The study was warm like early spring; the fire in the hearth burned fiercely, making the entire room cozy.
Yet outside the window, the rain poured down and thunder rumbled incessantly, as if the entire Imperial Capital was subrged in darkness.
Fourth Prince Rhein sat by the window, holding a pot of precious and delicate flowers in one hand and silver shears in the other.
The sound of rain hitting the window mingled with the soft snips of the shears, yet neither could disturb him in the slightest.
His movents in trimming the branches and leaves were elegant and slow; every cut seed to carry patience, and also indifference.
Financial Minister Belial stood beside him, the thick financial report slightly crumpled in his grip.
He cleared his throat, his tone respectful yet sowhat urgent: “Your Highness, the Commander of the 22nd Legion just sent a confidential letter via his trusted aide... He says he is willing to submit to you.”
Rhine humd, as if listening to sothing inconsequential.
He lifted a flower branch, snipped off a yellowing leaf, and smiled faintly: “The Second Prince’s most valued Iron Guard... is nothing more than this.”
He flicked the dead leaf with his fingertip, watching it fall onto the silver tray.
“Loyalty?” he murmured. “Heh, it’s as brittle as this leaf.”
Belial bent down in agreent, or perhaps flattery: “The Commander initially wanted to draw his sword and strike our ssenger. But his family’s granaries don’t even have enough hay for next spring’s horses.
We cleared his nephew of smuggling charges and paid three months of back military wages... He knelt faster than anyone else. These military officers are always like this.”
Rhine chuckled, as if hearing a self-evident truth.
He continued trimming the plants: “Second Brother always thought that as long as he fought alongside the Knights, they would be loyal like in the legends. But he never understood...”
The shears snipped softly again.
“When honor cannot be exchanged for tangible goods, a Knight is less loyal than a stable hand who tends to the hay.”
Having finished speaking, he finally put down the shears and picked up the gold-dipped quill from the desk.
He walked up to the large map of the Empire on the wall and gently covered the flags of the 21st and 18th Legions with his personal sigil color, symbolizing his authority.
“Your Highness,” Belial lowered his voice, “there are five more legions wavering. If they continue to wait... all the military officials in the Empire are watching for your next move.”
Rhine paused writing and looked back at him.
His gaze was not that of a young prince, but rather an old fox scrutinizing a chessboard.
“Move?” he repeated softly. “My move has always been simple; it depends on their own move.”
He returned to the desk, picked up the dead leaf he had snipped, and rubbed it gently: “Tell them... their ti is running out.”
The dead leaf turned to dust in his palm, and gray fragnts fell through his fingers like scattered old ashes.
Thunder burst outside the window, as if completing the unspoken sentence for him.
Rhine looked at the ash in his palm, his expression completely undisturbed.
That composure did not stem from the recklessness of a young prince, but from the confidence he now genuinely possessed. Those military officials, who previously had no connection to him, had been bought off by him step by step.
Under the pressure of famine and halted supplies, nearly half of the core legions under the Second Prince had defected to him.
Those people used to shout about loyalty louder than the wind, but as long as their military pay was tily and their families were ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) supported, their so-called "devotion" imdiately shifted allegiance.
Currently, the military power he commanded far surpassed that of any other faction in the Empire.
He was not lacking in Knights, nor people willing to risk their lives for him.
Just then, a soft knock ca from outside the door. A guard pushed the door open, but upon stepping into the study and seeing Belial, he paused slightly, looking as if he wanted to say sothing but swallowed it back.
Rhine raised his eyes, seeing through his hesitation: “News from the Imperial Palace?”
The guard nodded.
“Speak,” Rhine said, his tone as gentle as if asking about the weather. “Belial is one of us.”
Belial was stunned by the remark; his chest felt struck by sothing, and genuine emotion surfaced on his face.
Only then did the guard straighten up and report: “Your Highness... news from the Palace states that the Regent may not last two more days.”
As the words fell, the heavy rain slamd against the window, making a loud, sharp sound.
Rhine lowered his head and chuckled softly, as if unable to restrain himself, or perhaps mocking fate’s arrangent: “Ah... it’s finally co to this.”
Belial kept his head down, unsure whether he should smile, and carefully maintained his silence.
Rhine, however, had already turned around to face the guard: “Go tell the butler that I am hosting a ball tonight. Invite all the representatives of the Eight Great Families, and also the high officials of the Empire.”
He paused, his tone light as if discussing a trivial matter: “Note down who cos and who doesn’t.”
The guard acknowledged the order and was about to withdraw, but then heard Rhine’s addition: “Oh, and also... rember to invite Second Brother and Fifth Brother to attend.”
