Chapter 26. Chaos and Resistance.
Kingdom of Altaras. Capital: Le-Brias
After the death of Governor Shok, chaos swept over the Kingdom of Altaras like a storm. The subordinates of the late governor, no longer restrained by discipline, turned into gangs of marauders and murderers. The capital, Le-Brias—once a grand city with cobblestone streets and shimmering palace spires—descended into anarchy. At night, houses burned, thick black smoke covering the sky, blotting out even the stars. By day, the streets were filled with screams and sobbing.
Young women and girls were taken away to an unknown fate, leaving their families in inconsolable grief. Men, fearing for their lives, groveled before the occupiers, knowing that even a single word against them could mean disaster.
Rial, a former captain of the royal guard, knew that this wasn't just random chaos. This was the systematic destruction of Altaras—as a state, as a culture, as a home for thousands of people. He walked through the filthy streets of the capital, sticking to the shadows of soot-stained buildings. His dusty cloak blended into the surrounding darkness, and his hood concealed his face.
Through the sound of rain drumming on the rooftops, he heard a scream—sharp, filled with pain and desperation. He stopped. Instincts honed through years of service made him tense up. Pressing himself against a wall, barely breathing, he cautiously peeked around the corner.
In a narrow alley, where puddles mixed with mud and blood, three Parpaldian soldiers stood. Their black-and-red uniforms were stained with dirt, but the sergeant's epaulets gleamed, marking him as the superior. In front of them stood a woman. Her hair clung to her face from the rain, and her eyes were red from crying. She was holding a little girl, no older than five, who was sobbing uncontrollably, clutching her mother.
"You dare to resist?" The sergeant's voice was sharp and cold, like the edge of a knife. "Your brat is suspected of setting fire to a barn. She's coming with us."
"Please," the woman begged, her voice trembling as she tightened her grip on the child. "That's impossible. She's been with me all day. We never left our home!"
The sergeant took a step forward, his face twisting in anger.
"Shut up, wretch. You think I care about your excuses?" He yanked the girl from her arms.
The child screamed for her mother, but the soldier, roughly handing the girl to his comrade, turned back to the woman.
"On your knees, filth!" he barked before striking her across the back with the flat of his sword.
She collapsed to her knees, her frail shoulders trembling, but her eyes never left her daughter.
Rial could wait no longer. His body moved on its own. His dagger was in his hand before he even realized it. He lunged forward, closing the distance between himself and the first soldier in seconds.
The blade slid silently into the imperial soldier's throat before he could even cry out. His body went limp, but Rial was already upon the sergeant. The man heard the footsteps and managed to turn, drawing his sword just in time. A fierce clash erupted between them.
Steel rang in time with the rain. The sergeant's strikes were powerful but clumsy. Rial, trained in dueling, weaved through the attacks, dodging each reckless swing. One of the sergeant's wild slashes grazed his shoulder, slicing through his cloak.
"Who the hell are you, bastard?!" the sergeant snarled, raising his sword for another blow.
Rial didn't answer. Instead, he feinted, forcing his opponent to overextend, and then drove his dagger straight into the man's throat. The sergeant let out a gurgled gasp, clutching at his bleeding neck as he collapsed.
The last soldier fumbled to draw his sword, his trembling hands betraying his fear. Rial dispatched him with a single precise thrust to the chest.
When it was over, he turned to the woman. She was kneeling, holding her daughter close. The girl had stopped screaming but was still shaking.
"Can you walk?" he asked, crouching beside her.
The woman looked up at him, gratitude and terror filling her eyes.
"I... I think so," she whispered. "Thank you… You saved us."
"It's not safe here. Follow me," he said simply, rising to his feet.
Resistance Headquarters. Underground Shelter
Rial led the woman and her daughter to a hidden refuge. It was a small chamber with a low ceiling, its rough stone walls giving it a cold, unwelcoming feel. Magical crystals embedded in the walls emitted a faint bluish glow.
"You're safe here," he told the woman. "Stay with your daughter until things settle down."
She nodded silently, still clutching the child tightly.
Rial stepped toward the central table, where a map of the city lay covered in resistance markings. His lieutenant was already waiting for him.
"Captain," the man began. "Negotiations with the Russian Federation are complete. They've agreed to assist us."
Rial tensed.
