Chapter 631: Nations in Turmoil, the Sacred Aola Empire
News swept across Bernardo like a storm.
From the Atlantis Continent to Arotala, from Thalassia to Halden, every channel of information was desperately relaying the same thing.
The Red Emperor of Aola had ascended to godhood with the body of a Mandate.
At first, no one believed it.
Ascend to godhood in the Material Plane?
It sounded like a joke.
The Material Plane is the primary physical plane, the foundation of all worlds; it does not belong to deities.
Deities should forge divine realms in the Outer Planes, dwell in nations built by worship, and cannot linger in the Material Plane for long. That has been an iron rule of the divine sphere since ancient times; no one had ever broken it.
However, as time passed, more and more details leaked out from the Rhen Plateau.
A transcendent divine body blotting out the sky, a crown of victory and glory, a Kantum Saint crushed to death by a single claw...
Each new piece of news struck skeptics like a sledgehammer.
They had no choice but to believe.
In an instant, winds and clouds rose.
A true god had been born in Bernardo, and right there on the Atlantis Continent.
All sentient beings realized the world might be on the brink of earth-shattering change.
Halden, Sky City.
The Central Hall remained as magnificent as ever, its stone pillars soaring, the dome inlaid with reliefs of heroes through the ages. Sunlight poured through stained-glass windows, casting mottled light and shadow across the floor.
But the King of Halden was not in the grand hall.
Real matters were rarely discussed in the great hall.
At the top of the Imperial Central Command sat a small meeting chamber.
Because of recent surface events, Fafnir had summoned several Mandates of Halden to discuss how the empire should respond.
The furnishings were simple; a long table occupied most of the space.
Fafnir sat at the head. His hands rested flat on the table, fingers interlaced, bright eyes slowly scanning every face present.
The atmosphere was heavy, like the air before a storm.
“The Bone-Gnawing Saint of Kantum was crushed by the Red Emperor’s claw on the Rhen Plateau,” Fafnir said slowly. “The Red Emperor awakened from dormancy and ascended directly to godhood, becoming a kilometer-tall divine body, and with a single swipe extinguished a Saint... The Bone-Gnawing Saint was no weakling.”
“To slay him in a single claw stroke far exceeds any previous assessment we had of the Red Emperor.”
“You are pillars of the empire; speak—what do you make of this?”
Silence.
The Mandates along both sides of the table either lowered their heads or frowned, but no one spoke.
The Red Emperor’s ascension had come too suddenly; no one was mentally prepared.
Each Mandate present had weathered countless storms and seen many greats rise and fall, but this was different.
A true god born in the Material Plane—this only appeared in ancient legend. Now it had actually happened before their eyes, and to the very Red Emperor they had evaluated, discussed, and even planned how to deal with.
Fafnir shifted his gaze to the blue-robed Fate Weaver.
The Fate Weaver did not avoid his look. He sighed faintly and said, “Your Majesty, after the Red Emperor’s ascension, his Fate Weight now overwhelms all of Bernardo. I can tell you this clearly: in that regard, there is no individual, no nation, that can rival him on the scales of destiny.”
The atmosphere grew even heavier.
Fafnir inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, tamping down the tumult of emotion, and asked, “Was there really no one who anticipated this?”
This was the second council convened specifically because of the Red Emperor.
The last time, they believed they had overestimated the dragon occupying the Atlantis surface.
Yet what they thought was an overestimation turned out to be an underestimation.
If only someone had said he could ascend.
Fafnir admitted to a twinge of regret.
Had he known the Red Emperor could ascend, for a being who might alleviate Halden’s crises, he would not have flung a Sky City at Aola over a transient grievance.
They could blame it on an accident.
But Fafnir knew such tricks would fool no true strong one.
The good news: Aola lacked proof Halden acted intentionally; the bad news: the Red Emperor did not need proof.
The Mandates had no ready answer to Fafnir’s question.
Fafnir did not press further. He closed his eyes for a moment; when he reopened them, the emotions were gone, replaced by a clean, composed calm.
