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He sits like a man born above kings.
Tall and long-limbed, the emperor possesses a beauty that feels dangerous rather than gentle. Molten gold light spills through the throne room, washing over his pale skin and casting him in stark relief against the overwhelming black-and-gold splendor surrounding him. Loose silver-white hair falls around his face in layered waves, slightly unkempt, framing sharp features and narrow eyes that carry a perpetual look of calm superiority. His expression holds no tension—only quiet amusent, as though the world beneath him is endlessly predictable.
His posture is deliberately relaxed, almost insulting in its ease. One arm drapes lazily over the throne’s armrest; the other rests near his chin, rings catching the light whenever his fingers shift. He lounges instead of sits, occupying the throne as though it were rely another possession rather than a sacred seat of power. Even barefoot, sandals discarded carelessly upon the steps below, he radiates absolute authority.
Layered ceremonial robes of deep black and ivory-white hang loosely from his fra, rich fabrics embroidered with flowing patterns and imperial symbols. The open collar exposes part of his chest and the layered necklaces draped across it—gold chains, prayer beads, talismans that suggest both wealth and spiritual significance. Large prayer beads rest against his waist like the regalia of a conqueror-priest, reinforcing the image of soone worshipped as much as obeyed.
Behind him rises an impossibly ornate throne of carved gold, shaped with twisting dragons and divine motifs that seem alive in the firelit shadows. The entire chamber bends visually toward him: towering pillars, hanging banners inked with ancient calligraphy, kneeling officials frozen in reverence. Yet despite the overwhelming grandeur, the eye always returns to him alone.
His presence feels paradoxical—lazy yet alert, serene yet oppressive. He does not appear burdened by responsibility. He looks like a sovereign so powerful that nothing in existence could genuinely threaten him. The atmosphere around him carries the weight of absolute dominion: the kind of emperor whose silence is more terrifying than another monarch’s rage.
"An introduction befitting of my person, don’t you think so, Grand Chancellor?"
The Emperor turns his head toward a figure he addresses as Grand Chancellor.
"Yes, Your Most Radiant and Eternal Imperial Majesty." The Grand Chancellor bows his head in reverence.
"You alone understand ."
"Well, not you alone. My sixteen wives wouldn’t like that." He pauses, sighing dramatically. "Who asked to be so glorious? So many won chasing , and I only chose sixteen. I could have gone for more."
Even such behavior would earn eyerolls or side remarks elsewhere, but the officials in the throne room understand: though the Emperor enjoys speaking of his splendor, they should never take it as an opportunity to disrespect him. They cannot stay lax in his presence, even as he sits lazily. Not because he has set such a rule, but as a consequence of his power.
"Consequence of my power doesn’t seem good. It’s like I beat them daily."
The Emperor looks to the side, where a figure stands writing on paper.
The Grand Chancellor sighs. "Your Most Radiant and Eternal Imperial Majesty—"
The Emperor waves his fingers, granting permission for the Grand Chancellor to speak.
"We should get to the reason we have gathered today, Your Most—"
The Emperor interrupts with a swing of his hand. "You called a eting. I appeared. Surely I can let this gentleman do his job and write evocative tales of this Emperor."
"Yes, Sire—"
"Then allow to make sure this extract is perfect. It needs to capture my splendor, do you not agree?"
"Yes, Your Most Radiant and Eternal Imperial Majesty." The Grand Chancellor bows.
The Grand Chancellor is used to the Emperor’s quirks now. That is why he hardly schedules etings with the Emperor. But today, he could not avoid informing the Emperor of what happened at the academy.
The sigh echoes through the throne room.
"This is why I have given you permission to hold etings without ." The Emperor’s voice carries an edge of boredom. "My children are very much capable of guiding these etings, are they not? War has not begun. For such unimportant etings, my children hold imperial power."
He lets the silence stretch before continuing.
"Now, tell . What information do you have to bore with today?"
His gaze moves through the hall, sweeping across the kings, queens, grand dukes, arch duchesses, dukes, and marquesses. The only ones missing are the princes, princesses, and empresses. They must not have been called, the Emperor muses. A sensitive matter, then.
As for earls and barons and the like, they are simply too weak to breathe in his presence.
"Sire, sothing terrible has happened in the academy." The Grand Chancellor’s voice is asured.
"Your favorite child was attacked in the academy." A voice rises from among the officials.
The Emperor turns toward the speaker.
"Grand Duke." The Grand Chancellor’s voice is steady, but the authority and anger cannot be hidden. "Why have you spoken without respect for the rule of the imperial throne?"
The Grand Duke gulps. "The Emperor had to know." His head shrinks; why had he stuck out his neck?
"And you think I would not have told him?"
"Aiya, never mind, Grand Chancellor. You can see—he wanted to have a discussion with this Emperor." The Emperor smiles. "I just can’t help it."
He shrugs.
Then he waves his hand. The Grand Duke flies out of the hall.
"Who was that?"
"Your Most Radiant and Eternal Imperial Majesty, that was the Grand Duke." The Grand Chancellor answers.
"Oh, I know. You said it beforehand. Is he related to or any of my wives?"
"No, Sire. He is a wealthy rchant turned noble who earned enough war rit to beco a Grand Duke."
"Eh? A fighter and a rchant? Can’t you pick one and be good at it?" The Emperor’s brow furrows in theatrical disgust. "Couldn’t even be a good Grand Duke. Give the position to one of those little saints who have great rit and no connections—not these cheats."
"Yes, Sire."
The Grand Chancellor smiles internally. Those nobles had used their wealth to buy war rits in the last war. Who would have thought the inattentive Emperor would throw one out on the one day he decided to heed this particular call?