"When does the operation begin?"
"In a week. All resistance cells have confirmed readiness."
Rial's fingers traced the marked locations of the Parpaldian bases on the map.
"Good. Send word to everyone—be prepared. In one week, those bastards will learn what true resistance means."
The lieutenant gave a short nod and left. Rial remained alone. Staring at the map, he muttered to himself:
"This is our chance. And I won't let it slip away."
One Week Later. Kingdom of Altaras. Northeastern Region.
Dragon Rider Avis soared through the sky, seated firmly in the saddle of his Lord Wyvern, scanning the horizon with a sharp, practiced gaze. Like the other patrols, he had been ordered to monitor any activity in the northeast—where rumors hinted that the enemy might attempt a breakthrough.
Below him stretched a grim, forested coastline, its darkened shores contrasting starkly with the gray morning mist. Further out, scattered clusters of boats bobbed on the water—desperate citizens trying to flee the kingdom, now consumed by chaos.
Avis had been commanded to put an end to such escapes—ruthlessly. Until now, he hadn't felt the slightest trace of guilt as his wyvern's flames engulfed those who sought to flee. But this morning, in the biting cold air, his thoughts felt heavier, sluggish.
Then, through the thick veil of gray clouds, something unusual caught his eye. Low in the sky—far below the usual flight paths of other wyverns—something metallic flickered, reflecting light like polished steel.
What the hell…?
Tugging at the reins, Avis guided his wyvern into a steep descent, narrowing his eyes as he lifted the visor of his helmet. Through the breaks in the clouds, he saw them—massive warships, clad in unyielding gray armor. Unlike anything he had ever encountered before. Their decks bristled with monstrous cannons, all aimed toward the coastline.
His stomach dropped.
"No… How did they get here?!"
Frantically, his hand scrambled for the manacom crystal, desperate to send a warning.
"This is Avi..."
He never finished.
The sky split apart with a deafening explosion.
One of the warships had fired, its 130mm anti-aircraft gun roaring as shrapnel tore through the sky. Red-hot fragments ripped into the wyvern's body—piercing its thick scales, severing its mighty wings. The beast never even managed a scream. Its wings flailed uselessly before its colossal form plummeted from the heavens, leaving a crimson trail in its wake.
The remains of the once-proud dragon rider and his majestic beast slammed into the forest below, shattering trees with a thunderous crash.
Hidel is the flagship of the Parpaldi Fleet, a 50-gun ship-of-the-line.
Captain Darth watched the unfolding situation with growing unease. The sudden cut-off of Avis transmission sent a cold shiver down his spine. He had a terrible feeling about this. But he didn't have time to dwell on it—an urgent cry from the lookout shattered the tense silence.
"Captain! Enemy vessel dead ahead! It's maintaining high speed and closing in fast!"
Darth instantly grabbed his spyglass and aimed it at the horizon. Through the lens, a massive seaborne fortress came into view, its flag billowing in the wind.
The Russian tricolor.
His throat went dry.
"All hands to battle stations!" he barked, swallowing hard. His usual commanding voice wavered for the first time.
"Reform the fleet!" he continued, forcing authority back into his tone. "Signal operator, relay to all ships—prepare for combat!"
"Aye, sir!" the young officer acknowledged, hurriedly transmitting the order through the network of signal flags.
The Parpaldian fleet adjusted course, scrambling into formation for an intercept. The magical stones powering their engines—the Tears of the Wind God—hummed louder, as if the ships themselves sensed the approaching storm.
"Enemy flagship identified—Russian colors confirmed!" the lookout shouted.
Darth spat on the deck, fury flashing across his face.
"Damn it… What the hell are they doing here?!"
And then, all hell broke loose.
"Enemy ship is firing!"
The thunderous roar of a naval gun tore through the air—heavy, deafening, like a storm breaking over the sea.
A massive shell streaked across the sky and smashed into the hull of a nearby Parpaldian warship. The explosion was instantaneous. A shockwave rippled outward, making Hidel tremble, its crew grasping at the railings to stay upright.
"Direct hit on the powder magazine!" the lookout screamed in terror. "Abandon ship!"
Darth barely had time to react before a column of fire erupted beside him, roaring into the sky like a demon unleashed.
