Duke Lucas of Kustoria knelt before the Emperor, his loyal knight commander standing unwaveringly by his side. The weight of the moment was palpable, the very air around them thick with tension.
"I, bearer of the Kustoria Emblem, Duke of Kustoria, Lucas Kustoria, Flame Emperor, Ruler of the North, hereby request that the Council of Nobles be convened within a week," his voice echoed through the throne room, commanding the space as the words left his lips.
A heavy silence fell over the castle. The request was not one made lightly. To call for the Council was a gesture that only the most dire of circumstances could justify—a matter of such importance that it threatened the very foundation of the Empire itself. The room seemed to freeze, the stakes so high that even the walls held their breath.
The Emperor, his gaze cold and calculating, nodded once, the agreement given with little more than the flicker of an eye.
The news spread like wildfire, a swift and unrelenting current that reached every corner of the realm. A royal mandate had been dispatched, its seal breaking the stillness of the night as it arrived at each of the ten noble houses and the three great associations. The Council of Nobles would be held next week. But with it came whispers and rumors, thick with suspicion. The people could feel the storm on the horizon.
Why was the Duke's castle in ruin?Was war on the brink?Or had something far darker stirred in the shadows?
Fears rippled through the citizens like a spreading plague. Farmers hoarded their grain, their hands trembling as they locked away their stores. Noble families fortified their castles, raising their walls higher, their hearts gripped with the uncertainty of what was to come. Every soul, from the humblest peasant to the most powerful lord, could sense the tension. A storm was coming, and none could predict its course.
The Council of Nobles was no ordinary gathering. It was a mandate—a call to the leaders of the Empire, each noble house and association forced to send their representatives to this grand assembly. The topic of the Council was always one of unimaginable weight, a matter that could shift the balance of power, and the last time it had convened was ten years ago. That was the day the Empire had decreed the abdication of all traitors who sought the throne, a decision that had shaken the realm to its very core.
As the representatives began to arrive, the atmosphere grew heavy, laden with the scent of anticipation and fear. The peasants, huddled in their homes, could feel the unease in the air. Their world, once so familiar, had shifted into something unrecognizable. This was no ordinary time. This was the beginning of something monumental, and no one could see what lay on the other side.
..............................…..
One by one, the representatives filed into the grand conference hall, their steps measured, their attire regal. Every stitch of their formal garments was a silent symbol of respect for the weight of the occasion. They took their places, seated in a perfect circle, a sea of power and prestige. Ten noble families, each holding dominion over vast lands and armies, stood side by side. These were the titans of the Empire, their influence stretching across the realm like shadows under the sun.
Beside them, three figures dressed in impeccable suits—their auras radiating with authority—took their places: the Pope, the Snow Knight, and the esteemed Dean of Empire University, Herald. Though they bore no noble title, their names were legends, their reputations forged in the crucible of battle. Each of them was a master of the arcane, their powers a testament to their strength—5 and 6-star aura masters, revered by all.
Behind each representative stood their trusted knight, silent and watchful.
As the last of the delegates took their seats, the hall hummed with murmurs, an undercurrent of tension weaving through the assembly. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken questions.
"Why in the hell would you even call for the Council of Nobles?" spat one of the lesser nobles, his gaze fixed on Duke Lucas.
Jealousy simmered beneath the surface. Many of the nobles present eyed the Duke with distrust—some his vassals, others mere opportunists, waiting for any sign of weakness. A few remained neutral, but only two could truly be counted as allies of the Duke.
Suddenly, a sharp, resounding BAM echoed through the hall, followed by the sounding of a horn, signaling the arrival of the Emperor.
The doors swung open, and the Emperor entered, his regal presence commanding the room. Behind him, the Crown Prince Ian walked solemnly, flanked by the Royal Knight Commander, Eric, and a cadre of knights—an unmistakable show of the Emperor's might. The moment they stepped in, all present rose, their respect for the Emperor undeniable.
"Sit," the Emperor commanded, his voice low and powerful, yet carrying the weight of authority.
Without hesitation, the representatives lowered themselves into their seats once more, the tension thickening in the air as all eyes turned to Duke Lucas. The Emperor, without delay, gave him the floor.
The Duke rose, his movements deliberate and controlled. As he stood, the long sleeves of his robe slipped back, revealing a scar that marred his right hand—a mark that spoke of unimaginable pain. A gasp rippled through the hall. Some recoiled in surprise, while others, the more seasoned, remained silent, their expressions unreadable.
"There exists a power capable of scarring a 6-star aura master," the Duke's voice was steady, but every word rang with undeniable truth. "A wound that even a 5-star aura healer cannot heal. A scar that remains permanent."
The room fell into stunned silence. Despite the animosity many felt for the Duke, no one,even the Emperor—dared to underestimate his strength. His presence, his very existence, commanded respect.
The Duke continued, his voice unwavering as he spoke of his encounter with the Vampire Queen—one of the Demon King's heavenly generals. Alongside her, stand the Wizard King and a mysterious figure cloaked in robes, a man whose very presence unsettled even the Duke.
"These damn fools dared to attack the Empire and ambush one of us!" shouted one of the nobles, his voice sharp with fury.
The Duke remained calm, his eyes cold as he spoke again. "If it had been an ambush, I would not be here now, speaking to you all," he said, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "They were simply there to talk."
A simple statement, but it was enough to leave the entire hall in stunned silence. The weight of the Duke's words hung heavy in the air, and even the Emperor's piercing gaze flickered with something akin to doubt.
The Emperor grinned, his mind already racing with the possibilities. Long had he dreamed of annihilating the neighboring nations, and now, he had found his justification. A potential war, a reason to strike—this could be his chance to expand the Empire's power and dominance. But somewhere deep in his heart, something fluttered. The presence of that mysterious man, the unknown power—was this truly the opportunity he had been waiting for? Or was it a dangerous threat, one that could bring them all to ruin?
And then there was Ian, the Crown Prince. His mind was elsewhere, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts and doubts, far removed from the weight of the Empire's fate. His focus was on something… or someone… far more personal.
The council convened, the weight of their collective decisions pressing down on every soul within that hallowed hall. After hours of heated debate, whispers of doubt, and fiery exchanges, one conclusion rang out above all others:
war.
The Emperor, his eyes burning with a renewed hunger for power, stood at the center of the storm, his voice echoing through the room as the final word was spoken. The drums of conquest had begun their thunderous beat.
And so it began—the Empire's relentless march to unify the world under its banner. With steel and fire, with magic and blood, the Emperor's vision of domination would take shape. The neighboring kingdoms, once content in their sovereignty, would soon feel the crushing weight of the Empire's ambition. Nothing could stand in their way.
The fate of the world hung in the balance, and as the Empire set its sights on its enemies, no one—whether noble, peasant, or king—could predict the tumult that was about to consume everything. The fires of war were lit, and the world would burn, reshaped in the Emperor's image.