Grubert Veryon, barely more than an undisciplined boy cloaked in the mantle of lordship, found himself outmatched and overwhelmed.

  With the battle mech armor cooling off like a tired racehorse, and the fortress of Veryon lost its advahe stage was set for a spectacur fall.

  Grubert, inexperienced and ing in only the most superficial ways, suddenly became the ter of everyone’s attention—not as a bea of hope, but as a symbol of immi defeat.

  His father, Benjamin Veryon, the te duke, had left a legacy that now teetered on the brink of disaster. Their trump card wasn’t just spent—it was a bust, a dud that fizzled out uhe scrutinizing pressure of real threat.

  As eyes turned his way, the weight of expectation and the sheer absurdity of his predit fused into a paralyzing crity.

  With a shriek that could peel paint off walls, "AAAAAAAAH!" Grubert Veryon turail. Fear and horror painted his face as he sprinted, legs pumping in a ical dash for obscurity, his retreat as dignified as a fleeing a pie fight.

  In front of the overwhelming might of Emperor Burn, who could bme him? Uhat tyrannical gaze, anyone would falter, and Grubert did spectacurly so.

  The Veryon army, left leaderless and demoralized, felt their resolve crumble like dry bread. Knees buckled, swords dropped with resounding gs, as sank to the soles of their boots.

  The battlefield was not just lost; it was surrendered with a whimper, not a bang.

  All they could do was raise white fgs, their hands trembling, their spirits as broken as their line of defense. Surrender was not just an option; it was an unspoken plea for mer the merciless expanse of war.

  Burn sighed with satisfa as he eyed the battle mech armors.

  “I didn’t scratch them this time. It will be a good gift for our silly boy, Yvain.”

  ***

  [A couple of days ter]

  Chit-chat…

  Buzz…

  Ahhh, how resplely restored the throne hall of Edensor was. Magic had mehe scars of ret flicts, weaving stone and timber bato grandeur.

  King Yvaied upon his throne, presided over the court with a newfound aura of and that silenced any whispers of doubt that once echoed beh these vaulted ceilings.

  The young king was in the midst of uding a particurly enterprising young asked with the ignominious disposal of Duke Benjamin Veryon’s body.

  "And tinald," Yvain announced, his voice ced with a mischievous timbre that resohrough the hall, "whose creativity in dispatg the te duke’s remains involved strapping them to a mill wheel.”

  The nobles suddenly paled.

  “As it turned, so did the duke make one final journey, albeit round and round—a fitting end for one who trafficked in circles of deceit! Hahahahaha!"

  The court erupted in a mixture of gasps and wary giggles, the humor dark yet undeniably fitting givee Duke Veryon's notorious scheming.

  heless, disfort rippled through the crowd.

  A duke as rich, powerful, and respected as Veryon had been reduced to a mere disgrace, his remains further mocked as a ughingstock, leaving the nobles feeling uneasy.

  Their king had demonstrated that he could bee a tyrant if he chose to, and they realized they had made a grave mistake.

  The nobles were now… vigint.

  Yvain's capabilities appeared too dangerous; they were cautious not to press the wrong button, tread on the wrong tile, or speak their minds freely.

  Gohe days when Yvain was merely seen as a young figurehead to be dismissed or belittled. Now, he anded every room with the gravity of his presend the sharpness of his wit.

  Respect pervaded the atmosphere, a thick, tangible respect that draped over the shoulders of everyone present.

  But there was also fear.

  Eyes that once rolled at his decrees now watched eagerly, attentive and expet, ready to follow wherever their young king would lead.

  “Ahem, Your Majesty…”

  Duke Olfield suddenly raised his voice.

  Yvain turo the old man. Now that he had the trol of the ey of the high ranking he rest of the dukes and marquis were deg to stay in the capital for a bit longer, joining the court.

  “Let’s hear what our beloved Duke Olfield wants to say,” Yvain gave him the stage.

  "Thank you, Your Majesty. Now that the rebellion has been quelled and normalcy has returned, why do you still allow the Soulnaught Army to reside within our walls? Five my forwardness, but could you please enlighten me?"

  Seeing how the old duke had asked, and how many other nobles also had the same question in their minds, Yvain raised his eyebrows.

  “What’s the problem?” Yvain asked.

  "Your Majesty, your subjeo, the people of your kingdom—are being more restless each day. They are wary of these... guests," Duke Olfield cautiously said.

  “Is that so?” Yvain prodded.

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty, speaking of Duke Veryon—” Duke Merweather stopped his words when Yvain g him. “Ahem, ahem…”

  “What’s wrong with Duke Veryon?” Yvain pushed further.