The stricken ship detonated with such force that debris was sent hurtling for dozens of meters. Then, like a chain reaction, the rest of the fleet followed—one by one, Parpaldian vessels were torn apart, reduced to blazing wrecks in mere moments.
Darth stood frozen, his face pale as the grim reality sank in.
His entire fleet—gone. Obliterated in the blink of an eye.
And on the horizon, only one ship remained—an unshaken steel behemoth, the Russian naval fortress. Smoke still curled from its guns.
The Kingdom of Altaras. The Hyperion military camp of the Parpaldin Empire.
General Varn stood atop a hill, gazing down at the heart of Altaras. From this vantage point, he could see the kingdom's main port and a portion of its cityscape. The grand lines of its architecture, a testament to a once-glorious past, now seemed almost ironic against the backdrop of foreign occupation.
Shifting his focus, Varn turned to his officers, who were gathered in a circle around a large wooden table. A detailed map of the region lay sprawled before them, illuminated by the midday sun.
"In the Kingdom of Fenn, our forces suffered a devastating defeat," he stated coldly, his tone sending a wave of tension through the group. "Tell me, gentlemen—why do you think this happened?"
The officers exchanged uneasy glances. After a brief silence, one of them, a tall man with sharp features and a well-groomed blond mustache, stepped forward.
"This defeat remains shrouded in mystery, General," he said firmly, though a flicker of doubt could be seen in his eyes. "However, I refuse to believe such an outcome was possible. For the enemy to triumph over our forces, they would have to surpass us not only in numbers but in capability as well."
Varn studied the officer for a moment before turning his gaze to the rest of the group.
"Could it be," he continued, his voice carrying a dark undertone, "that our dear civilized friends had a hand in this outcome?"
Silence gripped the camp. A junior officer, his face drained of color, hesitated before whispering:
"You… you believe it was Mu, General?"
Varn tightened his grip around the goblet in his hand, his expression darkening.
"And yet, the facts speak for themselves. They were the first to recognize that uncivilized, barbaric nation as an equal to us. That has never happened before. It could very well be part of their grand strategy."
"But, General, that would be impossible," another officer interjected, waving his hand dismissively as if trying to dispel the thought itself. "Altaras is closer to our Empire than Fenn. Mu wouldn't dare engage us directly without taking a significant risk."
Varn's expression soured. He took a slow breath, then raised his goblet, admiring the deep red liquid within as he spoke:
"Nothing soothes my nerves quite like our hundred-gun ships of the line. The pride of our Empire… and His Imperial Majesty."
As if on cue, the officers turned their eyes toward the harbor. There, an imposing fleet of warships lay anchored, their massive hulls bobbing gently with the tide. Towering masts, adorned with countless sails, stood as a testament to the unshakable might of the Parpaldian Empire.
But the moment of quiet admiration was short-lived.
One of the officers narrowed his eyes at something unusual aboard the flagship Spaar. Passing his spyglass to the general, he pointed at the distant ship, where tiny figures scurried about like a disturbed anthill.
"What's going on over there?" he asked, concern creeping into his voice.
Varn raised the spyglass to his eye, but before he could discern the details—
Boom.
A blinding flash consumed Spaar. A thunderous explosion ripped through the air, shaking the ground beneath them. Officers reeled back in shock as a towering fireball engulfed the flagship.
Seconds later, the inferno spread to a nearby eighty-gun warship, tearing it apart in a fiery blast.
"Enemy attack!" Varn roared, barely regaining his composure. "All units, secure the port! Arm yourselves! Quickly!"
The camp erupted into chaos as soldiers scrambled to their positions. The order to defend had been given, but panic spread faster than discipline could take hold. Within minutes, the entire Parpaldian fleet in the harbor was reduced to smoldering wreckage.
And then, the worst began.
The sky trembled with the roar of engines.
Descending like birds of prey, Russian MiG-35 fighter-bombers unleashed hell upon the camp. Precision strikes obliterated ammunition depots and supply caches. One explosion followed another, turning the once-organized encampment into an inferno of destruction.
"Air raid! It's their aircraft! Mu is attacking us! Take cover!" a soldier screamed.
Varn lay sprawled on the ground, his mind reeling from the shockwave of a nearby detonation. He tried to rise, but before he could react—
Boom.
A final explosion consumed the command post, sealing the fate of the Parpaldian occupation.