“This matter indeed exceeds all our expectations,” Fafnir said in a low voice. “Even in Kantum, where a whole empire of orcs worship a single god, the faith flows to the deity itself, not to their Saints in the Material Plane.”
“Anyone who’s studied theology understands this.”
“Saints are merely agents; the worshippers never kneel to the agents themselves.”
“Nowhere in Bernardo has faith for an entire massive nation concentrated into one living being who also remains in the Material Plane.”
“There is no precedent to consult; it is unpredictable.”
At that moment, a voice spoke from near the far end of the long table.
“Your Majesty, allow me a word.”
The speaker was a tall, older Mandate, gaunt-faced with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes. He was Knox, known among Halden’s Mandates for his caution and rationality; he had argued last time against rashly attacking the Red Emperor, advising concern for the consequences.
Fafnir nodded.
“No one can imagine what lies beyond their cognition,” Knox said solemnly. “This is the shared limitation of all sentient life; no one is an exception. Before the Red Emperor truly ascended, no one seriously considered such a possibility.”
The blue-robed Fate Weaver inclined his head and continued, “Knox speaks rightly.”
“In Halden, the people are proud of the empire, proud of the glory of the Cloud City.”
“They cheer for imperial victory and grieve for imperial defeat, but their pride and loyalty point to the empire itself—the name of Halden and all it represents—not to any single individual.”
The empire’s Mandates, the King of Halden, even the empire’s immortals—none command unconditional faith from every subject.
Immortals have the chance, but they rarely appear; in most times they are like nonexistence, not much discussed.
“But Aola is different.”
The Fate Weaver continued, “That nation exists entirely because of their emperor.”
“To Aola’s citizens, the emperor is the origin of everything, the embodiment of order. They live to respond to the emperor’s will; they die to become dust beneath the emperor’s glory.”
“That relationship transcends ruler and subject.”
“Such soil...is what breeds faith.”
True, meaningful faith is actually rare.
A casual prayer asking a god for personal benefit is only a hope, not faith. Bernardo has long lacked fertile ground for faith, and even in other worlds faith does not easily converge.
Otherwise, the high gods would not have had to fight for worship.
Fafnir listened, eyes flickering slightly.
“At this point, discussing why it happened serves no purpose.” he said. “Whether his Fate Weight crowns Bernardo, whether the entire nation’s faith gathers in one being—these are facts we cannot change and need not be puzzled over further.”
“What we must discuss now is how to proceed.”
“If the Red Emperor has ascended, in theory he cannot remain long in the Material Plane—that is a rule of the divine sphere—but as long as he stays here even one day, he is an unrivaled presence.”
“And he may seek to eliminate any obstacles in a short time.”
“Even our Halden Empire would struggle to face his edge directly.”
“Direct confrontation is not an option.”
Fafnir now treated the Red Emperor fully as a god.
At that moment, Marcus straightened slightly.
He swept his gaze over the assembled colleagues, then fixed his eyes on Fafnir and said, “Your Majesty, I have had direct contact with the Red Emperor and gathered all evaluations from foreign envoys.”
“Considering all intelligence, I believe...”
Marcus paused to collect his words, then continued, “The Red Emperor is not a narrow-minded dragon; that is crucial.”
“Many strong ones at a certain level grow vindictive, treating every offense as a debt that must be avenged.”
“That mindset is common among the powerful.”
“But the Red Emperor is not such a creature.”
“When he rose to crown rank, he was attacked. Afterwards, he did not annihilate all the humans who offended him; he even incorporated some.”
“This dragon looks at outcomes and interests.”
“He cares more about how to move forward rather than lingering in past grudges.”
Marcus placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward slightly. “I believe Halden can still continue an alliance with the Red Emperor.”
“If we speak sincerely, lay conditions openly, avoid underhanded moves, and show sufficient respect and honesty, he will be willing to sit down and negotiate.”
“What happened with the Sky City was not put on the table.”
“And the Abyssal threat remains; we have common ground for cooperation.”