The tone was polite and gentle... The heavy rain hamred against the eaves of the Imperial Palace, its force seeming to tear apart the entire Imperial Capital.
Thunder rolled deep in the sky, illuminating the gold-veined stone pillars outside the bedchamber in flickering flashes.
Inside the Regent Arrens’s bedchamber, candlelight flickered in the cold, damp air. The flas were stretched thin by drafts, illuminating a room of deathly silence.
The air was filled with a sickly sweet, decaying odor, the scent emanating from soone near death.
Arrens lay on the bed, his emaciated body now little more than skin and bones.
Amidst the tornt of excruciating pain, he briefly awoke. His gaze shifted with difficulty, pointing towards the bedchamber door.
From the shadows, an old man quietly erged.
It was Lin Ze, the Chief Steward of Internal Affairs, Head of the Privy Council, who had served three emperors and was rumored to have lived for over two centuries.
He was still hunched, yet as steady as an ancient tree.
Arrens’s lips trembled, his voice fracturing into a cold, breathy whisper: “Leave us...”
The dical officers turned pale and hurried out as if granted a reprieve.
The heavy door slowly closed behind them, the vibration echoing in the depths of the bedchamber.
Finally, only two people remained in the vast room: the dying Regent, and the old man who always stood in the deepest shadow of the Imperial Authority.
Arrens could feel the chill starting from his limbs, creeping up his chest like a tide.
Knowing he wouldn't survive the day, he used his last ounce of strength to grab Lin Ze’s wrist.
The grip was withered and weak, yet it was like grasping useless straw while drowning.
“Lin Ze...” Arrens’s cloudy pupils trembled slightly. “I did my best... truly... Will Father... bla ...”
This was the most vulnerable question of a dying man—not the query of a Regent, but the fear of a son.
There was no sadness on Lin Ze’s face; he was expressionless as usual, as if nothing in the world could stir a ripple in his heart.
He gently returned the grip on Arrens’s cold hand, leaning down and bringing his age-worn face close to the Regent's left ear.
He whispered in an extrely soft voice, uttering a sentence that sounded nothing like comfort.
Arrens’s pupils, which had been on the verge of fading, suddenly contracted to pinpricks. He stared fiercely at the old man who had raised him.
His withered chest heaved violently, and a choking sound escaped his throat. He seed to want to shout sothing, but could no longer form a complete syllable.
Lin Ze rely gazed back with his indifferent eyes.
Then, the seemingly hunched and frail old man gently lifted the Regent’s body, his movent as tender as cradling an infant.
“It is ti to go, Young Master Arrens.”
The next mont—BOOM!!
Lightning tore through the night sky, and white light sliced through the window lattice into the bedchamber.
When the thunder subsided, the two people in the bedchamber were gone without a trace.
Only the candlelight continued to flicker, illuminating the empty bedchamber, as if nothing had ever happened... Outside, thunder roared, as if tearing a jagged wound in the night sky, and the heavy rain hamred the eaves, dense like war drums.
However, inside the Fourth Prince's residence banquet hall, it was a completely different world.
The Royal Orchestra sat in the corner, strings and flutes softly interwoven, playing an elegant court suite.
The music steadily suppressed the violence of the thunder outside, giving the illusion that this space was completely isolated from the rest of the Imperial Capital.
The air was scented with expensive black tea, carrying a subtle floral note.
Rhine disliked strong liquor; on such occasions, he preferred tea, which allowed him to remain clear-headed while appearing more restrained and elegant.
The guests who were permitted to stand here tonight were themselves a symbol of qualification.
Only those who were at least Earls, or true Lords holding organized military power, were qualified to enter this banquet hall.
They were not rely wealthy individuals accumulated by money, but people who could influence the fate of a territory on the Empire's map.
Precisely because of this, their deanor conveyed a tension that was restrained yet barely concealed their ambition.
Several old nobles bowed slightly, seemingly currying favor with the future, their posture bordering on sycophancy.
Several individuals from military rit families had broad shoulders and straight postures, yet they occasionally sneaked glances at Rhine.
They were accustod to following the strong, and the strong man in the Imperial Capital was clearly the Fourth Prince.
Duke Simmons stood in the center of the banquet hall, having dressed ticulously for the evening.
The family’s deep purple, gold-patterned tiger robe was draped over his shoulders—a symbol of his status as the head of the Simmons family, one of the Eight Great Families, worn only for truly significant events.
His entire face was alight with an irrepressible joy, like a release after years of suppression.
After all, he had been betting on the Fourth Prince for more than just a year or two.
Now, he was finally seeing the returns.
Simmons raised his teacup, his voice booming unlike an old man's: “Gentlen! Let us raise our cups to the new era that is about to dawn! To the new era led by His Highness the Fourth Prince! The Empire shall return to the path of reason!”