Meanwhile, Russian destroyers Nashtoichivy and Besstrashny finished off any remaining enemy vessels before cutting off the port completely. Within an hour, the majority of the Parpaldian forces had been annihilated. Those who survived were left without ammunition, supplies, or morale.
As the signal was given, Altarasian resistance fighters launched a full-scale assault on the scattered remnants of the occupation force.
The streets of the city became a battlefield. The clash of steel, the crack of muskets, and the cries of the wounded filled the air. Fueled by righteous fury, the Altarasians struck with relentless force, tearing through the demoralized invaders like a raging flood.
After five grueling hours, the Parpaldian army had no choice but to retreat, abandoning their dead and their shattered encampment.
Altaras was free.
Celebrations erupted in the streets. People cheered, their voices ringing through the city:
"Long live Altaras! Long live freedom!"
This victory marked a turning point in Altaras' fight for independence—a new era had begun for the once-subjugated nation.
Fillades Continent. Parpaldian Empire. Vassal Duchy of Kooze.
In the shadow of a massive stone overhang, hidden deep within the mountains of Kooze, Haki found a brief moment of respite. His hands, covered in dust and tiny shards of magical ore, trembled from exhaustion, and his breathing was uneven. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a manacom—a small magical device designed to transmit sound and occasional visual images—and activated it, hoping to momentarily distract himself from the harsh reality of his life.
A familiar announcer's voice crackled through the manacom, followed by the boisterous tones of a loud advertisement:
"Hey, take a guess—how old do you think this countess is?"
"Hmm… twenty-nine?" a second voice responded, slightly hesitant.
"Ahaha! No, my friend! This countess is already sixty-nine years old!" The first voice was now filled with laughter, almost teasing. "And all thanks to the new spell from life mage Candy Van Dale! Get your hands on Van Dale's signature lotion at any alchemical shop! A legendary spell in a bottle will grant your skin a youthful glow—"
Haki grimaced. He had heard this ad so many times it made him sick. But suddenly, the transmission was interrupted, replaced by the stern voice of a female news anchor:
"We interrupt this program with breaking news… The Kingdom of Altaras, once occupied by the Parpaldian Empire, has been liberated by resistance forces and has restored its sovereignty. It is believed that the Russian Federation may have played a role in this event—"
Haki froze. A jolt shot through him, and his heart pounded violently beneath his ribs. The news of Altaras's liberation struck him like a bolt of lightning, shaking him to his core. Memories he had spent years trying to suppress suddenly surged to the surface. He recalled the years of humiliation, fear, and rage that had consumed his homeland. He remembered how the families of his friends, neighbors, and comrades were torn apart, how his beloved kingdom was reduced to nothing more than a staging ground for the Parpaldians, its people enslaved under the iron grip of the Empire.
Then, in his mind's ear, he heard the voice of the King of Altaras—words spoken in desperation but filled with unwavering conviction:
"Parpaldia is not invincible! Rise up and fight for your freedom!"
Those words ignited something deep within Haki—a fury that had never truly faded. Rage coursed through his veins like raw magical energy, burning to be unleashed. He knew that this was his chance, his moment. If Altaras could rise and win, then so could he.
Haki pushed himself to his feet, his fists clenching so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Strength surged back into his weary body, as if his very being was feeding off his anger. His eyes burned with a newfound determination.
"It's time to act…" he muttered under his breath, glancing down at the manacom, which still crackled faintly with the fading voice of the news anchor.
He knew that he couldn't do this alone. He needed to gather those who still had fight left in them—the ones who had not yet broken, the ones who still believed in the possibility of resistance, the ones willing to take up arms and risk their lives for freedom.
His mind raced, formulating his next move. Among the miners and laborers of the Kooze Duchy, there were always those who despised the occupation but had never dared to act. Now, Haki saw his purpose clearly: to become the spark that would ignite the flames of rebellion. He thought back to the people he could reach—the old allies, the warriors who had once fought for Kooze before the duchy fell under the Empire's boot.
Parpaldian Empire. Capital City of Eshtirant. Imperial Mansion of Remille.
Warm steam filled the spacious marble bathroom, every detail radiating luxury. Remille leaned her head back with a satisfied sigh, quietly humming a simple tune to herself. Her skin glistened with moisture, the air thick with the scent of rare oils. She slowly traced her fingers over the water's surface before submerging herself once more, savoring every second of relaxation.
