"I want to see the Emperor."
Beneath the spacious corridor wide enough for two carriages to ride side by side, in front of a magnificent door sculpted from exquisite redwood, Celicia stared coldly at the two knights standing motionless before her, and repeated in an icy tone:
"I want to see the Emperor."
The towering knights donned heavy armor, their entire bodies void of any hint of life’s vitality, resembling statues. Only an emotionless gaze seeped out through the slits of their visors.
Celicia waited quietly.
Occasionally, palace maids hurried by, offering a curt bow as they passed in a rush.
The patrol schedule had clearly been intensified, with one group turning a corner just as the next emerged from behind. The labyrinth of corridors within the palace now seemed to lack even the smallest blind spot.
The entire royal palace exuded an atmosphere of tension and solemnity, as if a war was on the brink of breaking out, stretching everyone's nerves taut.
And yet, Leopold's nearest enemy should have been the demon clans miles away at the borders.
"Ya! Haha! Onward, horses, onward..."
Shouts of cheers sounded from outside the window.
Celicia glanced downward. In the palace gardens below, a man in his early twenties with a handsome yet unkempt face was riding atop a servant's back, brandishing a blunt-edged blade as if he were a knight charging at the flowing fountain.
A swarm of maids and guards circled nervously nearby, fearful of any accidents. Yet a childlike innocent smile adorned the man’s bearded face.
—That was her eldest brother, the Crown Prince Albert Leopold, a simpleton who had been born with intellectual disabilities.
Within the palace, only he remained blissfully out of place in his joy.
"His Majesty has said, enter."
The knights quickly responded, retracting the crossed halberds that blocked the doorway. The doors swung open automatically.
Within the opulent room, a dignified middle-aged man stood with his hands behind his back, gazing out toward the sunlit city of Belland from the high balcony.
Aldrich III, the true ruler of this nation.
"Father."
Celicia entered the room, lifting her skirt with a respectful curtsy. The vast room was devoid of maids, appearing vacant and cold. Behind her, the doors silently shut.
Aldrich III did not reply, continuing to gaze outward.
The palace was located in the center of Belland, on elevated ground, providing a view of nearly half the city.
Beyond the glittering Golain River below lay the Lower City District, a shadowy sprawl of intertwined and modest dwellings. On the near side, around the palace, stood the Upper City with its orderly rows of architecturally inspired structures, resembling a meticulously curated garden, seemingly forever bathed in sunlight.
Aldrich III enjoyed surveying the city from here. For some scenery, he believed, could only be truly appreciated with one’s own eyes to capture its breathtaking beauty.
This city, for instance: from here, it resembled a grand tree standing under the sun—and its shadow.
The more lush the tree, the larger its shadow.
But for a tree, overly luxuriant foliage might not necessarily be a good thing.
"The air is getting cooler." Suddenly, Aldrich III remarked as if prompted by some unseen stimulus. "Autumn has arrived."
Celicia hesitated briefly. "Father, remember to dress warmly."
"I thought you didn’t care about matters over here anymore."
"The flame of it is licking at my feet; how could I not care?"
She let out a self-deprecating laugh before cutting to the chase.
"So, Father, who exactly is our enemy?"
"Enemy? Heh, ‘enemy’ is not the right word. What we are dealing with this time is not human."
Aldrich III turned to look at the daughter he had not seen for quite a while. His icy blue eyes, so similar to Celicia's, gleamed with a deeper indifference and ruthlessness.
Yet beneath the detached exterior was a flicker of solace.
"Since you’re here, join me in today's council meeting. You've grown so much; it's about time you were exposed to such matters."
"Council meeting..." she murmured, her icy gaze faintly dimming as she repeated the words. Her peripheral vision once again swept across the sparsely adorned yet ornate room.
"Father, isn’t Andrew supposed to be here?"
Andrew Leopold, her second brother. When it came to council meetings, there was no one deemed more suited to have stood by Aldrich III’s side.
"He’s taken leave to escape the heat at a countryside estate."
"Escape the heat..." Celicia’s eyes slightly narrowed. Isn’t it autumn now?