"Are you thinking shit about ?"
"Never, Your Most Radiant and Eternal Imperial Majesty."
The Emperor snorts.
"Who is my favorite child?"
He decides to get down to business. These people are boring. They don’t have the allure of his wives and do not praise him enough. It’s better with his wives around.
"The illegitimate child, Sire."
"You have to be specific. I have birthed a lot of illegitimate children. I turned their mothers into my legitimate wives."
"You couldn’t do the sa for this one. She died."
"Oh, Khan."
The Emperor’s expression shifts—a look of sudden enlightennt, like a lantern switched on in the dark.
"Who said he was my favorite? I have no favorites. It is why this Emperor is seen as impartial. It extends to my beautiful wives as well." He nods sagely.
"The Most Impartial, Radiant, and Eternal Imperial Majesty," one official intones.
The rest of the officials echo the phrase. None of them want to fall behind in flattering the Emperor.
"I like that one. You’re doing a great job, official." The Emperor pauses. I don’t know his position. "The sa to all of you."
He cannot neglect the others, can he? He is an impartial emperor. And how can they sing his praise willingly if he does not acknowledge them? A forcefully plucked lemon is not sweet.
After watching the officials praise the Emperor, the Grand Chancellor speaks.
"It is a rational train of thought. You loved his mother, and she died before you could make her official. You have been protecting the child since his birth. You sent him to the academy." He pauses. "And the cherry on the cake—he is the chosen one."
"Chosen one?" The Emperor’s voice sharpens. "Is there a chosen one other than ?"
"Sire—"
"I understand. He’s the chosen one, blah, blah, blah. He’s a making of my action, so I’m the chosen one as well." His eyes narrow. This Emperor cannot be overshadowed by a chosen one. "And who cares about the prophecy and blatherings of an old dean? Does this Emperor look like he needs a chosen one to win the war?"
"Sire—" The Grand Chancellor sighs. You cannot go around insulting the administrator.
"What? He knows, and I know he’s listening right now." The Emperor sneers. "That voyeur." He lifts his chin. "Respect this Emperor and stop staring."
"So what happened with the kid?"
"He had a fight with the class of weirdos."
"Class of what now?"
The Grand Chancellor holds back an eye roll. Do you even keep up with your empire? You only care for your wives and sycophants.
"The class of otherworlders brought by the Dean."
"Ah, yes. The old man did ntion bringing troublemakers." The Emperor’s expression brightens with interest. "How are they doing? Causing trouble yet?"
"Plenty, Sire. They have caused enough trouble in the last three months. Recently, they mind-controlled scions of nobles so they could beat them up. This fight led to the ace of their class sparring with the imperial prince."
"Three months?" The Emperor’s brow furrows. "It’s been three months? So slow. I still have to wait nine months for the war to start."
The war needs to start so I can resu fighting and receiving praise. What greater joy is there than a cheerleading squad following to war?
"Sire—"
"Ah, yes. They fought with my child." He waves a hand dismissively. "Is that why you called for this eting? Do I look like I am that free to care about children sparring?"
"Sire, this is the proverbial straw that should break the cal’s back. The otherworlders in the past months have caused chaos in the empire. The one who took control of a rchant organization. The one who beca an SS-ranked adventurer out of nowhere and killed a saint—breaking the rules you set." He draws a breath. "And the worst of all, the professor who refuses to do his job of teaching the other set of otherworlders, leading them to cause chaos in the academy."
"That’s it?" The Emperor’s voice is flat.
Then his eyes widen. "Wait. Sobody killed a saint?"
Aww, they should have called . I rember when I used to kill saints. The only reason I passed that law was because I beca emperor. This Emperor can’t go out challenging saints, and since I can’t, no one can.
"I had called a eting to inform you, but you were busy, Sire."
"Oh, that’s why you had called." The Emperor’s expression shifts to sothing approaching sheepishness. "You should have told . Why must you call a eting to tell these trivial things anyway?"
"You commanded it, Sire." Was it not you who said you wanted your officials in full ceremony so they could flatter you as you listened to news you do not care about?
"Ohh, I rember now."
"What have you done about the troublemakers?"
"Nothing, Sire."
The Emperor opens his mouth to speak, then stops. He waves his hands.
"Worry not about them. The old man has it under control. And I was told my child did not lose. He did not disgrace this Emperor."
He turns his gaze to the assembled officials.
"And as for you officials—and to the nobles as well, who you should pass this ssage to—the empire, and by extension the academy, is not a place where you should hold your factions and connive." His voice hardens. "You know the rules. Strength over childish manipulations in these halls."
He does not have ti to play gas with children. So they should not play with him. They can plot against themselves, but dragging this Emperor into their plots will lead to death.
"YOUR MOST IMPARTIAL, RADIANT, AND ETERNAL IMPERIAL MAJESTY!"
The officials bow as they echo his titles.
"Is there any other news?"
"No, Sire. It is the ti of peace, after all."
"Is this the reason you did not summon my children?" The Emperor rises from the throne. "Because you believed they would be jealous of their sibling?"
"This one wouldn’t dare."
"You have to understand—not all my children inherited my magnanimity, talent, and impartiality." His voice softens, almost imperceptibly. "And it’s normal amongst children." Then it hardens again. "As long as they don’t sche against each other."
He gives both a smile and a warning.
His gaze finds the figure writing on paper. "Good. You’ve written nice things. Until they summon again."
The Emperor walks out of the hall. All the officials bow as they sing his praises.
This is life. The Emperor smiles, drinking in the praise. Ti to return to my sixteen wives.
He pauses mid-stride. I wonder when they’ll let marry again. I did offend them by getting a mistress.
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