"Soon, Eshtirant will be the capital of the world."
The thought flitted through her mind, bringing a pleased smile to her lips. She envisioned the empire's future in all its glory—its triumph, its dominance over the rest of the world. It was only a matter of time.
Remille slowly rose from the bath, stretching lazily before slipping into a soft robe of the finest cream-colored silk. The lightweight garment, adorned with delicate lace trim at the sleeves, a high waistline, and a subtle train, barely concealed her slender frame. She cast a glance at her reflection in the mirror. Young, beautiful, powerful. All of it—her. Imperial blood coursed through her veins, and she felt destined for greatness.
Just as she settled onto her wide bed, its silk sheets cool against her skin, a sharp chime pierced the quiet—a sound from the manacom on her wrist, now designed as an elegant bracelet. The sudden interruption shattered her tranquility.
"What now?" she muttered irritably, raising her hand to activate the device.
"Your Imperial Highness, this is urgent! Please report to the First Division immediately!" A tense voice crackled through the connection.
Remille narrowed her eyes.
"If this matter isn't pressing enough to warrant disturbing me, I will personally see to it that you lose your head. Am I clear?" Her voice was cold, as sharp as a blade.
"Y-yes, Your Imperial Highness," the voice on the other end stammered, though still laced with formal respect.
With an annoyed flick of her wrist, she deactivated the manacom, shrugging off her light robe before swiftly dressing.
She donned a black dress of dense crêpe silk, perfectly tailored to her form. The high waistline and flowing, floor-length skirt created a silhouette that was both severe and elegant. The sleeves, voluminous at the shoulders, tapered down into fitted cuffs adorned with fine black lace. A row of small, pearl-inlaid black buttons ran down the bodice, accentuating her shape, while a subtle sweetheart neckline left her neck exposed.
She stepped out of her chambers, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive perfume—and the unmistakable chill of her presence.
The First Division was located within the fortified sector of the palace, a place accessible only to the select few. Massive doors adorned with intricate engravings reinforced the importance of this chamber. Remille strode forward, her heels echoing sharply against the marble floor.
Upon entering, she was met with tense gazes from those assembled. The room was filled with high-ranking military officers, diplomats, and intelligence officials.
"Begin. And this had better be important," she said coldly, taking her seat at the head of the long table.
One of the officers, an older man with graying hair and a uniform decorated with numerous medals, stepped forward.
"Your Imperial Highness, we have received intelligence that could shift the balance of power on Fillades."
"Spare me the suspense, General," Remille tapped her fingers impatiently against the table.
"Altaras. The kingdom that was once under our control has reclaimed its independence—with the backing of an external power... the Russian Federation."
Silence filled the room. Remille's face remained composed, but her eyes narrowed like sharpened blades.
"The Russian Federation?" she repeated, her voice laced with icy disdain. "And how exactly did this peripheral state dare to interfere in our affairs?"
"We lack full details for now, but all indications suggest they have provided military aid to Altaras. Their actions appear to be a direct challenge to our supremacy."
Remille rose to her feet, her cloak sweeping behind her like the wings of a predatory bird.
"Altaras. That insignificant insect dares to buzz in defiance of the Empire. And now this barbaric alliance from afar seeks to sink its claws into our lands?"
Her gaze swept over the gathered officials, making each one feel the weight of her authority.
"Do we have countermeasures in place?" Her voice was cold, sharp as the winter wind.
"Yes, Your Highness. We have devised several strategies. One of them involves immediate mobilization and reinforcement of our vassal territories."
"Proceed," she ordered curtly. "But I want Altaras crushed so thoroughly that no one else even considers following their example."
With that, Remille turned and left the chamber, leaving the gathered officials to execute her commands. Her mind was focused. The Empire had been challenged, and she would ensure that Parpaldia remained the dominant force on Fillades.
Stepping onto the balcony, she gazed down at the sprawling city before her. From this height, it looked just as grand and untouchable as she herself.
"Soon, Esthirant will truly become the capital of worlds," she whispered, tightening her grip on the balcony railing. "And no one will stand in my way."
Forty minutes later.
First Division of Foreign Affairs, His Imperial Majesty's Government.