“As for specifics, I suggest sending envoys to probe first, under the pretext of celebrating the Red Emperor’s victory and awakening—to feel out Aola’s attitude.”
“If they accept, it means the door to cooperation remains open and we can advance from there.”
“If they refuse, we consider other plans.”
Marcus had barely finished when the shadows in the meeting room deepened suddenly.
Light was pressed down inch by inch, as if an invisible hand were twisting the room darker.
Paintings on the wall blurred; statues in the corners lost detail; even the faces around the long table were shrouded.
Then from the shadows a spectral figure condensed.
The silhouette was humanoid and tall, contours vague, features indistinct. Only a pair of eyes flickered within, dim like two faint stars.
All the Mandates rose at once, including Fafnir, and bowed their heads in salute.
Such honor was reserved for immortals.
Halden had two immortals, revered as Dawn and Dark Star.
Dawn watched for the royal bloodline, born longer ago, almost as old as Halden itself—a founder and cornerstone of the empire.
Dark Star rose from common origins and achieved immortality through imperial cultivation. His tale was sung by countless common youths and symbolized Halden’s dream.
Dark Star was younger but equally unfathomable in power.
The figure that appeared now was Dark Star.
The apparition twisted subtly.
Without pleasantries, his hoarse voice spoke directly.
“The Red Emperor of Aola has not truly ascended to godhood.”
“He stripped away worship at the last moment and refused the descent of the divine seat.”
Dark Star said, “He seeks the Path of Immortality, not the path of gods. Or more simply, he refuses to be bound by anything—including a divine title.”
The Mandates lost their composure.
But as an immortal, Dark Star understood the Red Emperor’s current condition clearly.
Ascend to godhood?
Across Bernardo now, practically no one in the Material Plane would choose to ascend.
First, anyone able to gather faith to the degree of ascension already possesses top-tier talent and fortune, almost certain to become an immortal without surprises.
The Path of Immortality is no easy road.
But deities are full of rivalry and intrigue.
Compared with ascending, immortality at least preserves the self. If one could be free, who would willingly wear a chain?
Some scholars who spent lifetimes studying gods and ancient immortals conjectured this:
In remote ancient times, the predecessors of deities were primordial immortals born with the multiverse. One immortal discovered the secret of faith and grew quickly stronger. Others followed.
The universe was chaotic and dangerous; immortals killed one another.
To avoid being surpassed and slain, many immortals, even knowing faith’s hazards, gathered worship and became gods. Some refused to be bound, holding to their individuality.
The gods’ ranks expanded, and pure unbound immortals could not survive; defeated, they became the so-called Primordial Wastes.
This conjecture may not be entirely accurate, but it stands on reasonable logic.
Meanwhile, Fafnir’s pupils contracted slightly.
Not truly ascended?
He turned to the apparition. “Dark Star, in your view, how should the empire respond to such an... emperor—one who rejected godhood?”
An unfaithful Red Emperor remained formidable.
His power still exceeded the Mandates, rivaling immortals, and he could accept worship again at any moment to become a true deity.
Yet at least the empire need not quake solely because of him; they had grounds for dialogue.
This was an improvement.
Dark Star’s gaze landed on the King of Halden.
“The empire’s decisions have always been your responsibility, Fafnir.”
“I neither have the time nor the interest to waste thought on mundane diplomacy and scheming. I came merely to give you the truth so your fear is not built on falsehood.”
“Fear alone is bad; fear built on lies is foolish.”
With that, the apparition quietly dissipated as it had come.
Light refilled the corner as though nothing had happened.
The meeting’s atmosphere shifted subtly.
Pressure eased considerably, but new questions arose.
If the Red Emperor had not truly ascended, how should they respond?
“Your Majesty?” Marcus asked in a low voice. “The Red Emperor did not ascend—should we change our plan? Adjust our posture?”
Fafnir considered for several seconds, weighing pros and cons and various possibilities.
