Investiture

"Let the ceremony begin—" As Cassius's voice fell, over a hundred half-red dragon heralds dressed in red-gold ceremonial robes and holding scrolls of hide appeared at the foot of the altar. Gazing at the scrolls covered with names, the imperial citizens crowding around held their breath, closed their eyes, and whispered quiet prayers. Whether human, tiefling, ogre, or hobgoblin, all were exceptionally nervous at this moment. Anticipation shone in eyes of every color, and hearts of various sizes thudded wildly. "Cassius above..." "May my name be on there." "Great Majesty, I beg Your benevolence—grant me a place among the dragonblood nobility." "I killed twenty-one demons all on my own! The lords in the Inspectorate surely saw my deeds. At the very least, I should become a first-class citizen..." "What's so great about that? I killed seventy-five! If someone like you can be made a baron, shouldn't I be an earl?" "Hmph, another fool padding his tally with lemures." Today, the Empire had a population of nearly ten million. Its system, refined through multiple reforms, had become seamlessly cohesive, far removed from the crude conglomerate of monster tribes it had once been. The lucrative honeymoon period of the nation's founding had also passed. The days when catching a spy or producing a minor invention could earn one a title of nobility were long gone; every single position now demanded fierce competition. Even for the lowest position—a dragonblood baron—over a hundred thousand decorated imperial citizens eyed it hungrily, vying fiercely for it. Moreover, the Empire had always prioritized capability—almost to an exaggerated degree. Virtually every post was filled based on merit, and rewards were distributed strictly according to military merits. Under such a system, attaining the status of dragonblood nobility without putting one's life on the line for the Empire was virtually impossible. Especially after enduring this brutal Abyssal war, nearly everyone who made the list was an ambitious striver who carried their head on their belt and cast their life to the wind. Only the most loyal, valiant, and powerful citizens were qualified to stand upon the Grand Altar of Isdalia and become the envy of millions. Suddenly, the Grand Altar slowly rotated, and pristine new seats emerged one after another from the gleaming white marble. *Rumble—* "That's..." "Look! The altar is changing!" "Dukes! The seats for dukes have increased! No, the quotas for every noble rank have increased!" At this moment, atop the lofty, majestic altar, the seats for dukes had expanded from three to nine—which meant this investiture ceremony would bring forth six new dukes. Instantly, hundreds of thousands of gazes locked onto the nine exquisite seats carved with dragon reliefs. Many gulped, their eyes brimming with endless longing. Though they knew they were utterly unqualified to sit there, those were imperial dukes! Within the Cinder Empire, an imperial duke was the most exalted existence beneath the Emperor. Nearly every duke possessed formidable power rivaling dragons, an extended lifespan, and peerless authority. Take the current three dukes, for instance: each could determine the fates of millions and even reshape the entire Empire's landscape. Trump oversaw the Empire's entire administrative apparatus; Duoluo commanded its vast armies; and Mezrolash controlled specialized forces like Nocturne and the Imperial Guard. Duke Duoluo once said that a soldier who does not want to become a general is not a good soldier. How could such power and status fail to make mouths water? The half-dragon herald standing at the forefront stepped forward once more. He wore a regulation crown shaped like dragon horns—a symbol of his right to proclaim the Emperor's grace on His Majesty's behalf. "Duke Trump." "Duke Duoluo." "Duke Mezrolash." "These three oversaw logistics, military affairs, and intelligence during the defense against the Abyss, serving as the master planners of our victory. In recognition of their merits, they are promoted to Special-Class Dukes." "Just as expected..." "Truly enviable." "Indeed. They are the three leaders who followed His Majesty from the very beginning, true founding elders—not like us Northlanders." "As expected of the Empire's three pillars. Even with more dukes appointed, their status remains supreme." "Sigh, if I had joined the Cinder Nest back then, would there be four Special-Class Dukes being named right now?" Amid gazes of envy, longing, or reverence from the crowd, the three dukes stepped forward, knelt on one knee before the red dragon, bowed their heads, and spoke with deep respect: "We thank Your Majesty for this grace." Afterward, with practiced familiarity, they took their respective seats at the highest tier of the altar. "If I could stand in that position one day, even dying would be worth it!" "Indeed, that is supreme honor." Looking down at the eager, tightly packed crowd below and listening to the noisy din, Trump suddenly felt a wave of poignant emotion, as if a lifetime had passed. *To think that, before I even realized it, the Empire has become like this.