Inside the office of First Division Chief Elto, an oppressive silence filled the air. The atmosphere was heavy, and the faces of the officials standing before the desk were pale and tense, as if they were attending their own funeral.
Remille entered with an air of casual menace, her gaze sweeping over the room. Without waiting for an invitation, she seated herself at Elto's massive desk. Her sharp, piercing eyes immediately caught sight of the stack of parchment resting atop its polished surface.
"Your Imperial Highness, please review this report..." Elto began, struggling to keep his voice steady, though the tremor in his tone betrayed him.
Remille took the papers, flipping through them at a deliberate pace, her irritation evident in the way she handled them. Her eyes scanned the opening lines, and her expression darkened. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line, and the fingers gripping the documents trembled slightly. What she was reading didn't just unsettle her—it infuriated her.
"What the hell is this pile of garbage you've brought me?" she exhaled sharply, her gaze snapping up to Elto like a blade heated to white-hot intensity.
Her voice grew louder and harsher with every second:
"How did we suffer a defeat at the hands of some barbaric, uncivilized nation? HOW?!" Remille slammed her fist against the desk. "Do you even understand what this means for the integrity of our Empire?! It took us years to crush the uprisings in the vassal states, and now you're showing me this?!"
Crushing the report in her hand, she hurled it against the wall with full force, watching as it slid pitifully to the floor.
"Has your head become a burden, Elto?" Her voice echoed through the chamber.
The First Division Chief opened his mouth to defend himself, but Remille didn't give him the chance.
"Silence! I don't want to hear your pathetic excuses!" she cut him off sharply. "We have always believed our forces to be invincible, and now we've been dragged through the mud! Again! Why are you looking at me like that, Elto?!"
Elto, desperate to explain, managed to stammer:
"Your Imperial Highness, our army remains strong and has never suffered true defeat, but..."
"But what?!" Remille seized on his hesitation, stepping toward him with such intensity that he instinctively took a step back.
"The barbarians… they used aerial units, similar to Mu's aircraft. They struck our positions from the skies…"
Remille stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes narrowed.
"Aerial units?"
"Yes, Your Imperial Highness," Elto swallowed hard. "We suspect Mu may have transferred technology—or even fully operational aircraft—to the Russian Federation. That would explain their advantage. It's possible Mu is supporting Russia by providing them with access to advanced military assets."
For a moment, the Empress was silent. Her gaze drifted toward the window, though her thoughts were clearly occupied with strategic calculations.
"That explains a great deal…" she murmured, slowly turning back to the others. "Their arrogance. The unwarranted confidence of those barbarian envoys…"
She considered the implications before issuing a decisive order:
"Summon the Mu ambassador. I want to know just how deep their game goes."
"Understood, Your Imperial Highness," Elto responded quietly, doing his best to suppress any sign of emotion.
The moment Remille left the office, the First Division Chief wasted no time dismissing the remaining officials. Once alone, he exhaled deeply, realizing that this was only the beginning of the coming storm.
Meanwhile, Remille strode through the corridors of the Imperial Palace, her fury still simmering beneath the surface. Her mind was already running through possible responses—ranging from diplomatic threats to outright displays of military force. She knew that an insult to the Empire's reputation could not go unanswered.
"If they think they can humiliate Parpaldia," she thought, clenching her fists, "then they are about to learn the cost of their greatest mistake."
The grand doors to her private office swung shut behind her as she stormed to her desk.
Lord Kaios's mansion was steeped in a somber magnificence: heavy velvet curtains draped the windows, the dim glow of candelabras cast soft shadows, and the flicker of the fireplace danced across the room. The lord himself, clad in an elegant yet practical housecoat, sat at a massive oak table, lazily puffing on a cigarillo. His gaze was fixed on a letter he had just received from a servant.
"Bring it here," he tossed out curtly, not bothering to glance at the attendant.
The servant, bowing his head in submission, handed over the letter and, with another bow, silently withdrew.
Kaios carefully broke the wax seal, unfolded the thick parchment, and skimmed the text with swift precision. As he read, his thin lips curled into a smile, though his eyes remained cold and piercing, like those of a predator.