Finally he shook his head slightly. “Prepare for it; this matter is your responsibility. In Halden’s name, celebrate the Red Emperor’s victory and awakening. Do not slack simply because you know he did not ascend.”
Even without choosing godhood, the Red Emperor now equaled an immortal.
Besides, he could become a god instantly if he wished—his current status was extremely special.
Meanwhile.
Thalassia Continent, Kantum Empire encampment.
Since hearing the Red Emperor’s ascension and the Bone-Gnawing Saint’s death, the Chosen One of the Red Tide had knelt before Bag’s statue and had not risen.
“O great Beast of Might, I beg your hearing.”
“Your loyal, humble apostle died in Atlantis. He fought for your glory, but was pitifully slain by the claws of a false god, becoming a laughingstock.”
“O undefeated sovereign, I beg your response.”
“Your loyal, humble apostle—his blood shall not be in vain; his sacrifice shall not be forgotten. Tear apart the false god’s glory, send down your wrath, and make that desecrator wail to death.”
“Let those who dare affront your majesty know you are untouchable; your fury cannot be borne.”
...
He had prayed like this for who knew how long.
From the moment he learned of the news he had knelt, sleepless, repeating his supplications.
But there was no response.
After a long silence the Chosen One’s spine trembled.
“O great Bag, do you feel ashamed of us? Do you think we no longer deserve your gaze?”
He lifted his head and looked at the statue.
The rough, majestic face remained silent in shadow, saying nothing.
The stone eyes seemed to look at him and also to look at nothing at all.
His voice grew hoarse. “Tell me what to do. How can I wash this shame away? How can I let the false god’s blood stain your altar?”
He bowed again, forehead to the ground, voice like a whisper.
“I will offer everything.”
“My power, my life, my soul.”
“If you speak, if you will look upon us again, I will die to bring down the false god’s ruin. If not enough, I have all of Kantum behind me.”
Still no response.
He lowered his head, spirit sinking, heart turned to ashes.
He began to doubt whether the gods had abandoned him, a thought more excruciating than any physical pain.
But after ultimate numb despair came a sudden surge of rage.
He shot his head up. Some time ago his eyes had turned blood-red, the whites threaded thick with veins. Alongside the fury came an odd calm.
In a blur he saw light.
The great Bag appeared before him.
Majestic, mountainlike; his whole being radiated divine glory that men dare not meet.
His voice boomed like a bell, shaking the sanctuary; each word seemed carved into the Chosen One’s soul.
“My worshipper, my child.”
“Your blood will not be spilled in vain, your prayers will not be forgotten, your loyalty will not be betrayed.”
“Offer sacrifices, present life and soul, pray for my coming. I shall come from afar and unleash destructive wrath, and you, my faithful worshippers, will receive eternity in my realm.”
The Chosen One wept with joy.
He had waited and prayed for so long—finally an answer.
His god had not abandoned him, not Kantum.
Bag still watched them and was willing to fight for them!
Hearing the oracle, he spoke with humble fanaticism: “Great Bag, I will exhaust every effort according to your guidance. With my hands I will pave your way, with my blood I will give you offerings. I will prepare all of Kantum’s power for your descent!”
The temple gradually calmed.
Only one pair of bloodshot eyes shone brightly.
Outside the temple.
Orcs with broken will had somehow stood up again.
Like the Chosen One, their eyes bore red veins, yet they felt energized as if filled with fighting desire.
Meanwhile.
Arotala, Nausil.
The Elven Queen suddenly felt waves of unease and frowned.
She stood on the palace terrace gazing at the jade forests and rivers, a weight pressing in her chest.
The orcs had been driven back to Thalassia.
The antidote to cleanse the Fury Curse had been perfected; the land was gradually purified, and the previously infected citizens were returning to normal.
Arotala and Nausil were both prospering and recovering.
Where did this unease come from?
The Elven Queen shook her head to dispel the vague worry, then looked to the Grand Knight before her and said, “Thalamond, go to the Atlantis Continent. In Nausil’s name, congratulate the Red Emperor on his awakening and victory.”
Thalamond was reluctant.
