Raging Phoenix: Part Ten

Raging Phoenix: Part Ten

The Capital of the Holy Rolandish Empire was known by many names. In everyday Adamic conversation, it was simply referred to as the Capital, while ’City of Roland’ was the term that appeared most frequently in official documents. However, each Chaotian language boasted his version of the name: Roanpunkt in Jankee, Lysfarvel in Startongue, Sankt-Rolandburg in Sootspoke, Halo-Sur-Détroit in Auxerine, El Crisantemo in Sardinian, Strălucirea in Nixie, Seamróg in Woodtongue, Shamrock in High Woodtongue, Rolándopolis in Korinthian, and, finally, the Marians called it—Rola.

That being said, calling the Capital a city was a euphemism because its nature went beyond that limiting definition.

It all began thousands of years before the birth of our Hero Roland, when Adam ascended to the Spiritual World, leaving behind his children. Without the strong hand of a patriarch to keep the family united, it didn’t take long for them to divide, and in the scrumble, the Chaotic Gods secured control of a large portion of the flock, leading them northward in a legendary voyage through turbulent waters, threatening weather, and abyssal monsters. After more than three years of sailing, the Progenitors finally soaked their feet in the sands of the land promised by the gods. More precisely, the three peninsulas that formed the Trinity Strait.

Although the deities had promised them a Garden of Eden, what the First Chaotians found instead was an environment hostile to nearly all forms of life—a pestilent swamp on the southern peninsula, a rocky terrain plagued by volcanic eruptions on the Island of Man, and a dense haunted forest inhabited by man-eating monsters in the north. Nevertheless, the Chaotic Gods had a grand project in mind, envisioned ever since learning of their father’s demise, and such setbacks were not enough to deter their ambition. The gods imposed relentless twenty-four-hour shifts on their laborers, forcing these unfortunate souls to reclaim their birthright with no regard for any consequences. And so, in just a couple of centuries—at the modest cost of reducing the Progenitor population by 90%—these three strips of land were finally suitable for human life.

At their tips, three cities were erected, each surviving the many cataclysms that had plagued the continent for thousands of years, and now, in the Year of Our Hero Roland 1996, they stood more prosperous than ever before. However, all three had long since become parts of a single entity.

On the southern peninsula, which connected the Capital to Cisarpine Chaotia, rose the city of Ashura—the most populated of the three. From above, one could rarely spot a patch of green or any empty space in that dense cluster of buildings, all inhabited by families with incomes ranging from very low to lower-middle. Most of them worked in steel behemoths, industrial hyper-complexes whose smoke darkened the sky and whose output surpassed the GDP of entire Fiefdoms—the engine of the ’HRE.’ The economic gravity of such a title had long attracted those in search of opportunity, permanently reshaping the city’s landscape. At the tip of the peninsula, one could still admire the historic city center, its stone buildings stood untouched since the Dark Century. Surrounding this core were terraced houses, built to accommodate the first wave of immigrants during the Second Magical-Industrial Revolution, and although centuries had passed, these homes still appeared well-kept—especially when compared to the structures that came after. The truth was that the more the city’s economy grew, the greater the influx of immigrants was, and each new wave pushed the city’s expansion further south, steadily decreasing the overall quality of life—the farther one lived from the center, the dirtier the streets became—and in the outermost districts, Ashura had effectively turned into a shantytown. However, there is always light in the darkness, and due to its unique makeup, it was often said that along Ashura’s countless roads, there was a neighborhood for every ethnicity in the Empire, and, more recently, even beyond.

On the western peninsula, which connected the Capital to the fertile, wealthy, and cutting-edge Island of Man, rose the city of Azhura. Despite its location being named after the White Chrysanthemum, the city was almost entirely inhabited by the very beings Emperor Mario I despised the most—Starfolks. So dominant was their presence, so pervasive their influence, and so hegemonic was their culture that some dared to claim Azhura was the true capital of the Queendom of Constellation, and in classic Starfolk fashion, they had warmly welcomed the stereotype. The city hosted the headquarters of all major banks, corporations, and investment funds, each nestled among the hundreds of glass-and-steel towers that pierced the skyline. So immense was the capital that passed through those skyscrapers each day that it was said that even the world’s entire gold reserve wouldn’t be enough to cover a tenth of its wealth. That being said, the island’s indigenous population still thrived, living in huge manors on the city’s borders and producing high-quality wine and food—delicacies destined for the tables of the colonizers living above them.

On the northern peninsula, which connected the Capital to Transarpine Chaotia, rose the city of Anhura—the largest of the three. Also known as Suburbia, it wasn’t truly a single city but rather a union of thirty-seven villages sharing a joint administration, and while Ashura’s streets were filled with the lower classes and Azhura’s skyscrapers housed the top 1%, this vast expanse of flatlands and green hills was home to the middle class. After their twelve-hour shifts, the residents returned to spacious houses feautring large gardens and private pools, nestled in gated neighborhoods. In short, Anhura offered the best services for families, with elite academies to secure a bright future for their children, and for those simply seeking a stress-free life, with unspoiled forests perfect for weekend fishing trips or monster hunts.