The message revealed that the Kingdom of Altaras, once a vassal of the Empire, had broken free. The news stirred a mix of emotions: on one hand, unease at the inevitable unrest it would spark among other vassal states; on the other, a strange sense of satisfaction. The concern wasn't personal; unlike most high-ranking officials of Parpaldia, Kaios had long believed the Empire had overreached in its arrogance and greed.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a thick plume of tobacco smoke.
"Oh, Remille, Remille…" he muttered under his breath, his lips twisting into a half-smile laced with sarcasm and weariness.
The young empress had once been promising and sharp-witted, but over the years, she had morphed into an arrogant, ruthless tyrant, blind to the realities of the modern world. Her decision to declare genocide against the Russians was a move Kaios deemed sheer madness. Russia wasn't just another barbaric land from the so-called Uncivilized Territories, as the Empire labeled them. It was a great power, capable of obliterating not only Parpaldia but the entire Philades continent.
He rose from his chair and approached the bar, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. Glass in hand, he walked to the window, gazing out at the nocturnal expanse of Esthirant. Despite the late hour, the city shimmered with lights, buzzing like a hive teeming with life. Yet beneath this façade of grandeur, cracks were deepening.
Kaios understood his duty was to preserve the Empire's integrity, to stave off the collapse he now saw as increasingly inevitable. He had long since stopped believing in the foolish slogans about "Esthirant's grand destiny." Instead, he placed his faith in cold calculation and strategy.
"Well then," he said softly, as if speaking to himself, "if no one will stop this decaying regime, I suppose it falls to me."
He returned to the table, sat down, and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. On it, he began sketching a strategic plan to pull the Empire back from the brink before it was too late. Key points included securing the wealthier regions and opening negotiations with Russia.
Kaios knew there were loyal operatives in the Third Department who could handle delicate missions. The trick was ensuring the Empress never suspected this was his doing.
"My second homeland," he said, as if addressing his past. "I won't let these fools destroy it."
Finishing the letter, Kaios slipped it into an envelope and sealed it with his personal crest. Then he summoned the servant.
"This letter is to be delivered only on my direct orders. No one else."
The servant bowed and departed, leaving Kaios alone in the stillness of his study. The lord leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
"The game has begun," he murmured, a predatory glint flashing in his eyes—one that struck fear into even his boldest enemies.
Imperial Palace. Throne Room.
Ludius the First of Parpaldia listened silently to Elto's report, his face an impenetrable mask, utterly devoid of expression, though within him raged fierce bolts of lightning—a storm of emotions he struggled to contain. Each word spoken by the lord echoed in his soul, urging him toward action, toward a decision that would cement his authority and show everyone who truly held the reins in the Empire. When Elto finally fell silent, Ludius, unable to bear the mounting tension any longer, slammed his fist against the armrest of the throne. The sound of the blow reverberated through the grand hall like a thunderclap, bouncing off the towering walls.
"This is unforgivable!" he roared, his voice booming like a tempest, leaving no doubt of its power.
"You must bring the Kingdom of Altaras back under control and crush any resistance—down to the slightest whisper! Leave no stone unturned! Your hesitations and pleas to preserve their so-called *pride* will spell disaster for us and disgrace for you! Stop mocking the Empire with this hypocrisy! Act ruthlessly and with lightning speed—enough of our mercy! Finish what must be finished, leaving not even a sliver of a chance for their power to survive! Deploy every resource at your disposal and teach a vivid lesson to all the other vassals. The Empire strikes swiftly and without mercy."
The words that burst from the emperor's lips resounded through the hall. Ludius fixed his gaze on Elto, his eyes brimming with such strength and certainty that the lord hardly dared to offer a rebuttal.
Rising to his feet, Elto dropped to one knee, bowing his head.
"It shall be done, *Your Imperial Majesty," the lord replied, his voice brief but thick with resolve, not daring to meet his sovereign's eyes.
The emperor rose from his throne and, stepping to the side, pointed toward the exit with a commanding gesture.
"Go… don't make me say it twice."
Lord Elto, standing in reverent silence, nodded and swiftly left the hall, shielding his face from the emperor's piercing stare. Ludius remained where he stood, lost in deep thought. He knew this was a pivotal moment, where every step, every choice, carried weighty consequences. But in his heart, there was no room for doubt: Altaras would be reclaimed, and anyone bold enough to stand in the Empire's way would feel the full force of its wrath.