Chapter 138: Coronation [1]
Across the sweeping expanse of the Varanial Region, a single name echoed through every city square, border tavern, and noble estate:
Beastlighter.
By divine decree, the ancestral connection to the minor County of Frederek was officially severed.
Allan was no longer a child of a border Barony; he had become the patriarch and founding seed of a new imperial bloodline—
House Beastlighter.
From this day forth, every sovereign who inherited the golden crown of Varania would carry the Beastlighter name, acting as the living bridge between the mortal citizenry and the divine authority of the God of Beasts.
As the day of the grand coronation drew near, the six Duchies erupted into a state of joyous, chaotic movement.
Vast caravans of noble carriages, merchant guilds, and common refugees flooded the reinforced Varanite highways.
Thousands traveled day and night, eager to set foot inside the Holy City to witness the historic moment when Varania’s first crowned King would take his seat upon the throne.
The hotels were packed to absolute capacity, flags bearing the crimson emblem of the God of Beasts fluttered from every balcony, and the streets hummed with a festive, electric energy.
At the heart of the capital’s western district, tucked behind soaring white stone walls and lush, mana-rich grounds, stood the newly completed Beastlighter Royal Castle.
The grand fortress was a breathtaking fusion of raw fantasy grandeur and the sleek, hyper-efficient modern architecture of Roy’s former world.
Sprawling over a ten-hectare estate, the main palace featured fifteen luxurious master suites, three indoor and outdoor crystal-clear swimming pools, multiple opulent reception lounges adorned with polished obsidian, a massive subterranean battle arena for high-tier cultivation sparring, and even a sprawling, perfectly manicured golf course stretching across the eastern lawn.
It was a palace designed not merely for defense, but to project an aura of absolute, unparalleled modern sophistication—a realm where ancient magic met the sleek luxury of a prime modern age.
Inside the main palace, deep within the silence of the central Grand Throne Room, a single figure stood alone.
The chamber was massive, its soaring vaulted ceilings supported by colossal pillars carved from polished white Varanite stone.
Sunlight filtered through high stained-glass windows, casting vibrant, golden rays across the smooth obsidian floor.
At the far end of the hall stood the throne platform—a majestic structure linked to the marble floor by precisely twenty wide, sweeping stone steps.
At the absolute apex sat the Throne of Varania, carved from a solid block of deep-crimson Varanium ore, its high back fashioned in the likeness of a roaring wolf flanked by golden wings.
Resting quietly upon the velvet cushion of the empty throne was the official Crown of Varania—a pristine, heavy circlet forged from refined Varanium, encrusted with glowing mana crystals that radiated a faint, warm hum.
Allan von Beastlighter stood at the base of the platform, his hands loosely folded before his simple white linen robes.
His crimson fur caught the golden sunlight as his amber eyes stared up at the crown resting upon the high seat.
A quiet, disbelieving smile touched his lips.
Just a week ago, he was merely a timid, overlooked son of a minor border house in the rugged outskirts of Fenrir—a weak youth who spent his days avoiding the arrogant gazes of higher-born cultivators.
Now, he stood inside an opulent, modern castle built specifically for his bloodline, hours away from being crowned the absolute monarch of an empire.
’A King...’ Allan thought softly, his chest tightening with a profound mix of humility and unyielding resolve. ’Lord Varanus... I swear upon my soul, I will not let your divine trust go to waste.’
CREAK...
The massive, iron-reinforced double doors at the entrance of the throne room swung open with a slow, heavy sound, breaking the absolute quiet of the hall.
Heavy, measured footsteps echoed against the polished obsidian floor.
Allan turned his head toward the entrance. Walking through the doorway was a towering, majestic figure—a broad-shouldered Crimson Wolf-man wrapped in a sleek, gold-embroidered cloak that swept gently against the stone floor.
His dark ruby fur glowed under the ambient light, and his gold-flecked eyes radiated an aura of quiet, unquestioned divine majesty.
The moment Allan recognized the Apostle of the God of Beasts, his heart skipped a beat.
Without a second of hesitation, Allan dropped his eyes to the floor, bent his knees, and bowed deeply, pressing his right hand tightly over his chest in absolute reverence.
"Lord Jarden," Allan spoke, his voice steady yet filled with profound respect. "I did not hear your arrival."
Roy walked forward, his heavy footsteps coming to a halt just three paces away from the young sovereign.
His golden-crimson flecked eyes swept over Allan, taking in the young wolf-man’s humble posture, calm breathing, and the quiet, unshakeable determination resting in his eyes.
"Stand, Allan," Roy’s deep, rumbling voice resonated clearly through the vast throne room.
Allan straightened his back, lifting his head to look directly at the Apostle who had changed his destiny forever.
"You were staring at the crown," Roy noted smoothly, glancing up at the twenty marble steps leading to the crimson throne.
"Tell me... what do you feel when you look at that seat?"
Allan took a slow, measured breath.
He did not offer rehearsed, grand political speeches, nor did he boast of his future power.
"I feel the weight of every soul in this kingdom, Lord Jarden," Allan answered quietly, his amber eyes reflecting the light of the crown above. "It is not a seat of luxury to me... it is a duty. A burden I must carry to ensure our people never suffer, never starve, and never bow their heads to foreign oppressors again."
Roy looked down at the young man, a faint, genuinely satisfied smile curling the corners of his crimson features.
"Good," Roy said, stepping closer and placing a heavy, clawed hand onto Allan’s shoulder.
"Remember that feeling. The moment a King views his throne as a trophy rather than a duty, his realm begins to rot from within."
Roy’s gold-crimson flecked eyes flared with a subtle, radiant light as he prepared to bestow the promised blessing upon Varania’s first monarch.
"Now," Roy declared softly, his voice carrying a resonant, divine hum.
"Before the crowns are placed and the trumpets sound... it is time to make you a true Martial Warrior."