The Hall of the White Oak Kingdom...

A sixteen- or seventeen-year-old acolyte in white robes hurried down a crimson-carpeted corridor, clutching documents. Portraits of famed Archbishops, Bishops, and High Priests lined the walls, but he had no time to bow. His neatly trimmed bob was disheveled, sweat tracing paths down his freckled cheeks beneath round spectacles that bounced precariously with every step. Wide eyes shimmered with panic.

He sprinted to the corridor’s end—a pair of exquisitely carved wooden doors, four meters tall—and slipped inside after a quick knock.

“What’s this, Tifa? You’re usually so composed... Why such panic?”

“Hah... huff... Y-Your Grace, please... look at this...”

The acolyte handed the papers to the stern, hawk-nosed elder seated at a desk—Archbishop Tiberius, High Priest of Military Affairs.

“What is this? A battle report...! What?! Impossible! October 8th? That’s... three months ago?! Pirates of unknown origin raided coastal villages and monasteries in the west... Regional High Priests and monastery guards hanged... even hidden forces destroyed?! Ridiculous! Pirates couldn’t possibly—two Sword Saints among the fallen?! Absurd! Sword Saints stand at humanity’s pinnacle! How could this... Why only now?! Those worthless swine! Deceiving superiors while hiding failures!”

Tiberius scanned the documents twice, his knuckles white.

“What in blazes is going on?!”

“Your Grace, there’s more... All monastery treasures were looted. Even the silver nails sealing the coffin of a late Archpriest buried there... were stripped away. These reports were gathered at great risk by survivors who escaped the monasteries...”

“Then... where are they now? Where did they go?”

“They... they...”

*SLAM!* Tiberius slammed his fist on the desk, eyes blazing.

“No more stammering! Spit it out! Where are those damned pirates?!”

“They... they fly banners... distributing grain to win over the common rabble. They slander the priesthood, fabricating tales of our ‘crimes’... defiling our sacred image. They call themselves the ‘Shah’s Imperial Guard’—a rebellion claiming full responsibility. Their leader... a ten-year-old girl hailed as ‘Her Imperial Majesty, the Shah’ by every thug!”

“Guh... A ten-year-old bandit queen?! ‘Shah’?! ‘Imperial Guard’?! Nonsense! Filthy traitors spewing blasphemy! Send the Knight Orders! Execute common rebels on the spot! Capture their leaders alive—I want them dragged to the Inquisition!”

Rage choked Tiberius’s roar. *How dare they?! Sea rats who flee at the sight of navy ships! Cowards who wouldn’t dare raid fishing villages! Scavengers living hand-to-mouth off merchant ships! Now they mimic great kings, building nations? Child’s play! Do they think thrones are toys?!*

“Still standing there?! Go!”

“But... Your Grace, all Knight Orders are deployed at the front. Only private levies remain within the kingdom.”

“Hmph. Then I’ll see His Holiness the Archpriest myself. These insolent vermin will learn the Hall’s terror. Choosing *this* moment to strike... thinking blackmail wins our recognition? Delusional!”

Two hours later, a squad of knights galloped from Starlight City’s gates. At their head rode a figure in pure white atop a snow-white stallion.

---

In an unnamed village, the mayor’s house now served as the Shah’s temporary palace. Some had suggested a monastery—but Her Majesty ordered it burned. *Such evil filth has no place in this world. How could the Shah dwell there?* So the exquisite monastery became ashes.

The Shah sat rigid on her throne, her icy expression unreadable. Those who glimpsed her wondered: *A ten-year-old girl? No. An Emperor.* Beside her stood the mask-clad figure in crimson—the Shah’s Grand Admiral.

All who took the Shah’s grain renounced the kingdom’s rule, swearing loyalty as her subjects under her protection. To desperate peasants, the ruler who filled bellies and wielded strength was the true king.

Her Majesty also dispatched her royal physician—a silver-haired, mask-wearing maiden—to heal the sick freely. Gratitude for grain and medicine swelled the people’s devotion.

Minor resistance flared when priests rallied armed mobs for a counterattack. Led by a few Awakened humans, they charged the Shah’s territory—only to be crushed. Every rebel faced public trial before Judge Montpetit, a giant rat-like creature, and swung from village gallows under brutal sentences.

Two months later, tremors spread through the land: *The Shah vowed to build a perfect nation. Land seized by monasteries would be granted to those who aided her rise.* How to earn it? Two paths: prove talent in governance or martial prowess—train soldiers, defend borders, swear fealty—and receive estates. Or enlist: soldiers earned land too. Daily, hopefuls flooded the village for trials. Some sought luck; others, true talent long ignored.

For the rest? Colt, the newly appointed forty-something Prime Minister with a scruffy beard, proposed granting farmland to peasants. They’d pay half the harvest to the treasury—far better than starving under old lords. Any farmer knew two-tenths of a yield fed a family; five-tenths meant abundance. Lines formed daily at Colt’s door to claim plots.

Alongside him, twenty-seven-year-old Ebner—newly named Deputy Minister of Law—drafted legal codes and administrative reforms. Though the Shah’s realm held only seven villages, she ordered Montpetit to review his proposals. Maions, appointed Deputy Minister of War, advised military reforms under Commander Scarface; some adopted, others tabled.

Four months on, the Shah’s fledgling court thrived. Scarface drilled twenty thousand recruits—ex-pirate captains now generals. Greenland and Purames, intelligence chiefs, deployed surveillance puppets along the borders, watching day and night.