Chapter 161 (Part I): The Requiem of Ambition
The Blood-Drenched Dawn
In the summer of 960 R.L., the Imperial Capital trembled under the weight of betrayal. Crown Prince Alaric Augustus, driven by ambition, had led ten thousand rebels to besiege the palace. His younger brother, Prince Chen Augustus, countered with a desperate alliance: the remnants of the Royal Guard, scattered City Watch forces, and the clandestine support of the Holy Temple. Amid the chaos, Chen emerged before the palace gates, wielding the sacred Spear of Longinus. Thousands of knights—rebels and loyalists alike—fell to their knees, their oaths resurrected by the relic's golden glow. Alaric's rebellion crumbled not by steel, but by the weight of broken vows.
"I am defeated not by battle, but by fate!" Alaric roared, his voice cracking. He pointed his sword at Chen, defiance flickering in his eyes. "Grant me a warrior's burial under the banner of thorns!" With a final cry, he drew the blade across his throat, collapsing onto the bloodied cobblestones. Dozens of loyalists followed him in death; the rest surrendered.
The rebellion's backbone shattered. Marquis Solomon knelt in submission; Count Raymond of the Rolin family, though fighting valiantly, was captured. Six thousand rebels were imprisoned, four thousand executed. The capital's streets ran red for three days.
Yet the official chronicles omitted a crucial name: Bennett Rolin. The shadow orchestrator, the man who had swayed the City Watch, vanished from history's pages—a deliberate erasure ordered by powers now ascendant.
The Silence After the Storm
Workers scrubbed the central square, their buckets sloshing pink with diluted blood. The City Watch, now enforcers of the new order, patrolled with grim efficiency. Bennett stood beside Chen, both staring at Alaric's corpse shrouded in the thorned banner of the imperial family. Blood seeped through the fabric, staining the embroidered flowers crimson.
"He didn't need to die," Bennett murmured.
Chen's gaze remained unreadable. "What did you say?"
"He surrendered to fear, not to you." Bennett's tone sharpened. "Those knights knelt to the Spear, not to your cause. Had he understood their loyalty, he might have rallied them. Instead, he saw their piety as defeat."
Chen's smile was a blade sheathed in silk. "You overestimate his clarity. Men drowning in ambition rarely see the lifeline."
Bennett pressed further. "Why let the rebellion unfold? You had the Temple, the Mages' Guild, the Spear… You could have crushed him preemptively."
Chen turned, his eyes glacial. "You know why. Some weeds must bloom before they're plucked."
Bennett froze. The unspoken truth hung between them: Chen needed Alaric's treason to legitimize his own rise.
The Prisoner's Pride
Count Raymond, bound in chains, stood unbowed. His armor dented, his face smeared with ash, he radiated the icy dignity of a fallen lion. Around him, City Watch soldiers hesitated, unnerved by his stillness.
"The Rolins do not flee like rats," he declared, tossing his sword to the ground. His gaze drifted to the palace walls, where Bennett watched silently. A flicker of pride—or regret—crossed Raymond's face before he turned to Alaric's corpse. "Fool," he muttered. "To gamble a kingdom on impatience."
As guards dragged him away, Bennett's chest tightened. The father he had once admired now walked toward a traitor's fate—a fate Bennett himself had helped seal.
The Throne's Shadow
Chen led Bennett through the palace's labyrinthine halls, now bristling with guards. The celebratory banners of the Summer Festival had been replaced by shields and pikes. At the entrance to the emperor's chambers, a gold-armored captain blocked their path.
"His Majesty requested only you, Your Highness," the man stammered.
Chen's voice turned lethal. "Step aside."
The captain retreated, sweat glistening on his brow. Chen's personal guards swiftly replaced the imperial sentinels—a silent coup within the coup.
The emperor's bedchamber reeked of decay. Emperor Augustus VI lay propped on silk pillows, his breath rattling like dry leaves. At Chen's entrance, the dying monarch raised a skeletal hand.
"It is done," Chen said, kneeling. "Alaric is dead."
The emperor's laugh dissolved into a cough. "You… always the clever one." His milky eyes shifted to Bennett. "And this… your shadow?"
Chen stood, pulling Bennett forward. "A partner."
The emperor wheezed, his gaze lingering on Bennett. "Rolins… always too proud… to see the knife coming."
Bennett said nothing. The room's oppressive air pressed down, thick with the stench of mortality and power's rot.
