have a powerful god to protect them, no powerful knights willing to fight for them, no noble king who would do anything to uplift them.
And the people of the world knew it.
They had seen aliens, they had seen gods, and they had seen the incompetence of their own leaders.
Of their own laws.
Take the USA as an example: the leaders there had been willing to kill millions out of fear, and now it caused others to be both afraid and angry.
Because who would stop them next time?
It was only thanks to Tony Stark that New York was spared—but would he be able to save them next time?
All around the world, people started to question the current system.
"So I say, my dear friends, that we lean into this fear, this doubt, and replace the current system with another that will benefit us even more." Jason Wyngarde, one of the two White Rooks of the Hellfire Club, said gleefully.
Emma Frost, the White Queen, sighed at his words. "I understand that you are eager, but the current situation is dangerous."
"Indeed. With more and more of those foul mutants everywhere, the world is getting far too dangerous—and to think they put mutants on this new Illuminati; it's disgusting." Donald Pierce, a Black Rook, spat.
His disgust toward mutants was no secret, and he did nothing to hide it.
It was ironic that almost the entire Hellfire Club was made up of mutants, and the fool had no idea at all.
Yet, even a fool like him had his uses, which is why he was among them.
"Never mind the mutants. What is really a problem is how this will affect business. Already, we lost everything we invested in the UK—hundreds of billions gone in an instant." Harry Leland, the Black King and corporate heavyweight, complained.
He was someone who worshipped money, someone who believed wealth was might, so to him, the things Arthuria had done were anathema.
To deprive people of their property like that… it was worse than torture.
A snort rang out from the white side of the large table, from one of the White Bishops. "Please. Don't treat us as fools. That little stunt cost the global economy trillions, and given how much you had invested in the UK, I wager you lost at least a good handful yourself."
"Don't remind me!" Leland slammed his fist down on the table. "I know how much I lost, and it's far too much. So what are we going to do about it? Surely we aren't just going to sit back and let that bitch of a woman do as she wants!"
His outburst caused various reactions from the others. Some merely rolled their eyes, some smirked at his misfortune, and others sighed helplessly.
"It isn't that we don't want to teach her a lesson," one of the older members spoke first, his voice calm and measured, fingers steepled together as he leaned back in his chair, "but that doing so is going to be immensely difficult—and just not worth it."
"Indeed. While the money lost is painful, we must balance that with the cost of recovery," another added, adjusting his cufflinks with practiced ease.
"And the price would be far too high—unless you know some secret to deal with Arthuria and her knights."
That last comment was accompanied by a faint, challenging glance down the table.
Leland fumed silently, his jaw tightening. His hands curled against the armrests of his chair, nails biting into polished wood. He knew they were right—damn them for it. Even those Enforcement Knights she conjured so casually were monsters on the battlefield. That was precisely why he had come to the Club. Alone, he had no chance.
"And honestly, there are just better things to spend our time on right now. Those lost assets aren't going to disappear; they can be recovered later, and there are already people working on it from the inside."
The speaker waved a dismissive hand, as if Albion itself were merely a temporary inconvenience.
Now it was Leland's turn to snort. "Those so-called British elites? They are trying to stir up trouble and recover their losses, but who doesn't know they're dancing to the tune played inside Camelot?"
"Indeed," another voice agreed smoothly. "They are idiots who think their king nothing more than a brute, not realizing that sometimes a leader only needs to be powerful enough—and then they can employ capable people."
"The Veiled Hand," someone said thoughtfully. "Those girls from the Red Room, they are indeed good."
"Didn't you have a hand in the Red Room?" another asked, a sharp edge of amusement creeping into their tone. "I bet you're annoyed you lost them."
"A small loss," came the reply, cool and unbothered, "one that can be—and is—being recovered from."
"Enough."
The White Queen finally spoke.
Her voice cut cleanly through the room, cold and precise. She hadn't raised it—but the effect was immediate.
"Unless you have something important to discuss, be quiet. Some of us have better things to do than listen to you all whine about your losses."
"She is right," another member said after a brief pause. "While Albion—as they call it now—is a problem, it is one that is difficult to deal with. So we should focus on more imminent problems. Those are both more important and easier to deal with."
"The Illuminati," someone said flatly.
"Correct. That little group is going to be problematic."
"They aren't the only problem," another added, leaning forward. "All those riots around the world—the people have whipped themselves into a frenzy after that alien invasion."
"For once," someone muttered, almost amused, "it wasn't any of us pushing them into a frenzy."
"There is no reason for anyone to do it," another replied calmly. "The alien invasion alone is impossible to ignore. It makes them feel small, insignificant, and they suddenly start to question everything."
"A dangerous thing indeed," a deeper voice rumbled. "The masses have a power of their own when they go wild—like a fire consuming everything at random."
"We should still do something," someone said, unease creeping into their tone. "If they tear down the system, we will lose our ability to benefit from it."
To that, the others nodded.
The Hellfire Club had spent centuries shaping the modern world in silence. Laws, elections, economies—nothing moved without their influence. They were the hidden architects of civilization itself.
And now, that structure was cracking.
"Do we have to?" someone asked, sounding almost bored.
There it was—the divide.
Some feared collapse. Others saw opportunity.
"We should," another answered after a pause, "but it will be difficult… the masses are dangerously close to reaching critical mass, past the point of no return."
"Yes, thank you very much, we understand what it means when they reach critical," someone snapped.
"Oh, really? Color me surprised," came the dry reply. "I explained it for your sake."
"Enough, you two," another interjected sharply. "We should focus on what matters."
"The mutants," Donald Pierce, the Black Rook, said at last. His mechanical fingers tapped softly against the table. "They are getting ahead of themselves."
"What is far more important," someone countered, "is the Illuminati. We all understand that, I trust?"
"I concur," another said slowly. "The Illuminati is troublesome—but also an opportunity. If we could take it over… we would become more powerful than ever. Free from wasting time shaping a world order we can exploit, and instead rule it as we want."
"Not wrong," came the cautious reply, "but the chance that we can do that isn't big. Don't forget that behind it stands Arthuria—and that one of the seats is taken up by the Ancient One."
"Who is never going to bother with her seat?" someone scoffed. "I say we send someone to take that seat. They wouldn't know if it was truly that woman or someone else."
As the words settled, the speaker's gaze slid—deliberately, provocatively—toward the seat of the Black Queen, who hadn't said a single word all night.
The figure was clad in deep shadows, making it all but impossible to see their true form, yet there was no doubt about their identity.
That power, that dark malice—only a single person had that.
The Black Queen, the oldest living member of the Club and the most powerful, wasn't the King simply because she never intended to take on that role.
But her word was law, simply because when she spoke, none dared to question her out of fear.
She was someone who could make problems go away—someone who didn't fear flipping the board entirely.
The dark witch, Selene Gallio.
(End of chapter)
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