Altogether, these three cities accounted for 99% of the Capital in terms of size, population, infrastructure, monuments, and nearly every other metric. And yet, none of them was the first thing that came to mind when a Rolandish citizen thought of the City of Roland. The subject of every postcard, every panorama, and every painting was always the lone piece of land at the heart of the Trinity Strait—the Twilight Madness.

Founded by the Twilight Queen herself after the deaths of all her brothers and sisters, this artificial island was built upon the corpses of thousands of fools who had dared to oppose her ascension as the sole ruler of Chaotia—although some historians speculate that these ’traitors’ may have actually been Kaiju who had migrated en masse toward Chaotia and were ultimately defeated by her.

Scattered across its surface, dozens of volcanic-glass formations—known simply as Twilight Petals—rose from the ground in irregular positions, sizes, and shapes. Wide at the base and tapering toward the top, they reached heights rivaling the Starfolk skyscrapers, and positioned side by side, they formed concentric circular walls that extended across the entire island—the largest near the shore and the smallest at the center. The first time Hero Roland flew over the island on his Bald Griffin—Veillantif—he claimed that the petals of the Twilight Madness, seen together from the sky, made the whole island resemble an enormous, shining chrysanthemum.

As the sun set, some of its rays became trapped within the intricate crystalline structure of the Twilight Petals, refracting so erratically that the first observers believed the light had gone mad in its desperate attempt to escape, naming the phenomenon—the Madness at Twilight. Once the sun passed its duties to the three moons, the light remained though calmer than before, casting a soft and greenish glow across the island. Each night, this ethereal luminescence filled each petal of the Chrysanthemum, bathing the streets of the three cities in a mysterious atmosphere. At dawn, the light faded, as if the flower were returning to its original owner so it could resume its ancient task—the sun had never set in the City of Roland.

That being said, the Twilight Madness wasn’t merely a gigantic lighthouse. Between its petals, there were strips of land wide enough to be inhabited by a few thousand people known as—the Twilight Intermezzos. In total, there were thirty-seven of them, but the innermost Intermezzo had remained inaccessible since the death of the Twilight Queen, forever hiding her palace, her riches, and her secrets.

The twelve outermost Intermezzos were the only ones accessible to the public. Mostly filled with hotels for tourists eager to visit the institutions of the ’HRE’ and relax on beaches of dark-green sand that shimmered at night—a vacation at Twilight Madness was considered a must for all HRE citizens.

The twelve central Intermezzos were technically off-limits to the public, hosting government departments, military headquarters, and various embassy complexes. During the Twilight Age, however, their purpose was far less noble. They were used to house the Queen’s livestock, and that’s why so many buildings still bore unflattering names. For example, the Parliament of the Holy Rolandish Empire was still called—the Pigpen.

The final twelve Intermezzos made up the Emperor’s private residence. They included a botanical garden filled with species extinct for millions of years, a vast field for horseback riding, and the official palace of the Imperial Family—The Dollhouse. A force-fed choice since the Twilight’s End was closed together with the Last Intermezzo.

Together, the three cities—Ashura, Azhura, and Anhura—the thirty-six accessible Twilight Intermezzos of Twilight Madness, and the bridge that connected them all formed the Capital of the Holy Rolandish Empire—the city of the world’s desire.

***

Inside a large auditorium located in one of the poorest districts of the city of Ashura, thousands of children sat haphazardly on red-cloth seats far too large for them. The side walls were adorned with murals that created a striking juxtaposition against the theater’s elegance, depicting soldiers, griffins, bombs, gas, and blood, each in a different shade of gray and in sharp contrast to the colorful details blooming within those cold scenes—flowers, handshakes, warm family moments, and the miracle of new life.

The orphans of the Fall of Bloodmarch in that theater ranged from eight to twelve years old, an age known for its everlasting curiosity craved by such young minds, although rarely from academic study. Yet, none of their eyes could detach from the man seated on the stage, surrounded by their professors. His appearance fit the environment perfectly, as if he were truly a character from the very story he was reading—a modern retelling of a mythological tale.

“…And Roland, furious at Mario’s kidnapping, roared his battle cry—‘It’s Hero time!’—and heroed his way to the final battle against the Twilight Queen.”

He wore a white suit—a classic model yet modern-looking—with a golden tie embroidered with a three-headed phoenix. It was the typical outfit of a politician from a small town, promising miners he had and still fought for their interests, but the deceitful image his clothes suggested was misleading. He had a large, imposing build and a towering height, complemented by sharp facial features rarely seen outside a military compound, radiating authority. However, the true centerpiece was his hair, as golden as the most obnoxious Von Sternenstaub but as curly and mossy as the most undisciplined Barbarian. It extended seamlessly into a thick beard, forming a unified golden mane that gave him the aura of a forgotten philosopher—the kind that hadn’t been seen since the fall of the Shurapatri.