The Unwritten Legacy
As they left the chamber, Bennett glanced back. The emperor's silhouette, shriveled and powerless, seemed a mockery of the man who had once ruled a continent.
"History will remember today as your triumph," Bennett said flatly.
Chen's reply was a whisper. "History remembers only what we let it."
Above them, the Spear of Longinus gleamed in its vault—a symbol of oaths, a tool of manipulation. Bennett wondered how many more "truths" would be carved into its gilded lies.
The capital's bells tolled, mourning a prince, heralding an emperor. Somewhere, a scribe dipped his quill in ink and began to erase.
Chapter 161 (Part II): The Crown's Hollow Throne
The Emperor's Last Breath
Bennett knelt silently behind Prince Chen, his eyes tracing the withered figure on the throne. Augustus VI, once the Lion of the Continent, now resembled a gnarled tree stripped of its majesty. His imperial robes hung askew, his ashen face a map of decay. Most damning was the look in his milky eyes—not relief at his son's triumph, but fear.
Time congealed as father and son locked gazes. Bennett's pulse quickened when he spotted the sword hilt hidden beneath the emperor's trembling hand. The blade, clutched like a crutch, betrayed a truth: even in ruin, the old wolf still bared teeth.
"You… come to demand my abdication," the emperor rasped, each word a battle.
Chen said nothing.
A flush of rage stained Augustus's cheeks as he forced himself upright. "You've won. The capital kneels. You want the throne now?"
Still, Chen remained silent.
Bennett swallowed bitter understanding. Royal love is conditional. A crown prince inherits only when the crown permits.
The emperor's breath hitched. "Will you too force me into the grave?"
At last, Chen smiled—a serpent's grace. "Father, you misunderstand." He stepped forward, fingers brushing his father's crumpled collar. Augustus flinched, knuckles whitening around the sword.
"I am not my brother," Chen murmured, smoothing the robe with mock tenderness. "You remain emperor. But…" His voice hardened like cooled steel. "Your blindness nearly cost us the empire. Had I not intervened, Raymond's armies would've slit your throat as you slept."
He withdrew, bowing with lethal courtesy. "Rest. I'll tend to the realm."
As Chen led Bennett away, the emperor's hollow stare followed—a sovereign reduced to a specter in his own palace.
The Pen and the Puppet
Outside, Chen halted beneath the palace arches, confidence radiating like a new sun. Moments later, a trembling steward scurried forth, proffering a bloodstained cloth.
Chen unrolled the decree. "By imperial order, Prince Chen is named Regent, vested with full authority to govern…" The shaky script bore Augustus's seal—a stamp of surrender.
"Shall I call you 'Majesty' now?" Bennett asked dryly.
"Highness suffices," Chen corrected, though his eyes gleamed with unspoken ambition. "A regent rules. An emperor owns."
The Regent's First Edicts
News of Chen's ascension spread like wildfire. The nobility sighed relief—no mass executions, no rivers of blood. Only cold pragmatism:
Marquis Solomon: Stripped of titles, lands, and private armies.
General Jung's corpse: Buried as a commoner, his medals melted to slag.
Rebel soldiers: Disbanded, imprisoned, but spared the gallows.
Yet the true shock came three days later.
The Duke of Broken Rules
Bennett stared at the parchment bearing his name.
"Bennett Rolin—granted the hereditary dukedom of 'Rudolf,' titles of Royal Mage, Scholar Primus, and Crown Astrologer. Lands of his choosing, per the Regent's decree."**
The courtiers present—loyalists like scheming Baron Sack of the City Watch and the spy-master Camiciero—gaped. A hereditary dukedom? Such rewards were reserved for warlords who conquered kingdoms, not clever pawns.
Chen tossed a map at Bennett's feet, the empire's borders sprawled like a feast. "Choose. Any province you desire."
Gasps filled the chamber. Camiciero's face paled; Sack's jowls trembled. To grant a vassal unchecked territorial rights? This was madness—or mastery.
The Unspoken Pact
Bennett met Chen's gaze, the truth unsheathed between them: You bind me with gold to bury your secrets. The Regent needed a shield—someone whose meteoric rise would distract from his own climb to godhood.
As Bennett's finger hovered over the map, the ghosts of Alaric and Raymond seemed to whisper: All thrones are cages. Even gilded ones.
Epilogue: The Puppeteer's Laughter
That night, Bennett stood atop the palace walls, the Spear of Longinus shimmering in its vault below. Chen's voice echoed behind him:
"History will remember you as my blade. My shadow."