He frowned slightly. “We should aid allies in danger, give help when they are in need. Such belated congratulations are meaningless.”
The Elven Queen was silent.
She knew Nausil did little while the Red Emperor lay dormant, and now that he had awakened and triumphed they sent envoys to offer congratulations.
It looked hypocritical and opportunistic.
But Nausil would still have to deal with Aola, and some courtesy was better than none.
Moreover, though they had not helped, they had not undermined either—at least they had not meddled like Halden.
“You only need to go,” the Queen said earnestly. “Represent Nausil and show our goodwill.”
Thalamond was silent for a few seconds, then saluted in knightly fashion and departed.
Time passed unhurriedly.
At night across Aola, where a global storm had erupted, the kingdom overflowed with celebration.
Feasts honored the Emperor’s awakening.
Across the Atlantis surface, throughout Aola, banquets had been underway for some time.
From the capital to sleepy border towns, everywhere hosted feasts and cheers. In the Red Emperor Capital every street glowed with lanterns, revelers thronged.
Inside the palace banquet hall, the atmosphere was both solemn and jubilant.
Great long tables formed a massive fan shape, every table piled with rare foods from all over Atlantis. Barrels of exquisite wine passed between tables; the clink of cups rose and fell in waves.
Guests represented many races.
Great dragons, humans, ogres, werewolves, centaurs...
Different species sat shoulder to shoulder, laughing and chatting.
Across Bernardo, there was no other realm that could gather so many races in one place without chaos.
Garoth sat at the grand seat, in his normal red-iron dragon body. Massive wings folded along his sides, tail curled about the throne.
His eyes were half-closed, appearing in feigned sleep, yet radiating supreme majesty.
Conversations rose and fell in the hall, but almost everyone glanced unconsciously toward the main seat when speaking—reverence, worship, even devotion.
Garoth would occasionally open his eyes and take them all in.
As time passed, the banquet reached its peak.
After several rounds of wine and many courses, the guests grew louder and more excited. Then the dragon adjusted his posture from lounging to sitting upright and lifted his chin slightly.
The motion was small.
Yet it was enough to silence every conversation at once.
Eyes turned to the main seat. Cups hung mid-air, forks paused at plates.
The entire banquet hall fell from clamor to silence.
“Esteemed guests.”
The red-iron dragon’s voice echoed through the hall. “Today I invited you not only to celebrate my awakening, but to witness one thing.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping the hall.
He said calmly, “From this day forth, the Kingdom of Aola will be officially renamed the Sacred Aola Empire, and under a new imperial form will rule the three major lands of Atlantis.”
“My will shall be the border; my words shall be the law.”
“All beings under the empire’s protection, regardless of race or origin, who pledge allegiance to the empire’s order shall be citizens of the empire.”
“May the empire’s glory shine as brightly as sun and moon.”
When his words fell, the hall erupted in thunderous cheers.
The King of Theo rose and bowed deeply to Garoth.
His movements were grand; his voice trembled with emotion. “The Divine Kingdom of Theo congratulates the founding of the Sacred Aola Empire!”
“May the empire’s radiance be eternal as the blazing sun, may His Majesty’s will be steady as the earth.”
“Theo’s knights shall forever follow His Majesty’s banner; wherever the blade points, our hooves shall reach before the enemy! Our keen swords will be the first to strike!”
Garoth glanced at that king.
A stranger—no longer the face of the monarch Garoth once dragged from the royal court. Many faces had changed.
Among Aola’s vassal states Theo had risen early, now surpassing Reebos and Lothrian to be the first power after Aola.
One important reason was Theo’s early submission to Aola.
Once mocked as Little Aola, Theo now took pride in it.
Crucially, Rhein—Reinhardt—had elevated Theo. Thanks to this Mandate swordsman, resources flowed to Theo, and Garoth indulged the private desires of this Mandate.
Loyalty requires reward.
Garoth was generous in this regard, willing to share treasure and glory with followers.
Times changed.