”Excuse me, I have a question.” A young girl seated in the back rows raised her hand—her gaze sharper and more mature than that of the other children—interrupting the storyteller.

”Please, share your thoughts with us…Miss?” The man’s voice was as powerful as a Mandrakian cannon, yet as warm as a caring father.

”My name is Termez. I just find it strange that when Stella, the woman he loved, was kidnapped, Roland acted very rationally, taking his time to refine a plan. But when the Queen took Mario, he rushed mindlessly into the enemy’s den. Isn’t that an inconsistent behavior?” Despite her sincere tone, the girl’s question was met with glares and muttered jeers from the class bullies. Still, she ignored them, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the man who had embedded two beautiful diamonds in his eyes.

”Well…context is everything. The two moments you described happened years apart. Also, keep in mind that Stella von Sternenstaub was a Class S, while Mario was either a Soulful or a Class F, tell me, who do you think deserved more help?” The girl felt somewhat unsatisfied, but she accepted his answer as logical. ”Now, let’s continue with the last cha—”

Just as he reached for the book again, heavy thuds echoed through the hall, heralding the arrival of a fully armored man—not in modern woven one, but in true plate armor, each piece forged from crude Mana by one of the few remaining smiths still capable of practicing that long-forgotten art. Despite his seemingly calm demeanor and the air of dominance surrounding him, urgency radiated from every movement as he strode into the room and leaned in to whisper something into the speaker’s ear.

”His Holiness, the Marquis Ælfgifu III Rougedior has been kidnapped.” The Emperor of the Holy Rolandish Empire, AAA-Class ’Immortal Berserk’ Julius III Rolandsson, had a déjà vu—it wasn't first time he had heard that exact sentence. So, his next reaction was to stare bewilderly into the eyes of the old man standing before him, the head of the Kaiserliche Garde, the Lord of all Knights—SS-Class ’World’s End Paladin' Herritter Matthias Vitéz.’

He was the oldest living Essentia—112 years old—yet, the only part of his body that showed his age was his face—graying hair, an old-fashioned mustache, and wrinkles that outnumbered his scars—while the rest was a perfectly fit physique, now trembling with anticipation for the battle to come. “Are you joking…right?” The old knight had never been a jester, his harsh gaze crushing the Emperor’s hopes. However, His Holiness could not leave yet, and with a gesture of his hand, he dismissed Herritter Matthias, finishing the last chapter of his ancestor’s story. Fortunately, none of the children suspected anything—except Termez. With a single glance at the Emperor’s now ambiguous expression, the young girl had a feeling her class would soon be welcoming new students.

Although the children’s loud cheers begged the Emperor for more stories, he regretfully informed their teachers that all following activities were to be canceled due to an unspecified emergency, and without further delay, he rushed outside, escorted by the 'World’s End Paladin' to a Hycar waiting for him. As befitted someone of his stature, the vehicle was among the most expensive and advanced available—a Freistraße Series 37. Its ceramic-woven chassis was built to withstand explosions, with high ground clearance for off-road traversal and a hybrid magical-combustion engine coupled with waterproof tires for amphibious mobility—projected to be ambush-proof. Nevertheless, the Hydraulic Carriage was flanked by armored vehicles on all sides and guarded from above by patrolling Griffin Knights.

Once over on the Tyrannosaurus-leather seats, the Emperor cleared his mind with a cup of coffee brewed by the embedded Di Mario Espresso machine, and after draining the cup and releasing a long sigh, he forced himself to face His Holiness’s Most Close Circle—abbreviated as 'HHMCC,- occasionally shortened to 'HMC,' and, though technically incorrect, commonly referred to as the Synod.

”I beg Your Holiness to accept our deepest apologies for interrupting an event of such emotional significance. However, it is imperative that our Head of State is informed of the most serious breach of national security in nearly a decade.” Julius III solemnly nodded to his Chief of Staff, Lipsia Von Unheil. She was a woman in her sixties, exuding the elegance, professionalism, and resourcefulness needed for a woman of her position. More remarkable still, she was Soulful—a rarity in a society dominated by Essentias. ”This morning, at precisely 2:11 a.m., the corpse of a student was discovered inside Miraval Academy.” She handed him a thick folder containing photos and detailed reports. Yet, the Emperor closed it after merely glancing at the first image.

”Disgusting. But I thought she had been kidnapped, not killed,” Julius III asked, confused.

”The victim in those photos is CC-Class ’Solstice’ Ysoline Sévériné, daughter of the Baron of La Rochè. A friend who, the day before her murder, had requested a private meeting with the Marquis at 11 p.m. of yesterday.” Mrs. Von Unheil reported, showing her Emperor a copy of that request, which sported both the signature of the Vice-Principal and the academy’s stamping that had passed the Atomic Autopsy.

”I understand,” the ’Immortal Berserk’ sighed, pulling the golden curls of his beard. ”Mrs. Rousseau, prepare a letter of condolence to the family immediately.”

