Chapter 118: The Imperial Family
How to fight in narrow terrain, how to escape when surrounded by several people, how to rely on footwork and movent once one’s Mana was exhausted…
Barton broke down every miserable scenario Ryan might encounter, crushed them apart, kneaded them together, and found new ways to throw them all at him.
Ryan’s body was often mottled with fresh bruises, but his gaze grew heavier and steadier, and his physical reactions beca so fast it was almost as if his body had begun making decisions on its own.
Cosette remained as she always was, quietly acting as his maid while diligently working through the foundations of magic Ryan had taught her whenever she found the ti. She learned with great seriousness, her light brown eyes wide as she tried to catch that invisible pattern in the flow of Mana.
When Ryan was away, she tucked his library card into her pocket and slipped into the library, finding a corner for herself and flipping through books with few words and beautiful illustrations, her fingers occasionally tracing shapes quietly through the air. With her als improving, the girl’s once overly thin body had gradually begun to show a little softness and curve, and color had returned to her cheeks. Even so, whenever she stood in front of the mirror, she would always steal one or two extra glances at herself, a little shy.
So the days passed, neither too fast nor too slow.
No new conspiracies erged, and no unexpected trouble ca knocking.
The academy’s discussion of Ryan Velt slowly shifted from that villainous young master to that guy who cleared the assessnt ahead of schedule, and one of the five who would represent the academy.
His notoriety remained, but it was diluted sowhat by the rumors of his strength, turning into a kind of complicated impression that people could neither clearly define nor easily dismiss.
It was calm, but not stagnant.
The knowledge of the Elves he had stored in his mind, the new bodily responses honed through training, the lines he kept revising on his Magic Tool blueprints… all of it was slowly building up capital for the journey ahead, a journey whose depth and danger remained unknown.
Before a storm arrives, the sea is always especially calm.
Ryan knew clearly that these peaceful days were nothing more than the overture music before the opening of the next chapter of the story.
The Imperial Palace, Hall of Dawn Deliberation.
The enormous vaulted do was painted with the glorious achievents of emperors past, while the light filtered through stained glass cast solemn patches of color across the floor.
Most of the high-backed chairs lining both sides of the heavy oak table had already emptied. Ministers and nobles clad in elaborate robes and official garnts filed out one after another, their murmured conversations turning into blurred echoes in the vast hall.
At the far end of the long table, upon the tallest seat of all—the imperial throne whose back was carved with a roaring griffin entwined with thorny vines—the ruler of the Empire, Augustus Ishtar III, did not rise at once.
He rested one hand against his chin while the fingers of the other tapped lightly, almost unconsciously, against the smooth obsidian armrest.
The Emperor was around fifty years old. His face carried a trace of weariness from years of labor, yet the ice-blue eyes inherited from his family remained sharp. The heavy imperial robe of deep violet embroidered with gold thread draped across his shoulders, lending his figure an even steadier air, while also hinting at a kind of solitary elevation.
At a slightly lower seat just behind and to the side of the throne sat Cecilia Ishtar.
Rarely, she was dressed today in formal court attire. Her pale golden hair had been carefully braided up, revealing the white line of her neck. Her velvet gown, deep blue verging on black, was embroidered with tiny silver stars, matching her ice-blue eyes. Compared to the ease she displayed at the academy, she now carried more of the restraint and distance proper to a Princess of the Empire.
Her back was straight, her hands folded neatly upon her lap, and she sat there as quietly as a beautifully sculpted figure of ice.
The final deliberation regarding the treason case involving the two northern Viscounts, Garcia and Green, had just ended.
On one hand, it was a major matter. It involved the smuggling of strategic resources and suspicion of collusion with the enemy, enough to shake the northern frontier’s defensive line.
On the other hand, it was also a small one. After all, it concerned only two remote viscounts, and the matter had first been exposed by a re academy student, without resulting in any actual losses.
The entire process had been so clear that it was almost… excessively smooth.
The Princess, citing the fact that she happened to be present at the academy when the matter arose and that she wished to prevent guilty ministers from fleeing, had mobilized a portion of the Royal Knights in advance to secure the scene and gather evidence.
The basis for opening the case had co from the clues and deductions provided by the student nad Ryan Velt.
From there, the case file had sailed forward without obstruction, going straight to the imperial presence.
The investigation group dispatched by the Empire had traveled day and night to reach the north, only to discover upon arrival that the two troubleso viscounts, together with the core mbers of their families, had already been seized in advance by the actual power holder of the northern lands, Marquis Wilier.
He had personally sent them under escort to the imperial capital, together with a morial of apology full of contrition, claiming that he had “failed to discipline his subordinates properly and was ashad before imperial grace.”
More coincidentally still, when the two principal offenders—the Viscount Garcia and Viscount Green themselves—were delivered, both were already muddled in mind and unable to speak.
The escort reported that the two had resisted violently during their arrest, and that suppressive magic had been used out of necessity, leaving lingering aftereffects.
anwhile, their subordinate stewards and servants all confessed readily, their statents detailed enough that almost no interrogation had even been necessary.
Thus, a treason case that might once have spread its implications far and wide was swiftly nailed down upon the two viscounts, who could no longer defend themselves, and upon their peculiarly cooperative families. It was defined and concluded with remarkable speed.
Now the clamor had faded, leaving behind only the core mbers of the imperial family.
Emperor Augustus’s gaze slowly swept downward.
Aside from Cecilia, two others remained at the table.
On the left sat the Second Prince, Keynes Ishtar.
He had inherited the royal family’s tall fra and slightly hard-edged features. His golden hair was cut very short, and in his ice-blue eyes there always seed to burn a fire that refused to yield. Even his posture was loose and unrestrained—direct, or perhaps more accurately, rash. At this mont, his brows were knitted tightly together, and the impatience on his face was not concealed in the slightest.
On the right sat the Third Prince, Aster Ishtar.
Unlike his elder brother, he was more slender and elegant. His golden hair, though the sa color, was left a little longer and fell smoothly to his shoulders. His ice-blue eyes were always half narrowed, and a faint, gentle smile sat at the corner of his lips, warm on the surface yet difficult to read—like a lazy cat forever watching everything around it.
“Cecilia,” the Emperor said, “I heard that the initial whistleblower in this case was a student from Saint Roland Magic Academy?”
“Yes, Father,” Cecilia replied with a slight nod, her voice clear and steady. “His na is Ryan Velt. He is a third-year student in the Lower Division of Saint Roland Magic Academy.”
“Ryan Velt…” The Emperor repeated the na under his breath, and the tapping of his knuckles against the armrest paused. “I feel as though I have heard that na sowhere before.”
The elderly Court Recorder standing to one side moved his lips slightly, as though intending to offer a reminder, but the Emperor raised a hand to stop him.
“Velt…” he murmured, thinking. “A viscount’s house in the north? I have no particular impression. But that na…”
“Father may not know,” the Third Prince Aster suddenly said softly, his smile mild. “The young lady of the Sword Duke, Leo Astrea’s house—Miss Eleanor—did not she once suffer a rather… eye-catching defeat at the academy? The person who defeated her seed to bear this sa na. Ryan Velt.”
“Oh?” A trace of surprise flashed through the Emperor’s ice-blue eyes, and he straightened slightly in his seat.
Leo, the Sword Duke, was one of the military pillars he relied upon most heavily. His only daughter, Eleanor, possessed talent and strength that were well known among the younger generation of the capital.
Anyone capable of defeating her was certainly no diocrity.
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