"That boy says his pyrophobia is acting up again and probably won’t return until winter. But never mind, he’s been like that since childhood. As his father, I can’t be overly harsh, can I?" Aldrich III’s tone was strangely casual.
"After all, he’s my only son now."
Aldrich III stepped away from the balcony and poured himself a glass of red wine, the ruby-like gemstone on his ring shining as brilliantly as the liquid in his cup.
A trace of doubt flickered in Celicia’s expression.
"Would you like some? It’s a tribute from the Hill Winery."
"Thank you, Father, but I don’t drink."
"Ah, I almost forgot—you can’t drink." A rare soft chuckle escaped Aldrich III’s cold features, as if he’d remembered something amusing.
Taking a single sip, he set the glass aside. Then, he reached for a large ceremonial robe—crafted from the finest silks and lined with white ermine fur, adorned with golden embroidery and precious gems. He awkwardly attempted to fasten the ornate hooks and decorative tails on his own, a task normally completed by several maids in minutes.
"Damn it. I’ve told the tailors a hundred times to simplify this design. Those tailors, harder to reason with than the nobles; someday, I'll have their heads."
"...Father, shall I help you?"
"I'm not so decrepit that I can’t manage this myself."
After a grueling twenty minutes, Aldrich III finally donned his ceremonial robe. As he stepped toward the room’s exit, he grabbed his sovereign’s scepter—a symbol of supreme authority—and, curiously, the sword laying beside it.
He affixed the sword to his waist, concealing it within the voluminous folds of his cloak-like robe.
"Let’s go. The time is near."
The doors swung open without a sound. Beyond them, knights knelt respectfully in semi-salute.
A maiden hovered nearby, bowed over and holding a copper basin of steaming water with a towel laid atop it.
"Your Majesty, please cleanse your hands."
Aldrich III inclined his head slightly; he had a mild case of obsessive cleanliness and needed to wash his hands frequently. He extended them toward the basin...
Only to halt just as his fingers were about to touch the warm water.
Reflected in the water’s surface, his frigid gaze subtly shifted to one side.
A fleeting trace of derision glimmered in his expression.
His little finger twitched imperceptibly.
In that very instant, a strand of Celicia’s silver-white hair fluttered as if blown by a breeze. The corridor, once serene, was suddenly filled with a biting chill.
*Pop.*
A sound as if a bubble had burst echoed faintly, loud enough to capture attention.
Blood splashed in an arc.
A diminutive figure, hidden until now within the shadows cast by the knights, darted toward Aldrich III faster than even Celicia could perceive. The drawn dagger in its hand...
Plunged into the body of the maid.
Only at that moment did panic and terror appear on the maid’s face. Her quivering hands dislodged the dagger concealed within the towel she carried.
An assassin?
Celicia snapped to attention, gathering an icy chill in her palm—only to fail.
The anti-magic curse enveloping the palace had severed all flows of magic. Here, neither magic nor divine blessings could be activated.
Thus, even the most skilled assassins could only engage in simple and crude methods of stabbing with knives to carry out this sort of assassination.
—But this, undoubtedly, was utterly foolish.
The dagger had been thrust precisely into the maid's vital points, yet she did not die instantly. Instead, she staggered to her feet. The shock and fear on her face receded, replaced by indescribable fervor and savagery.
"The moon is eternal!"
Once more, she lunged toward Aldrich III, empty-handed this time.
"The moon is eternal!"
*Boom!*
The deafening hum of thunder reverberated, sharp enough to prick the ears.
It wasn’t true thunder; it was the halberd slicing through air.
The enormous weapon, weighing over a thousand pounds, swept a flawless arc through the air. But in the hands of the palace knights, it moved as if weightless.
The halberd sliced cleanly into the woman.
What followed was nothing short of grotesque.
Blood mixed with her fanatic proclamation.
The maid's body instantly snapped in two, sickening guts and blood splattering everywhere.
A shimmering light flickered in the short figure's hand, and the transparent shield expanded rapidly, blocking all the splattered filth for Aldrich III and Celicia.
The patrolling guards quickly surrounded the area, snuffing out any possibility of further danger.