”Unfortunately, that’s not possible at the moment. Since we’ve been extremely fortunate in that one regard.' DD-Class ’Underrated Format’ Press Secretary Josephine Rousseau’s fingers danced across multiple [Emails], open in dozens of [Windows] floating around her, as she issued orders to prepare the state-owned media for the approaching earthquake. ”Aside from a few select people, no one is yet aware of the kidnapping. This gives us a window of opportunity to craft a consistent strategy before the first rumors reach the media.” Although Miss Rousseau was the same age as Mrs. Von Unheil, her being an Essentia made her look thirty years younger than her Soulful counterpart.

”What a mess. So, to summarize—a group of pirates violated our security systems, killed a student, and kidnapped the Marquise De La March...ahem…HOW?!” Despite the harshness of his tone, the Emperor wasn’t an idiot, perfectly understanding who was truly behind everything. Still, such a level of negligence from the Miraval Family was unacceptable. Lipsia, however, was unable to offer a solid theory, but confirmed the growing consensus about the existence of a traitor within Miraval Academy. ”At the very least, the search for the girl is progressing, right? Please, tell me there’s still hope of finding her?” Both women grimaced, their eyes low, and so Julius III turned his gaze toward the third member of the ’HMC’ seated in the Hycar, who had remained silent until that moment.

”Despite the Pacific Archipelago comprising hundreds of thousands of islands, there are certain checkpoints they’ll have to pass through sooner or later to reach Korinth. They’re now under constant patrol—undersea included. Still, more than twelve hours have passed since the body was found, and despite not enough to give up, it’s a sufficient amount of time to prepare for the worst,” the man stated calmly, his voice muted behind a Leper Mask.

Leprosy was a dangerous illness that afflicted only Essentias. It corrupted the restorative function of [HP], twisting the body into grotesque forms beyond recognition, and those afflicted were nicknamed Human Uncannies. However, with the aid of a Leper Mask, the corruption could be circumscribed to the face, and thanks to an outer layer of Programmable Mercury, the mask could reshape itself to mirror the user’s current facial expression—guessed after an analysis of the Essentia’s Radiation. Yet the system was primitive, often translating emotions into exaggerated caricatures—more suitable to satirical comics than a human face.

”My personal advice is to act as naively as possible in public, while preparing our counterstrike in the shadows.” The decentralization of the Holy Rolandish Empire had long been plagued by ineffective collaboration among its regional agencies, and to address this fundamental issue, many Emperors had gradually established an increasing number of supranational institutions to enforce standardized guidelines across the many fiefdoms—the so-called Imperial Agencies. However, such unchecked power soon bred corruption, and to contain it, a supreme oversight body loyal only to the Emperor was created, tasked with monitoring and restraining the other agencies, fighting the enemy within—the Staatssicherheitsbehörde, commonly known as the Stasi. The masked man standing before Julius III had led the Stasi for over two decades—FF-Class ’Idiosyncratic Spider’ Dorian Delüge. ”Hier, mein Kaiser.”

The Emperor took the folder stamped with the phrase—STRENG GEHEIM—and sighed as he read the horrific title written on the first page. ”I won’t be remembered by history as the fool who declared a damn war inside his Hycar.” He closed the folder with a powerful snap. ”We’ll continue this discussion at the Dollhouse. Now, silence—I need to think.”

The Hycar had absolute priority over the Hydroway Queue, and within minutes, the convoy was already crossing the bridge that connected Ashura to the Twilight Madness. From the window, the ’Immortal Berserker’ admired the skyline of Azhura, marveling at its magnificence not only from an aesthetic standpoint but also from a philosophical one. These towers were not built to satisfy the egos of monarchs or gods, but from the wealth of citizens who had earned it through their own pursuit of success. Among the hundreds of steel-and-glass skyscrapers, three stood out above the rest—identical in shape, height, and design, all connected by a bridged platform perfectly equidistant from one another. They were the indisputable center of world trade, where the futures of entire nations and their people were gambled by the hands of a few, and for that reason, some dared to call it the real capital of the Holy Rolandish Empire.

Their very existence jeopardized the core principle that legitimized the Emperor’s rule. A living testament to the idea that individuals did not need the protection of a state or the morals of a religion to build a civilization—all they needed was their willpower. However, Julius III had a different opinion.

There’s a reason those towers are so tall. They fear the one thing they cannot own—my people. It’s true that I need their wealth to sustain a healthy economy, but with a little sacrifice, I can survive without those parasites—they cannot. And they know perfectly well that with a single word, I could reduce those towers of steel, concrete, and glass to ash. The Emperor beamed at the thought, an expression that alone unsettled the two women sitting beside him. Unlike Dorian, whose mask twisted into a grotesque grin, completely understanding his liege’s heart.

***

Due to how closely the various petals stood to one another, the Intermezzos were long but narrow, forcing the only road connecting them all to be as slim as possible. As a result, only public transportation was allowed on the islands, but the Emperor, of course, had his fair share of privileges.