Who would have thought the once-ridiculed Theo would now shine like this?
After Theo, other kings spoke in turn, warmly congratulating the Sacred Aola Empire’s birth.
Some speeches were long or short, ornate or plain, but the message was the same:
Recognize the Sacred Aola Empire’s status, accept continued allegiance to the Red Emperor, wish the empire and the emperor eternal prosperity.
At a table to the side, the blue dragon Alvia was silent.
Sacred Aola Empire...
In the draconic tongue, Aola implies brilliance and glory.
The ancient age when dragons ruled all worlds was also called the Sacred Aola Era, a time dragons nostalgically recall.
The birth of the Sacred Aola Empire signaled the reappearance of a Dragon Empire.
Alvia thought of her blood kin.
If Lamorein were alive to see this, he would be genuinely joyful—this was his lifelong dream and desire.
Alas, he could not witness it.
“The dragons of Helmod have already integrated into Aola.”
“My dear brother, they will witness the rise of this Dragon Empire for you. Under the Red Emperor, the dragons’ glory will be reborn; your ideal is being realized.”
The blue dragon thought silently.
Garoth nodded slightly to the assembled kings without delivering a long speech.
The banquet continued for about an hour more, the atmosphere growing ever more fervent.
Iron dragon Sorog looked toward Garoth and said, “Envoys from Nausil and Halden have waited some time. Halden sent Marcus; Nausil sent the Solar Grand Knight Thalamond.”
Garoth’s gaze sharpened.
“Bring them both in,” he said.
Sorog agreed and gave the order.
Shortly after, two figures entered the imperial hall side by side.
On the left walked Thalamond, the Solar Grand Knight clad in golden armor, his gait steady as ever.
On the right was Marcus, wearing dark brown leather over a muted cloak, modest among the elegantly dressed guests, a slight smile on his face.
They approached and bowed in unison.
“Your Exalted Ignas, I, Thalamond, Solar Grand Knight of Nausil, come by the queen’s command to offer congratulations.”
“Halden’s envoy Marcus, on behalf of His Majesty Fafnir, brings the sincerest greetings and congratulations to the Red Emperor.”
The red-iron dragon’s face remained calm as he looked to Halden’s Mandate.
Under his gaze Marcus stiffened inwardly, then spoke seriously: “Before my departure, His Majesty Fafnir specially instructed me to convey Halden’s most sincere apologies to the Red Emperor.”
Garoth asked, “Oh? For what does Halden apologize?”
Marcus showed contrition and regret. “Previously, one of our Sky Cities lost control during years of conflict at the Abyssal frontline. It deviated from its course and fell into Aola territory, causing the demons’ appearance.”
“It was an accident.”
“But it nonetheless harmed Aola’s lands and people. Halden bears inescapable responsibility.”
He paused slightly, gauging the Red Emperor’s reaction, then continued, “Fortunately, Your Majesty’s slumber was not affected. That is our greatest relief.”
Garoth’s heavy faceplate made his expression inscrutable.
“What is past need not be dragged on.”
It sounded like he did not intend to pursue the matter.
Marcus felt a rush of relief.
If the Red Emperor accepted this explanation and would not press the Sky City issue, Marcus could breathe easier.
He straightened and said, “Thank you for your magnanimity, Your Majesty.”
He then produced a scroll tied with gold-threaded ribbon from his chest and presented it with both hands:
“Halden values its alliance with Aola.”
“We share threats—the Abyssal rifts remain and the demon threat never vanished; we share goals—to maintain peace and order on the Atlantis Continent.”
“In this new era, Halden wishes to remain Aola’s ally.”
“Halden and Aola can stand shoulder to shoulder to guard Atlantis.”
“The union of the Cloud City and the land realm will become a force any enemy dares not face.”
Garoth listened but showed no intention of taking the scroll.
He lowered his gaze and regarded Halden’s Mandate. “There can be only one sun in the sky. One Atlantis cannot hold two great empires.”
His voice was calm, but the content stirred waves in listeners’ hearts.
Marcus’s smile froze.