Still, the stench of blood and flesh spread uncontrollably.
Aldrich III remained expressionless, he just looked coldly at the maid who was only half a body left, but still writhing and struggling on the ground, crawling towards himself, seemingly wanting to drag himself into hell with her.
"I know you, the maids of honour who change my clothes every day, you are one of them."
"Cackle ...... cackle ...... the Moon ...... is about ...... to descend! ......"
The maid stared at Aldrich III with a malevolent gaze, and while it was clear that her life was gradually dissipating, her mouth was tinged with an incomparably maniacal smile:
"The Kingdom of God ...... will cleanse everything ...... and I ...... will be under the light of the Moon... . eternal life ...... cackle ...... eternal life."
‘"It seems impossible to communicate."
Aldrich III moved his fingers slightly.
The sound of whistling wind resounded once more as the axe and halberd smashed down, completely smashing half of the maid's torso into mush.
The guards swarmed around, cleaning up the remains of the body, wiping the blood, and washing the ground with such proficiency that it looked like they had been rehearsed many times.
In less than a minute, the brand new red carpet was re-laid on the wide corridor, and everything looked as clean as new.
The knight once again stood as still as a statue behind Aldrich III, and after the short figure saluted him, like ink dripping into water, it silently faded into black shadows.
It was as if nothing had happened.
Only the vague smell of blood remained.
"A believer of the Moon?"
Celicia was still cool, but her tone still inadvertently carried a trace of disbelief that she didn't even notice.
"The palace was actually infiltrated by evil believers?"
"Blind faith is the hardest thing to extinguish in this world, isn't it? That's why I hate those clerics."
Aldrich III purified his hands in the copper basin brought up by the new attendant, who trembled, and the basin seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, struggling to keep the water from shaking out of the basin.
"But, why ......"
Everything that had happened in the morning kept replaying in Celicia's mind, and some of the oddities were explained.
But new questions, too, gradually arose in Celicia's mind.
"Are you asking, since those evil believers have the ability to place people around me, why didn't they wait until the critical moment to let them play their role, but blindly let them come to assassinate me like this?"
“Yes,” Celicia nodded lightly.
If you think about it carefully, it’s obvious. In a place like the royal palace, those most likely to be brainwashed or infiltrated by heretical cultists are predominantly the lowest-ranking maids or guards.
But even these people, as long as they are used properly, can play unexpected roles at critical moments.
No matter how you think about it, it’s definitely better than recklessly charging forward with a dagger, attempting a brainless assassination.
“That’s naturally because... time is running out.”
Aldrich III’s lips curled into a mocking smirk as his gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, seemingly observing something unknowable.
“Like a beast at the end of its rope, desperate to cling to a sliver of hope—it has to raise every single hair on its body, doesn’t it?”
---
---
The Throne Hall.
The crystal chandelier overhead poured soft light down, illuminating the grand hall.
Massive bronze pillars carved with epic tales and the histories of past kings held up a dome that seemed to bring the very heavens down. Within this solemn and awe-inspiring space, anyone would inevitably feel their own insignificance.
Especially when this throne hall, large enough to accommodate nearly a thousand people, contained only two figures.
Celicia’s cold eyes swept across the empty hall, a hint of confusion flickering in her gaze.
Wasn’t there supposed to be a council meeting? Where are the people?
“Put your hand on my shoulder.”
Seated on the throne, Aldrich III lazily propped his chin up with one hand and spoke languidly.
Following his command, Celicia extended a slender hand and placed it on Aldrich III’s shoulder.
At that moment, she heard Aldrich III tapping the armrest of the throne. The sound was sharp and clear, as if he were tapping on jade.
But in the blink of an eye, the sound swelled and transformed, resembling the simultaneous eruption of hundreds of pipe organs from the Belland Royal Symphony Hall. This layered soundwave fused into a resonant roar, one that felt as if it could only emerge in the instant of the world’s destruction—a tragic, majestic cry.
Amid this seemingly apocalyptic resonance, Celicia’s consciousness became hazy, as though an invisible hand had gripped her soul and dragged it into an abyss without bottom.