As he gazed out the window, all he could see was a dark-green crystal towering, towering hundreds of meters above his head. But soon, near the top of that wall, a building appeared, and on its balcony, people stood, saluting their Emperor. The deeper the Hycar moved into the Intermezzo, the more structures came into view, until both Twilight Petals flanking the vehicle were completely dotted with thousands of raised hands—two entire cities built vertically.

”My children, I bless you all in the name of the Holy Trinity.” After opening a trapdoor on the roof of his Hycar, His Holiness rose from his seat to make the Sign of the Trinity—his thumb to trace a circle over his mouth, his index finger over his forehead, and his ring finger over his heart. The hundreds of people lining the road and the thousands on the balconies above silently mimicked the gesture before erupting into unified cheers. ”May Adam save the Holy Rolandish Empire and its citizens.” Although witnessing the Tricar of Adam wasn’t rare for a citizen of the Capital, the Twilight Madness was mostly filled with tourists. Armeds, Cobras, Drownedfolk, and all the other ethnicities from across this multicultural Empire stood in awe, admiring the only thing that united them all under a single banner.

However, amid the jubilation, the crowd’s mass hysteria confused a little girl, who accidentally let her ball slip from her arms. It rolled out into the street, and, innocently, she followed it, walking straight into the middle of the road.

*HONK!* *HONK!* *HONK!* The piercing sound of a klaxon and her mother’s panicked screams failed to catch her attention, as the blinding headlights of the convoy seemed to hypnotize her.

*Splash!* But just a millisecond before impact, vapor erupted from one of the many holes beneath the glass street, enveloping the girl. The lead vehicle crashed into the water bubble and was deflected to the right, shattering like an egg against a building—the girl unharmed and the convoy continued his travel without stopping.

”Educate your child!” An angry bystander yelled at the mother, who, in shock and embarrassment, slapped her daughter for her reckless behavior—she cried.

Her life was saved by the system governing the road network, which operated at nearly the speed of light. It registered the moment the ball bounced onto the road, tracked when the girl stepped after it, and, after calculating both her speed and that of the convoy, simulated a scenario where she failed to evacuate in time, activating its safety measures as soon it occurred—since its introduction, no tragedy has ever tarnished the reputation of the Centralized Hydro-Harmonized.

***

After twenty minutes of zigzagging through the Intermezzos of the Twilight Madness, the convoy reached the Emperor’s residence. Like most of the island’s buildings, it made use of the petals, using one as its rear wall. Hence, the Dollhouse was vertical in design, with three apartment-sized rooms per floor and twelve floors in total, each featuring large arched balconies, from which the Twilight Queen’s most precious slaves would put a show of themselves for her guests—the Twilight Dolls.

Back in the Twilight Age, when a special time came, all noble families in Chaotia were scrutinized for twelve years, and the Scions of the chosen lineages were then forced to conceive a daughter through a unique ritual. Once born, these girls underwent another twelve years of rigorous screening, where only the most exceptional ones were ultimately chosen, and at the age of twelve, these young ladies were forced to bid a final farewell to their families, traveling to the place where they would spend the rest of their lives—the Dollhouse. There, they were shaped into perfect beings through twelve more years of training, until, on their twenty-fourth birthday, the Twilight Dolls were forced to fight one another in a deadly tournament, where the lady left standing in the blood of her sisters earned the ultimate ’honor’—death, so that her body could serve as the vessel for the next reincarnation of the 'Twilight Queen.'

The building featured an attic once reserved for the Doll of the Month. Each month, the girl who distinguished herself most was rewarded by living with the 'Twilight Queen' for the following month. However, after Hero Roland killed her, the attic was repurposed as the personal office of the Emperor—history itself had been written within those walls.

There were no stairs inside the building, only an elevator operated by a hulking humanoid through a rope-driven system. These beings, known as Golems, were perhaps the earliest example of automation in history, continuously working 36/12H and requiring only a daily recharge of Mana. Yet, no scientist had ever succeeded in fully understanding the arcane magic behind them because their existence was rooted in something humanity had long since lost—the blessing of the Chaotic Gods.

While human magic had become a form of science—logical, structured, and, most importantly, replicable—Chaotic Magic defied understanding, untranslatable in human terms. A good analogy would be trying to draw a perfect circle using only straight lines. With the help of modern technology, one might draw lines so small and numerous that they appear curved to the human eye, but it’s humiliating the fact that it took humanity nearly two thousand years just to scrape the bottom of the barrel of the Queen’s power.

In front of the Oval Attic, two Golems blocked the door with imposing lances, but was just a facade for the actual security system—a barrier of invisible mana that no one in history had ever been able to violate. However, at the sight of His Holiness, the living statues saluted him while lowering the lances as the barrier disappeared.