His mind raced to parse the meaning.
Garoth would not accept Halden’s good intentions? Did he plan enmity? Or was this a test?
The banquet hall fell silent.
Marcus inhaled deeply, tucked the scroll back into his chest for the moment, and forced a smile.
“Halden fights for justice and order, day after day for decades.”
“We have stood on the Abyssal frontline resisting demons and never retreated.”
“Each Halden soldier, each legend, bleeds to defend Atlantis. Empires like ours do not ravage Aola.”
“Our two empires can coexist amicably and guard this continent together.”
“Your Majesty, Atlantis is vast. The heavens have their domain, the lands have their borders. We need not conflict.”
It sounded like a joke to Garoth.
He tilted his head back and laughed shortly.
Then the smile vanished and his gaze turned as sharp as a blade on Marcus.
“Halden fancies itself the guardian of Atlantis, perched above the clouds, peering down and claiming to resist demons,” he said coldly.
“But have you forgotten?”
“You invited the demons.”
“You summoned disaster, and then you stand before it swearing you resist it.”
Garoth sneered. “Halden’s crimes are monstrous. I have seen through your face. I will not consort with such an empire. You may continue playing saviors in the sky, but do not expect me to cooperate in your theater.”
At once, other kings chimed in agreement.
“If Halden chooses to remain in the sky, do not come down; the closer you get, the more repulsive you appear.”
“How much disaster did your Abyssal development cause? You know it well.”
“How many years have demons ravaged the land? How many have died? When did Halden ever take responsibility?”
Wave after wave of denunciations crashed upon Marcus.
He maintained composure in the face of the accusations.
He did not rebut.
Not because he had nothing to say, but because he knew arguing was pointless.
He had come to test the Red Emperor’s stance; he had now received the clearest answer.
Garoth did not intend reconciliation with Halden—at least not now.
Garoth raised a claw slightly.
Silence returned in an instant.
He said, “When Halden has fully solved the demon threat and prostrates before all life on Atlantis to beg forgiveness for the disasters you caused, then I will consider accepting Halden’s friendship.”
Marcus bowed lightly. “I will relay Your Majesty’s words verbatim to the central command.”
He paused, then added, “However others view Halden, no matter what price is paid, Halden will continue to fight on the Abyssal frontline for Atlantis’ peace.”
From Halden’s perspective, they had invited the demons—true enough.
Yet to Halden people it was an accident on the road of development, not moral culpability.
Even if they had not opened the Abyss, other causes might have produced similar result—the Abyssal threat exists objectively.
Halden was trying to atone; that did not mean they should be wholly condemned.
“I will not detain you further. Your Majesty, allow me to take my leave.”
“Withdraw.”
Marcus turned and walked toward the hall door, then disappeared.
Thalamond had watched the entire scene from start to finish.
Bowing his head, he said, “Highness, I once fought by your side, and again I thank you on behalf of all Nausil citizens spared death by you.”
He paused, showing embarrassment.
“When you slumbered, I foresaw danger and petitioned the queen to allow me to aid Atlantis.”
“Yet the Cataclysm Storm was not yet eradicated.”
“My knights and people needed me; I could not abandon them, and at the time I truly could not depart...”
Garoth raised his claw and interrupted him. “Thalamond, do not dwell.”
Nausil on Arotala had no conflicting interests with Garoth. Nausil had not meddled during his slumber, which was far better than Halden.
As for Halden, Garoth had lost interest in pretense.
When the time was right, he would declare war on the empire hanging over his head.
The solar elf inclined his head slightly and smiled. “Your Majesty’s broad mind is appreciated. I swear by my knightly honor that Nausil will never stand against the Aola Empire.”
Not long after, the banquet wound down.
The imperial declaration spread across Atlantis.
Citizens poured onto streets waving the red dragon banner; all across Aola the populace rejoiced.
Regardless of race or origin, they felt pride in being empire citizens.
People fully believed that the great Red Emperor, the lord of victory and glory, would lead them to unprecedented splendor.