Hearing this, Otis gave a cold sneer and slammed his flawless hand down onto the armrest of his golden throne.
*Crack!*
"Is that so-called 'Emperor' of Anzeta joking?"
"Supplying weapons to the Kingdom of Thrace! Doesn't he know Thrace is his inevitable geopolitical enemy?"
"And... more importantly, he dares refuse my friendship! What an invaluable opportunity that was! As a noble godblood, I showed him more than enough face, yet he dared refuse!"
Otis's tone grew increasingly incensed, his majestic, oppressive voice echoing throughout the vast hall.
"Foolish red dragon!"
In tandem with his fury, flames seemed to blaze within his golden eyes. Dark clouds gathered low in the sky outside, and rumbling thunder sounded as if a torrential downpour were about to break.
This was the manifestation of empyrean power. As proud scions of the gods, their shifting emotions could influence their surroundings, even materializing into unnatural weather phenomena that brought misery to nearby mortals.
Sensing their king's wrath, the Cassander ministers around him grew anxious at once, speaking over one another to calm him.
"Your Majesty, quell your anger!"
"It is merely a wicked dragon from the backwaters, hardly worth such outrage on your part."
"Indeed! You are the future Emperor of Fadlan, destined to rule all of Feanso. There is no need to lower yourself to his level..."
King Otis was proud.
Insolent, even.
This was well known throughout the Kingdom of Cassander, and across the entire Feanso Continent.
As a noble godblood and the eldest son of Aragorn I, Otis had enjoyed endless acclaim and adoration from youth. He considered himself Fadlan's natural-born ruler and held all mortal creatures in utter contempt.
Throughout his life, no one had ever dared refuse him.
Yet that "Red Emperor" who dared defy him had brushed aside his offer without a second thought, leaving a deep impression.
For days on end, Otis's unvented fury had kept a dark haze lingering over the Holy City.
Among the three monarchs, the eldest, Otis, was universally acknowledged as the most powerful. Yet he lacked the cunning of Wilhelm and the cool rationality of Elodie.
Navin Bessarius was deeply troubled. He knew that guiding foreign policy by raw emotion was a surefire recipe for disaster, and the Kingdom of Cassander was already slipping down that slope.
Chasing the rumor that "whoever holds the Holy City claims the imperial throne," King Otis had exhausted every resource to seize it, unhesitatingly waging war against both Thrace and Seleucia simultaneously.
As a result, Cassander, once the strongest of the three kingdoms, was having its strength relentlessly ground down, and the gap between it and its rivals narrowed day by day.
Navin harbored a thought that was audaciously treasonous:
The Holy City was no longer a proud legacy.
It was a wound.
A wound that bled the Kingdom of Cassander dry.
Yet what King Otis cared about most was still not the kingdom's interests, but his own vanity. It was utterly absurd.
*Perhaps... there is another way to steer His Majesty toward the right path.*
"Your Majesty," Navin said, stepping forward with a slight bow.
"As the eldest son of the great Sun Emperor, you are acknowledged across Feanso as the most exalted being on this land. That is beyond question."
"Yet that so-called 'Cinder Emperor' is nothing more than a simple-minded brute of a red dragon. He cares nothing for your status, nor does he comprehend how precious your friendship truly is."
Only then did Otis's expression soften slightly. The fire in his pupils died down, and the dark clouds in the sky began to disperse.
Navin continued respectfully:
"A red dragon possesses none of Your Majesty's foresight. In his greedy, shortsighted eyes, there is only one thing: gold."
"Wilhelm must have bought that dragon off with a mountain of coins to secure his backing."
Otis frowned with displeasure. "Did I not bring him treasure as well?"
Navin answered without hesitation, "As you know, Wilhelm is known as 'the Deceiver,' fond of stirring trouble from the shadows."
"He must have shamelessly offered far more gold under the table to entice that foolish beast into rejecting you."
Otis nodded in agreement at last and scoffed, "Hah. A cunning hypocrite and a shortsighted dragon."
Catering to Otis's pride, Navin chimed in, "Indeed. Combined, they are not worth a ten-thousandth of Your Majesty."
"However..."
"However what?"
Navin raised his head, his tone earnest.
"Your Majesty, I request permission to lead another diplomatic mission to the Cinder Empire."
Otis's face darkened instantly. "Why? That so-called 'empire' just slighted me. Am I supposed to rush back and invite further humiliation?"
"Your Majesty, hear me out, please."
"If that red dragon could turn around and back Thrace, his natural geopolitical enemy, all for gold, he can just as easily aid us for even more of it."
"Your Majesty, let me make one more attempt. Not just for myself, but for the future of the Kingdom of Cassander—and above all, so that you may restore Holy Fadlan and become a great emperor equal to your father."
Hearing this, Otis's pupils constricted slightly.
He wavered.
Compared to becoming Emperor, what did a fleeting burst of anger or wounded pride matter?
Once he possessed the power Aragorn I had wielded, any faction before him would crumble like clay and dry twigs. That puny "Cinder Empire" could be crushed with a flick of his wrist.
Otis's voice softened, and he leaned back against the golden throne once more.
"Navin Bessarius, I will give you one final chance."
"My baseline requirement is that you secure a shipment of those weapons mortals can wield. I hope... you will not disappoint me."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Navin bowed deeply, finally breathing a sigh of relief.
Having witnessed the coronation ceremony with his own eyes, Navin understood all too well that the Cinder Empire was no fringe power. It could exert immense sway over continental affairs, and its friendship might even determine Cassander's very survival.
He had to do everything in his power to forge a military alliance with the Cinder Empire—or at the very least, prevent it from leaning entirely toward Thrace.
...
The council adjourned, and the ministers took their leave.
Driven by Otis's venomous shouts of "Get out!" and "Go die, all of you!", even the guards and maidservants were banished from the hall.
The cavernous palace fell silent and empty, leaving Otis Aragorn entirely alone.
Slumped upon his golden throne, Otis buried his face in his hands, trembling with a mixture of terror and rage.
"No... no..."
"I can feel it... my strength, my life, draining away! It's actually draining away!"
He muttered incessantly to himself.
Through the gaps between his pale fingers, Otis's face was no longer flawless—a faint crack had appeared along the side of his cheek.
Otis feared neither the demons of the Abyss nor the devils of the Nine Hells, yet he was terrified of a minuscule hairline fracture.
This was the greatest terror harbored within his heart: he feared losing his current station, and feared even more reverting to a mere mortal.
"This means... I will age, and even die..."
"Damn it! I am godblood!" he cried out.
Then, as if clutching at a straw, he muttered in a frantic whisper:
"Right... as long as I perform the ritual, everything will be fine. I'll remain immortal..."
He looked down at his smooth palms, terrified that cracks would appear across them at any moment.
"There's no time left. I must unify Holy Fadlan as swiftly as possible and become the true Emperor of Fadlan. Only then can I regain Amaunator's grace."
"As long as... I can become the true Emperor."
Otis tightened his grip around the golden scepter that symbolized supreme imperial authority, speaking through clenched teeth.
Chapter 418