The Emperor’s office featured something truly unique—a ceiling made of Euralian Marble. As black as the darkest night, its white veins shimmered like the brightest stars, weaving together to form the face of a beautiful woman, which was believed to be the true visage of the Twilight Queen. Needless to say, no modern technology had ever been able to replicate Euralian Black and Euralian White.

Julius III sat at his stone desk, shaped like the sacrificial altar of an ancient temple, and placed the declaration of war upon it. “Does anyone here have a good reason to send millions of my subjects to die?” He asked, pulling his golden curls.

”Refusing to attack will decrease your popularity with the army, the Marcher nobility, and—due to the young age of the victim—the vast majority of parents. We shouldn’t alienate our core base…also,” Mrs. Rousseau calmly explained as she presented a letter from Chancellor von Sternenstaub, which listed all the arguments in favor of the conflict.

”Does my brother-in-law expect me to obey like a good dog without even facing me first?!” The Emperor blurted as he opened one of the desk drawers, incinerating the letter with the unquenchable flame burning inside.

”Münzemessermarterrittert Von Sternenstaub is currently busy in Sternenhavn, raising the Star Fleet in preparation for the war. Therefore, a government delegation is en route to discuss the strategy.” Mrs. Von Unheil took a deep breath. ”If war is truly inevitable, His Holiness ought to be firm in his decision because the slightest delay may increase our casualties.” Just as she finished speaking, a knock at the door drew everyone’s attention.

”Speak of Mario, and Mandrake appears. Let them in,” the Emperor’s words dispelled the barrier, and three men in elegant suits entered the office.

”His Holiness.” The three men saluted their sovereign, dropping to their knees. They were among the most powerful figures in the Empire:

In the center stood CCC-Class ’Sound Wave’ Søren Hammarskjöld, Minister of the Interior, sported platinum hair, a slender frame, and a symmetrical, featureless face—the classic racial features of the Moonfolks.

To his left, DD-Class ’Gold Fever’ Jonas Welf, Minister of the Economy, wore red-round glasses that veiled his icy eyes and exalted his malicious smirk.

To the right stood A-Class ’Last Survivor’ Dimitry Yazov, Minister of War, whose expression was one of irritation, uncomfortable without his military uniform.

Now, facing the Emperor in that room were nine people. The three members of the ’HHMCC’ were on his right, the three Ministers on his left, and Herritter Matthias overhead, hidden together with two Emperor’s bodyguards against the black ceiling, ready to strike at the first sign of trouble.

”Oh, welcome, my loyal subjects. Just one question before we begin—who authorized Afledt’s holiday?” The three men whispered nervously among themselves as the Emperor cast a murdeous glare in their direction, exerting as much pressure as possible.

”Me.” A crystalline voice—as sweet as the Bluegale’s birdsong—sliced through the room, escorted by a ray of light purer and clearer than anything this world had ever known—not even Euralian White could stand a chance. Standing at the door of the Oval Attic was the very reason eyes had been created in the first place—the Queen of Constellation, S-Class ’Falling Star’ Najmine III Von Sternenstaub.

”Who is speaking to me now? My beloved wife, or the Münzemessermarterrittert’s sister? Shall I remind you, the mother of my children, that Chad and Bradamanthe are now dangerously close to the Eleutherian Republic?” Julius III’s tone left no room for tenderness. As his behavior made clear, Julius III hated his wife. He had long forgotten why he had married her in the first place, and this resentment was the main reason he had accepted the marriage proposal from his Lawfullian counterpart—his son deserved to be freed from that shining cage.

”I’m speaking as the Queen of Constellation to my Emperor for the sake of my subjects—we shall not let them strike first.” Her light shifted, focusing on her husband with such intensity that it forced his [HP] to restore his retina.

”Twelve years ago, I signed a similar document, and the result was millions of pointless deaths. Shall the life of a single girl be worth such a price?” The ’Immortal Berserker’ had never fully understood the unwritten rules of political life, but he knew his wife understood them better than anyone else in the room and that trusting her judgment was always the safest choice. However, he was sitting on the Throne of Chaos.

”My Emperor, if I may offer my thoughts,” said his Chief of Staff, and the Emperor gave her a brief nod.

”Behind every casus belli lies a long and complex process, where the relationship between two nations slowly deteriorates, and, like a stick bent under pressure, sooner or later, it will break—it’s inevitable. We may achieve peace for now, but that won’t stop the Korinthians, and next time will be even worse.”

”So be it. Can I at least see the plan first?” Minister Yazov laid out three maps on the Emperor’s desk—one of the Great Dune, one of the Great Valley, and one of the Great Canyon.

”Our enemy’s possible objectives are three. The least likely is an invasion of the Pacific Archipelago. Doing so would put them in conflict with neutral forces such as the Free City of Maria, the Evernightmere Kingdom, and the Miraval Family.” The ’Last Survivor’ pointed as the second map. ”Likewise, La Rochè and the Great Canyon are, by all means, inexpugnable. That being said, the enemy may still send a token force to those regions to stretch our frontlines.” The Sootish general straightened his back and steeled his tone. ”Hence, the most probable target is the Elvish Ruins. If they fall to the hands of the enemy, the entirety of Oldmarch could fall within weeks. A defense-in-depth strategy, though dishonorable, is our only option—let the desert’s attrition dry down Korinthian manpower.”