“What is this...?”
Fortunately, the despairing sensation of endless descent vanished quickly. When Celicia regained her senses, she found herself still standing beside Aldrich III’s throne.
It was as if she had merely experienced a trivial nightmare.
But as she raised her head, the entirety of her surroundings had already changed.
The bronze pillars, once grand and regal, were now gray and decayed, carved with grotesque demons. The shattered chandelier above flickered eerily, and on the dome, a dense gray fog spread like an inverted ocean hanging overhead.
Though the location seemed to still be the Throne Hall, it was no longer the majestic, solemn, and opulent chamber Celicia remembered. This place was eerie, horrifying, and so cold it pierced through to the bones—a shadowy mirror image of the true Throne Hall.
Lowering her gaze, she found that the vast hall was no longer empty. A massive round table now stood before Aldrich III’s throne. Surrounding the table was a ring of stone chairs, each occupied by a figure cloaked in mist. The tall backs of the chairs bore intricate carvings of strange, ancient glyphs that radiated an air of gravitas, far less extravagant than the throne but deeply significant nonetheless.
The fact that these individuals were sharing the same space as Aldrich III made it evident—each of them carried a status beyond comparison, far surpassing the mediocrity of the empire’s domestic nobility.
Celicia had countless questions in her heart but found herself unable to voice them. It was as if a curse had sealed her speech, leaving her incapable of speaking in this place.
“Am I just a spectator here?”
With that thought, Celicia calmed her mind, choosing to silently observe.
---
---
“Your Majesty.”
As Aldrich III appeared, the figures seated on the stone chairs rose to their feet in unison, placing their hands over their chests in respect.
Yet their gestures stopped there, seeming to convey more personal acknowledgment of Aldrich III himself rather than reverence for his crown.
“Is everyone here?”
Aldrich III’s languid gaze swept over the figures around the round table, his fingers lightly tapping the armrest of his throne.
“Since everyone’s present, let’s drop the disguises. This isn’t some heretic cult’s clandestine meeting; we’re all acquainted here. No need for the masks and shadows.”
“Oh? Isn’t it though?”
From the far end of the round table came a voice filled with feigned surprise.
“I honestly thought we were summoned here by some great divine entity, ready to embark on a grand and noble undertaking!”
At that end of the table, the mist dissipated to reveal... a Pink Bear shifting and squirming uncomfortably in its stone chair, seemingly unhappy with how hard the seat was.
The bear extended a furry paw from its jaws, holding a lit cigar. After expertly flicking ash from the cigar, it scratched its backside and lamented aloud:
“What a shame. I even came up with a title for myself—‘The Ignoramus.’ Doesn’t that have a charming, subtle sense of mystique to it?”
“I think ‘The Jester’ would suit you better.”
A faintly mocking voice arose from the stone chair nearest Aldrich III’s right hand.
“Who dares!”
The Pink Bear slammed the table, enraged.
But as it turned to see who sat in the chair, its fury dissipated immediately, and its bright pink fur visibly paled to an ashen hue.
“Can... Archbishop Canterbury? You—You, the great elder, why are you here?” The Pink Bear nervously rubbed its paws together, forcing out an ingratiating smile.
“Heh, summoned by His Majesty, naturally I couldn’t refuse to come.”
Seated in the chair, the elderly man in a simple white priestly robe chuckled kindly. But the chilling sharpness in his eyes as he looked at the bear revealed a deeper, frostier intent.
“Mr. Pink Bear, I’ve received reports accusing you of embezzling our Life Church’s holy sword, desecrating our saint, and distributing certain blasphemous texts. Care to explain?”
“Nonsense! Absolutely nonsense!”
The Pink Bear sprang to its feet in indignation, slamming the table yet again. “Who would spread such malicious rumors about me? I, Pink Bear, am upright, faithful, and a devout worshiper of the Goddess of Life—how could I do such things?
Impossible. Completely impossible.
If I actually committed acts as heinous as embezzling a holy sword or hiding photographs of a saint, I’d swear on my family—”
“Enough!”