  Marquis Reune decided to take a bold step forward and answered him. “His accusation toward His Majesty Emperor Burn before his death, Your Majesty—”

  “Ooooh, that?” Yvain chuckled. “You believe that?”

  "Let us be bold enough to ask, does Your Majesty truly believe that he was not responsible for His Late Majesty’s death? He accused him so adamantly, it might seem that Emperor Burn was indeed behind your father’s demise..." Duke Olfield began galntly, but his voice softened siderably by the end.

  "Didn't I expin that if Burn truly inteo kill my father—or anyone for that matter—he would have do on the spot, at the ation party?" Yvain began, his voice steady as he expined slowly in front of Duke Olfield.

  He paused, turning to face the assembly with a deliberate gesture. "Such a cowardly method, allowing my father to leave for home and then covertly taking his life in a way that would suggest natural causes, is pletely out of character for him."

  His eyes narrowed slightly, emphasizing his vi. "It's just not his style."

  The court somewhat agreed.

  "Even then, Burn has always beeype who prefers direct frontation. He's someone capable of handling the sequences, after all. Admirable, isn't he?" Yvain asked, his tone jolly.

  “But then, when hearing that there’s a possibility that Your Majesty’s te father was… murdered, we ’t stay idle!” Marquis Reune said.

  “Your Majesty… the fact that it was the traitor, Duke Veryon who said it, is suspicious…” Duke Merweather said.

  "Your Majesty, regardless of the circumstances, we should have held a trial for his crimes to clear any suspis. We ought to have pelled him to fess everything he has done and then broadcast the truth to the eion!" Duke Olfield excimed.

  "Oh, so you were trying to pin the bme for everything in the past on that pieeat in the mill wheel?" Yvain asked.

  Silence.

  Oh, so loud, the silence.

  "Which is it? Are y to sow discord between me and Burn, or are you attempting to absolve yourself of any past suspis and crimes by pinning them on our dearly departed Duke Veryon?" Yvain asked again.

  "Your Majesty… how could you—! Ugh!" Duke Olfield, attempting to refute Yvain's accusation, suddenly choked.

  He gasped for air, clutg at his throat as the mark of the magic pact of plete submission began to glow ominously above his head.

  As Duke Olfield struggled for breath, the other nobles watched in silent horror, their eyes wide with fear.

  The glowing mark of the magic pact above his head served as a chilling reminder of their own vulnerability. The air thied with tension as eaoble felt the weight of the binding spell that shackled them all.

  Whispers ceased and movements stilled; the only sounds were the soft rustlings of fabric as they involuntarily shrank back.

  Eyes darted nervously among the assembly, refleg a collective panic about the potential sequences of their own transgressions.

  No one dared to speak, and the grim realization that they, too, were uhe same unpromising spell, rooted them to their spots—a tableau of dread, bound by unseen s of magical obedience.

  “My beloved court,” Yvain softly addressed, “Who killed my parents?”

  Silence.

  “Was it Burn?”

  Silence.

  “Was it Veryon?”

  Silence.

  “Was it… any of you?”

  GASP!

  PANT!

  GRIT!

  Everyone uood.

  Yvain was using the mystery of his parents’ death as a shackle. Now that he had their plete submissions, whoever he accused of the crime would be punished, just like Veryon.

  He chose to punish Veryon immediately, without a trial, to obscure the truth, yet he was already aware of it.

  Even if Veryon had been his parents' killer, his death due to the crime of rebellio that the truth about the te king and queen's demise could not be fully uncovered.

  Therefore, the identity of the official perpetrator behind his parents' deaths remained unresolved.

  "Please provide me with crete evidence," Yvain suddenly said. "Clear, irrefutable evidehat someone murdered my parents. Until then, this case will remain in my heart as a reminder..."

  "...that I will rust anyone."

  A lone child.

  Burdened by the weight of aire nation.

  A lone child, with no one’s support, standing in the middle of a snake field.

  The nobles were silenced.

  Yvain smiled coldly, resting his cheek against his hand ohrone's armrest.

  Even if Veryon had been responsible for his parents' deaths, su act could not have been carried out without the knowledge of others.

  Surely, someohin the court, someone among the ranks of the nobles, must have been aware and chosen to remain silent. Worse yet, they might have actively colluded with Veryon, aiding him either before or after the fact.

  Whether their involvement was to help cover up the deed or to ehat everything unfolded acc to their sinister pn, including his mother’s death, remained a possibility.

  pared to Emperor Burn…

  Well, now Yvain thought that fag that man head on was easier for him than fag these old politis.

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