The surrounding civil officials and nobles nodded in agreent, their tones filled with fervent flattery.
The entire banquet was like a warm, brightly lit stage, where every noble carefully perford their loyalty and anticipation.
Based on the atmosphere, this was practically a premature coronation banquet.
From the main seat, Rhine held his cup of black tea, his expression modest: “The Duke flatters .”
But his eyes held obvious pleasure, as if he had heard a lody that resonated deeply with him.
Duke Simmons approached a few steps with his cup, cautiously yet unable to hide his pride: “Your Highness, the succession docunts at the Censorate are ready.
Once the bell tolls, those wavering families of the Eight Great Families... I have already chastised them for you. They know in their hearts which side they should stand on now.”
The confidence in his tone stemd from the fact that he had indeed brought many people over to support the Fourth Prince; this was the most satisfying political gamble of his life.
Rhine slightly raised his eyes, his gaze carrying encouraging tenderness: “You have worked hard, Simmons. The future Empire will certainly reserve a very important position for you.”
Duke Simmons felt lighter all over upon hearing this, and couldn't help but chuckle: “It is my honor to earn the trust of the future Emperor.”
Rhine’s fingertips tightened slightly, and the teacup shook gently, but not a drop spilled.
He clearly enjoyed the title imnsely.
Another clap of thunder burst, shaking the window fra slightly, but it was still firmly blocked by the heavy curtains.
Inside the banquet hall, cups clinked softly, whispers continued, and laughter mingled with flattery.
The atmosphere seed to tell every guest that the future authority of the Empire had firmly landed in the Fourth Prince's hands.
Just then, a personal guard silently entered through the side door.
His movent was as light as a phantom; he disturbed no guests, moving only through the candlelight shadows until he reached Rhine’s back.
He leaned down and whispered in a voice only the Fourth Prince could hear: “Your Highness, urgent report... the Second Prince’s residence and the Fifth Prince’s residence are empty.”
The gravity of the news was enough to make many nobles lose composure on the spot, yet Rhine did not even tremble his hand, continuing to hold his teacup steadily.
This was within his expectations.
Prey naturally flees when sensing danger, but the faster they flee, the more it proves that the scales of power he controlled had completely tipped in his favor.
The guard nervously shifted his stance: “Your Highness... should we not seal the city gates and pursue them?”
Rhine raised his teacup and took a small sip. “The city defenses are in my hands now. They have no food and no soldiers. Even if they run, what trouble can they cause? Let them run. The further they run, the more concrete the charge of fleeing justice becos.”
The guard acknowledged the order and withdrew.
Less than ten minutes later, the guard quickly entered again. His expression was noticeably more panicked, and he could not suppress a tremor in his voice as he approached Rhine.
Rhine smiled faintly: “Have the two rats been caught?”
The guard spoke with difficulty: “Your Highness... no. It’s... the Regent.”
“Oh?” Rhine raised an eyebrow. “Did he run out of breath?”
“No... he’s gone.” The guard swallowed. “His Highness Regent Arrens and Chief Steward Lin Ze... vanished into thin air inside the bedchamber. When we entered, we only saw residual flashes of light.”
Rhine’s hand finally shook, and the black tea in the cup trembled slightly.
He stared at the guard, confirming: “Truly gone?”
The guard nodded.
The music continued in the banquet hall, and the guests remained imrsed in the boisterous congratulations, unaware of the storm brewing at the edge of the royal seat.
Rhine suppressed the sudden unease in his chest, quickly calming himself.
“The truth doesn’t matter,” he told himself internally. “What matters is what everyone believes.”
He then gave a low command, speaking extrely fast but every word clearly: “As of now, Regent Arrens died of illness ten minutes ago. Physicians and guards can all testify to this.”
The guard hesitated: “But... the body...”
“Find one,” Rhine said coldly. “A similar build is sufficient. Use alchemy potions to treat the face so it’s unrecognizable, claiming it’s due to necrosis from the illness.”
The guard’s pupils contracted: “Y-Your Highness, this...”
Rhine raised his eyes and repeated, word by word: “The Regent died tonight. That is the only truth. In the announcents tomorrow and the day after, he must be a corpse lying in a coffin. You must achieve this.”
The latter half of the sentence was left unsaid, but the guard had already realized the consequences. His face pale, he stamred: “Yes... I will ensure it is done.”
By the ti the guard hurriedly left, the guests at the banquet had noticed the commotion.
Dozens of gazes simultaneously turned toward the main seat.
Rhine slowly rose, his expression composed, and announced in a sorrowful voice: “Gentlen... I have just received news. His Highness Regent Arrens... has just passed away.”
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