Aldrich III rubbed his throbbing temples, and his tone, rarely laced with unrestrained anger, sharply interrupted.
“Who let this fool in here?”
“Apologies, Your Majesty.”
Professor Pulan rose from his seat with an embarrassed expression, reluctantly explaining:
“Pink Bear claimed he’s acting principal of St. Maria Institute and insisted he had a rightful seat in this gathering—he wouldn’t quit pestering until eventually forcing his way in.”
“Drag him out—and throw him below.”
“Below... what do you mean by ‘below’?”
Pink Bear’s face turned starkly pale upon hearing the sentence. Without another word, Professor Pulan snarled, kicked the bear off its chair, and began dragging the writhing creature by its hind legs toward the exit.
“Wait—no, you can’t do this to me!” Pink Bear’s clawed arms left clear marks on the ground as he struggled furiously.
“You can’t send me below, I absolutely cannot go below!
I’ve offended that Moon being before—I killed many of its followers! It’ll seek revenge against me!
Fine, I’ll go—but not now. Just don’t send me right now...
Let go of me! I bled for Leopold, I sweated for St. Maria! You can’t treat me this way! I demand to see Aldrich—Aldrich, I’m your uncle! I— I raised you with love since you were a baby! I even have photos of you—”
“Ahhhh!”
Amid a blood-curdling scream, silence descended upon the hall.
Professor Pulan reappeared a moment later in his seat, as if the chaos had never happened.
The meeting continued.
Aldrich III’s gaze swept toward the right side of the table, where most of the seated figures appeared elderly.
He couldn’t suppress a sigh.
“Many of you have aged beyond recognition. Let’s start with introductions.”
“Gladly, Your Majesty.”
The first to speak was naturally the kindly-faced elder nearest to Aldrich III. Though his simple priestly attire betrayed modesty, his every movement radiated the weight of a man long accustomed to power.
“Life Church, Belland Cathedral, Archbishop Canterbury Eng.”
Archbishop Canterbury’s gentle eyes scanned the room, nodding in greeting to all present. Anyone whose gaze met his would instinctively rise in acknowledgment.
As one of the five great seats of Life Church, and its leading representative within the Leopard Empire, Archbishop Canterbury’s qualifications and prestige were unimpeachable.
“Tower of Origin, Dodge Sloar.”
The following speaker, cloaked in the unmistakable robes of a mage, offered a succinct introduction.
But not a single person underestimated him. After all, aside from Tower of Origin being the largest collective of mages on the continent, the name Dodge alone represented the pinnacle of summoning magic—a height so formidable that few dared to dream of rivaling it.
Offering respectful nods, Dodge turned his focus toward Professor Pulan.
“I’ve heard that Mentor MelaDormir has awakened.”
Removing his pointed mage’s hat, he humbly asked, “Might there be an opportunity for me to pay her a visit?”
“Apologies, Mr. Dodge.”
Professor Pulan offered a wry smile as he removed his own hat in response, saying, “Before coming here, Mentor MelaDormir specifically requested to refrain from meeting with external guests for the time being.”
“Ah, that is a shame.”
Dodge’s disappointment was palpable, but he refrained from pressing further, returning quietly to his seat.
---
“Stone Cauldron Association, Adrian Sandell.”
---
“Adventurers' Association, Belland Division Chair, Adolf Lowis.”
---
“Triune United Trade Alliance...”
One by one, figures rose to announce their names quietly, each bearing titles and affiliations that would shake the public world outside these eerie walls.
Even with her usual composure, Celicia found herself increasingly unsettled.
Because these names didn’t merely denote individual power—they represented the unparalleled influence of each figure over the continent’s top-tier factions.
The Tower of Origin, attracting the membership or patronage of mages across the land...
The Stone Cauldron Association, a nigh-monopoly on all knowledge pertaining to alchemy...
The Adventurers' Association, with branches embedded in the fabric of society across the continent....
A transnational coalition of commercial alliances...
Even if Life Church’s anomalous existence were excluded, these forces are still monstrous entities capable of determining the trajectories of some small nations’ destinies.
Since these prominent figures are seated to the right, then on the left...