”If this must be done, I propose we write to Zavagrad and ask them to rally an army,” the Emperor said flatly, resolved to do his duty. Yet his words cast a shadow over the room.

”We are all in agreement on the strategy. However, several additional issues require your attention.” Søren placed three dossiers on the desk—Analysis Report: ’Imperfect Winter,’ Intelligence Bulletin: ’Sealt Migration,’ and Situational Awareness Report: ’Highlander Succession.’

”My Emperor…may I ask you to open the blue folder?” The ’Sound Wave’ mumbled, awkwardly adjusting his tie as Julius III sighed, but complied. ”The agriculture of the Emerald Lands remains heavily reliant on archaic methods, despite the availability of modern technology. This has long been justified by three main factors—the region’s naturally fertile soil, underdeveloped infrastructure that has hindered any attempt at modernization, and the millions of citizens who depend on small, family-run farms for survival.” He paused, clearing his throat before delivering the news. ”Until now, these excuses were enough to delay serious discussion and action. But this morning, our meteorologists have officially announced that the coming Imperfect Winter will be the harshest of the century. If we proceed with conscripting the Sootish farmers to support the war effort, we risk triggering a famine—one that our experts believe could starve half the Empire.” The Minister of the Interior lowered his gaze. ”Further details and projections are outlined in the report.”

The Emperor blinked in disbelief, then glanced Dorian, who nodded. ”Am I to believe the Eleutheria Republic just happened to be that lucky?!” Julius III barked. ”I want every last mole to be put on a Hydrochair by tomorrow, and their families they’ll either turn in their graves or be stripped of every possession.”

”Already done, Mein Kaiser,” Dorian replied, his mercury mask contorting into a grotesque leer. ”I deeply regret the information leak. If only I held more authority over the Imperial Agencies, I would have purged the rot before this national embarrassment could surface. But…” He turned to Søren, whose head bowed under the weight of guilt. ”My hands remain tied.”

”That would require a vote from the Pigpen, but rest assured, they will hear your complaints.” His Holiness announced. ”As for the Archeolords, they should be enough to survive the first engagement.”

”My Emperor…” Minister Hammarskjöld muttered. Julius III frowned at him.

“What now?”

“A Sealtish Gate has opened, and the Archeolords will be busy clearing as many dungeons as possible to prevent a far larger catastrophe.” Once again, the Emperor glanced at Dorian, who nodded.

“How much time?”

“If we’re lucky, and everything goes according to plan…thirty-seven years.”

Julius III slammed his fist on the stonish desk. “Can anyone here give me a good news?”

“May I speak?” Minister Welf, flashing his malicious smirk, didn’t wait for the Emperor’s approval. “Firstly, the industrialized economy of the Imperial Circle of the Auxark Lake has secured for us several vital resources, and while their manpower may be modest in size, the logistical expertise of their Class D will be critical for our logistics. Secondly, although the new administration of the Popular Peasant Republic is unlikely to offer direct support, Compañero Urjilio has confirmed his unwillingness to exploit this emergency to settle their old grievances with the Cobras or the Suzerains, allowing them to freely join our war effort. And lastly...” he stopped to adjust his red-round glasses. “...I have successfully persuaded the Aries Bank to finance our campaign, as long as we stick with the cautious aforementioned strategy.”

The Emperor exhaled in relief. ”Now that we’ve touched on the subject—how much will this war cost?”

”Should we emit war bonds, promising gifts, public events, and private dinners with our Majesty and his beautiful wife to the most patriotic investors? Should we encourage citizens to donate their old tools, reducing the overall cost of the new equipment while incentivizing them to purchase new tools, growing our economy? Should the war be kept under a year of length? Should all of this occur, our expenses would be under 4% of our GDP.” The ’Golden Fever’ illustrated.

”Could be worse…I guess. What about seeking assistance from the Evernightmere Kingdom? Or why not the Free City of Maria?” The Emperor proposed, prompting visible disgust from Press Secretary Rousseau.

”Your Holiness, in my humble opinion, we ought not to give any leverage to King Cornelius and his schizoid apocalyptic cult. We shan’t send the message that the Empire needs traitors to survive.”

”Shall I let thousands die just because you don’t like his newspaper?”

”The Nixie have always been the number one problem for the HRE, since the days of Roland and Nagoe. Now that they’ve allied with our other major internal threat—the Marians—they’re more dangerous than ever. A few more deaths are nothing compared to what that deranged man could do,” she bellowed, venom overflowing in her tone.

”So it’s settled. Now, what alternatives do we have left? The Jankees, Highlanders, and Outerlanders marching straight into the desert? Eheh!” Although meant as a joke, Julius III’s words only deepened the despair in the room.