Bennett smiled coldly. "And you as the savior who spared the empire."
Chen's laughter was a dagger wrapped in silk. "Precisely."
Far beneath them, scribes etched new lies into parchment. The old emperor's sword, still clutched in his skeletal hand, rusted in silence.
Chapter 162 (Part I): The Gilded Cages of the Empire
The Death Spa
The Imperial Oversight Agency's prison, mockingly dubbed the "Death Spa" by the capital's aristocracy, was no ordinary dungeon. By law, the Agency held authority to investigate corruption among nobles and officials—collecting evidence like spiders weaving webs—but not to pass final judgment.
Its infamous inner sanctum, reserved for fallen titans of the court, operated on unspoken rules. Here, disgraced chancellors, ministers, and generals lived in paradoxical luxury. Though walls were damp and chambers cramped, prisoners dined on roasted pheasant, sipped aged wine, and even paid for courtesans' visits. After all, today's convict might tomorrow stride back into power. Guards tread carefully, balancing cruelty with servility—a dance perfected over decades of political tempests.
Bennett arrived at sunset, his white stallion clattering over cobblestones slick with drizzle. The Agency's compound, squat and moss-eaten, crouched like a toad among the capital's marble splendor. Its courtyard, barely large enough to turn a carriage, reeked of irony: the Empire's most feared institution, housed in the ruins of a conquered kingdom's palace.
Baron Robersky, the inner sanctum's weasel-faced overseer, scurried to greet him. "Your Grace! Had we known of your visit—"
"A private matter," Bennett interrupted, dismounting. "I've come to see Raymond."
The baron's relief was palpable. Of course, his twitching smile said, the prodigal son visiting his traitor father.
Ghosts of Fallen Kings
The inner prison's architecture whispered of dead dynasties. Thick stone walls, scavenged from a vanquished monarch's palace, swallowed light and sound. Torch flames bent sideways in drafts that smelled of old blood. As Robersky led Bennett through labyrinthine corridors, a woman's throaty laugh slithered from a cell.
Bennett paused. "The Spa's amenities live up to their reputation, I see."
Robersky blanched. "Ah—General Longbaton's cell. A… temporary indulgence."
Longbaton. The name ignited memories.
The Mad General's Legend
General Viktor Longbaton—infamous "Butcher of the West," "Two-Fifty General" (a mocking nod to his idiocy and brilliance in equal measure)—had once commanded the Empire's most absurd military burden: 20,000 cavalry stationed beyond the desert, costing a legion's ransom to sustain. A lowborn tactician with a taste for wine and whores, he'd ruled his isolated fiefdom like a bandit king until recalled in disgrace.
Now, imprisoned for backing the wrong prince, he'd apparently smuggled in a brothel's finest.
"Does His Highness know of this?" Bennett asked mildly.
Robersky's sweat gleamed in torchlight. "The Regent… prioritizes stability. Certain allowances ease transitions."
Meaning, Bennett thought, Chen allows bribes to keep rebellious nobles docile.
The Traitor's Study
Raymond's cell resembled a scholar's retreat. Bookshelves groaned under histories and military treatises; a steaming teapot sat beside inkwell and quill. The deposed count looked up, his face a mask of calm.
"Come to gloat, Duke?"
Bennett gestured to the Chronicles of the Northern Campaigns open on the desk. "Still plotting?"
"Merely studying past mistakes." Raymond's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Yours, for instance. Chen's pet wolf now wears a gilded collar. How long before he leashes you?"
Outside, rain hissed against barred windows. Bennett leaned close, voice low. "Why Longbaton? Why spare a madman who backed your coup?"
Raymond's chuckle was dry as desert wind. "Ask your Regent why he keeps rabid dogs alive. Even madmen bite enemies."
The Regent's Calculus
Later, as Bennett descended the prison's bone-chilling stairwell, Robersky dared a question: "Your Grace… shall I prepare General Longbaton for interrogation?"
"No." Bennett's mind raced. Chen's mercy made no sense—unless the "Two-Fifty General" was bait.
At the courtyard gates, he paused. From a high window drifted Longbaton's roar: "Another round! This cell's colder than my ex-wife's heart!"
Bennett smiled grimly. Madmen, traitors, scheming regents—all threads in Chen's tapestry. And he, the newly minted duke, would soon decide whether to weave or sever them.