Celicia didn’t even need introductions for the people on the left; she recognized most of them instantly. It was precisely because of this familiarity that her heart grew unsettled.
“Since the esteemed guests have introduced themselves, it’s time for you—the hosts—to do the same. Don’t make yourselves seem detached,” Aldrich III said in a soft voice as he glanced toward the left.
“Of course.”
Being seated at a round table, the introductions proceeded in clockwise order, starting with Professor Pulan, who was seated in the place of least distinction. He stood first.
“Professor of Magic, Santa Maria College, Pulan Roniel.”
“Dean of Santa Maria College, temporarily overseeing the Empire’s Special Disaster Countermeasures Department, Hathaway Field.”
“Dean of the Empire’s Royal Military Academy...”
“Representative of the Empire’s Intelligence Department...”
“Representative of the Empire’s Military Department...”
“Head of the Empire’s Royal Knight Corps...”
“The Empire...”
“The Silence Agency... First Swordsman.”
The final speaker was an extremely elderly man, his skin mottled with age spots and his whole demeanor steeped in lethargy. When he spoke, he did not even bother standing, and it seemed as though half of his body had already stepped into the grave.
Yet, as soon as he began speaking, everyone involuntarily cast solemn gazes in his direction, as if trying to imprint the face of this man—who had previously existed only in legends—into their minds.
A century ago, the Empire had grown intolerant of Life Church meddling in internal affairs under the guise of combating the dark god. In response, the Empire secretly established the Silence Agency, a specialized organization for dealing with threats related to the dark god.
This elderly man, known as the Sword Bearer, was the founder of the Silence Agency.
Under his leadership, the Silence Agency operated like a sharp blade, gradually supplanting Life Church’s Judicatory Sanctuary within Leopold’s borders. Silent, cold, and efficient, the agency dismantled the plots of cultists and even some machinations of the dark god.
The Silence Agency became the most fearsome violent organ in Belland. Anything associated with the dark god—be they commoners or nobles, women or children—would face its impartial and callous judgment.
Rumor even had it that when dealing with cultists, these ruthless enforcers would slap the cultist’s dog, shake eggs until their yolks were scrambled, and dig worms from the earth just to cut them in half vertically. Their methods were utterly merciless!
“You’re still alive,” Archbishop Canterbury remarked regretfully as he stared at this ‘old friend,’ someone he’d fought against for nearly a century.
“I thought you’d long since passed away.”
“Heh. The old saying goes, ‘Troublesome people live the longest.’ It seems it applies to men like me.”
“But it appears your subordinates aren’t quite so resilient,” Archbishop Canterbury said, his tone tinged with schadenfreude.
“I heard a branch of the Silence Agency was breached by cultists. Apparently, a rather important individual—let me think—yes, someone named Anna Kablin was even abducted by them.
Tsk, tsk, what a catastrophic blunder. If this Anna Kablin is involved with the dark god’s schemes, do you realize how significant the resulting damage will be?
So, Your Majesty, why not issue an order to allow the Church to deploy Judicatory Sanctuary forces back into Belland? Give us just one day, and we guarantee Anna Kablin will be recovered—though we can’t guarantee the 'whole she' will be back.”
“...”
Aldrich III made no reply but simply leaned back against his throne, resting his cheek upon his hand. With a languid gaze, he quietly observed the elderly man, as though awaiting his explanation.
“Anna Kablin... she indeed may be involved with the schemes of the dark god,” the elderly man murmured, his cloudy eyes opening slightly to glance at Archbishop Canterbury. His tone was calm, yet it carried an inexplicable chill.
“And it’s true that she was abducted by those cultists, even at a considerable price.”
“Huh?”
Archbishop Canterbury, who had only been trying to frustrate his ‘old friend,’ froze in astonishment upon hearing the man’s swift admission. He secretly wondered whether the Silence Agency had truly become corrupt.
“But—”
The elderly man suddenly altered his tone, his gaze shifting away from Archbishop Canterbury and landing firmly upon Aldrich III. His voice was cold as he declared:
“Anna Kablin has never left the Silence Agency’s control, Your Majesty. Never.”