”My Emperor…” the 'Sound Wave' began, entering the most challenging part of the conversation. ”Our reliance on water transport has drastically reduced investment in land infrastructure, such as roads, and marching millions of soldiers would certainly provoke unrest among the local populations. However…that’s not the main issue.” Søren glanced at the ’Idiosyncratic Spider,’ who nodded.

”Your Majesty, please open the Situational Awareness Report and read the first page.” The Emperor complied, flipping open the green dossier and finding a profile of a fourteen-year-old boy. ”FFF-Class ’Clown’ Connor MacMalley…that surname…wait a minute, I’ve seen this kid before.”

”Indeed you have, Your Holiness. He is the Scion of the Highlands.” A shiver ran down Julius III’s spine as he looked at Dorian, who nodded. ”Our analysts concur that the internal opposition in the High Kingdom will seize the opportunity presented by our war to advance their agenda—a civil war is all but inevitable.”

The Emperor had now entered the denial phase. ”I know he’s a Class F, but my brother Reinhard is a Class S, and I am still the Emperor. Stability over strength—that was the lesson of the Dark Century, wasn’t it?”

”A Class F inheriting a Successor State has never happened before,” Søren coldly reminded. ”And worse, there is a legal point supporting the internal opposition. The constitution of the ’Highlands’—the Alta Carta—is written like a poem, and to preserve its metrical pattern, the word ’worthy’ was put before the word ’successor’—no one has ever used that word on a Class F.”

”I’m still bound by honor,” Julius III replied, his tone firm. ”His ancestor fought beside Hero Roland. We must support him, no matter the cost.”

”Mein Kaiser…” For the first time, Direktor Delüge spoke. ”The high mobility of the Highlander Knights, their mastery of guerrilla warfare in such harsh terrain, and the likely support from both the Republic and the Admiralty…all point to a single conclusion—we will never recover the Highlands. The wisest course is to let them resolve their internal conflict and legitimize whoever emerges victorious. All for the sake of our national unity.”

Julius III clenched his jaw. Then, he entered the bargaining phase. “Does this Connor have a brother?”

”He has a sister,” Minister Yazov replied.

”Perfect!” Julius III exclaimed out of joy as he took pen and paper from a shelf. ”By the authority vested in me by the Holy Trinity, I hereby declare her the Scion of the…” He paused. ”Wait…what’s the girl’s name?”

An awkward silence followed. Everyone hesitantly looked at one another until Mrs. Rousseau finally spoke. “His Holiness…she is a girl.”

”It’s even worse.” Mrs. Unheil delivered the final blow to his hope.

After a few blinks of incredulity, the Immortal Berserker roared—”Everyone out!” The depression phase had hit hard. ”I will read all the dossiers myself, and only then will I inform you of my decision.” His subjects obeyed immediately, offering respectful bows before going out of the room—all except the ’Falling Star.’

She lingered at the door, trying to meet her husband’s eyes. Diamonds that had once conquered her heart but were now the source of wounds that would never heal.

”You too, Mrs. Von Sternenstaub.”

The title stung deeper than any slur. Her light dimmed, and she turned away, leaving her husband utterly alone.

Julius III let his exhausted body slump against the desk, his hot forehead resting on the cold stone, and his face pointed toward the window. The towering Twilight Petals blocked the view of his own city, and at times, Julius III felt like a prisoner in a gilded cage, and worse, he never truly felt alone in that oval room. His desk, the Queen’s relics on the shelves, the clock embedded in the wall, etc…it was as if all of them had eyes, silently watching and judging his every move. In those moments, he cursed Connor’s books for lying to him. Being Emperor wasn’t about traveling across the continent in search of new adventures, punching villains, and making grand speeches—it was just an everlasting amount of responsibility.

After the death of his infamous father, Julius III had high hopes for his reign, envisioning reforms to lead his nation into a new golden age. However, his initial successes were soon eclipsed by the Fall of Bloodmarch, learning the hard way the true cost of idealism. Each day, mountains of folders piled up on his desk, and each imperial signature was followed by a flood of grim reports detailing the tragedy his decisions had caused, and, slowly, the flame of his youth flickered and dimmed. Eventually, his will broke, and he stopped questioning everything his brother-in-law placed on his desk, approving it without even bothering to look.

The Holy Rolandish Empire didn’t need visionaries—it needed professionals. Nevertheless, the Emperor had never truly stopped fighting. He had simply come to understand that, from his current position, there was nothing he could do about it except one thing---nurturing the Empire’s future. Chad won’t become a degenerate like my father or as miserable as I am. He’ll be our ’Hero.’

As he decided to return to read the reports, he noticed something stuck inside a column next to his windows. ”What?!” This shocked him because no one in history had ever been able to damage anything built during the Twilight Era on the island. Slowly, he took the object out, and when he looked back, there was no sign of damage on the column.

***
ORIGINAL SIN
PRESIDENT
MR. ONE
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