* Though he had long grown accustomed to such bustling sights, he still occasionally recalled the fortress from over a decade ago—so crude in retrospect—that primitive monster's lair. Over the course of a dozen years, his status had soared beyond recognition, while many of the Cinder scions who once fought beside him had perished in the relentless wars or had fallen far behind him. Take that chimera, for instance. It still dwelled like a beast in the caves of the Storm Heights. That said, it had over a dozen chimera mates, continuously birthing young chimeras for the Empire. Perhaps, for a beast, this could be considered a form of happiness? As for Jinya, the former kobold chieftain, he had fallen on the battlefield against the demons several days ago. It was said that he had been surrounded in midair by hundreds of cunning vrocks and torn to shreds. Now, after bloody family infighting, the kobold forces were primarily commanded by Jinya's thirty-third child, a dragon-blooded kobold named Baoya. Yet to Trump, now the Imperial Prime Minister, this was hardly a matter worthy of his attention; after all, the kobold race held very low priority in his eyes. The Empire had developed far too quickly, and His Majesty the Cinder Emperor—his own master—had grown at a pace even more terrifying. Trump had witnessed with his own eyes how Cassius transformed from an inexperienced young dragon merely five or six meters long into an entity whose wings blotted out the sun and sky, striking dread even into great wyrms. Though he had long been left far behind, being able to assist His Majesty in some small measure was enough to satisfy the ogre mage. Beside Trump, the habitually reticent Mezrolash suddenly let out a low chuckle. The tiefling looked upon the myriad expressions at the base of the altar and said in a rather relaxed tone: "Ambition, desire, longing... What a vibrant, bustling picture. This is the Cinder Empire, isn't it?" Duoluo also turned his head, grinning ferociously to reveal a mouthful of jagged tusks, exhaling plumes of scalding white smoke. "Only a realm like this can help His Majesty accomplish the grand feat of conquering the world. Feanso is already within arm's reach." Though they were usually at each other's throats with their respective factions clashing constantly, on this thrilling day, the three dukes maintained a rare veneer of peace. A smile also appeared on Trump's ugly face, and he murmured softly, "I wonder... who will become the new dukes?" As part of the Empire's uppermost echelon, Trump actually already knew the exact answer; he had even drafted parts of the proclamation himself. He simply did not know what revisions or adjustments His Majesty might make. The second half-red dragon herald stepped forward with scroll in hand, chanting loudly over the stirring, impassioned music of a satyr military band. "Marquis Alger, who led the Redscale Conquerors and the imperial dragon flights to fight valiantly, routing the Abyssal drake legions and repeatedly performing miraculous feats on the battlefield... is promoted to Duke." "As expected of Marquis Alger! He is the commander of the Redscale Conquerors and a veteran from the Cinder Nest era!" "Still, I heard... he was once a confidant of that old vampire." "What does that matter? Count Fried was once an attendant to Leo, who turned into a demon. The Empire never cares about pedigree—only capability." *Screeech—* Accompanied by a shrill eagle cry, Alger circled several times in midair atop his dragon-blooded giant eagle, holding the Everburning Greatsword, before descending onto the altar and kneeling prostrate before the red dragon. "I thank Your Majesty for this grace..." The half-dragon herald's voice continued, resounding across the clamorous venue yet reaching every ear with crystal clarity. This was not merely a magical effect, but the Ministry of Technology's mana loudhailers, which had already been widely deployed throughout the Empire, including but not limited to steam locomotive announcements, plaza proclamations, and bounty postings. "Count Anthony, who led the dragon-blessed paladins in repelling demon onslaughts, blocked a balor, and achieved illustrious military merits... is promoted to Duke." As the words fell, an uproar immediately swept through the crowd. This young dragon-blessed paladin had actually skipped several major ranks, leaping straight from count to duke! Yet last time had seemed much the same, when he was promoted directly from a commoner to a count. After all, the dragon-blessed paladins were the Emperor's scales and claws, His loyal longsword. "Great Red Dragon! This new duke is only twenty-one years old! Th-this is far too young!" "Right? Haven't you read the reports in the *Imperial Daily*? Anthony was a child rescued by the imperial army from the cellar of a Northland noble. Who would have thought that in just a few short years, he would become an exalted duke!" "What's so strange about that? Lord Anthony is the Grand Master of the Dragonvow Sanctuary, commanding hundreds of dragon-blessed paladins." "Cassius above, if only my child could show such promise! Once I get back, I'm sending him to take the Sanctuary trials!" Anthony's rise was well within Cassius's plans. Imperial authorities had long sculpted him into an archetype of a commoner reaching the pinnacle, embodying the "Imperial Dream" of countless citizens. His advancement broadcast a clear message: so long as you strapped your head to your belt and gave your life for the Empire, even a former noble's page could become a lofty duke. Could you not do the same? The answer was obviously no—they could indeed. Within the fortress-like ranks of the dragon-blessed paladins, two rows of paladins parted to the left and right, opening a straight path down the center of the formation. Holding his sword and shield, Anthony strode forward surrounded by his fellow paladins, coming to kneel on one knee at the base of the altar. Paying no heed to the murmurs and gossip around him, he waited in silence with resolute eyes. His heavy armor was bloodstained and scarred—the badges of glory from the battlefield. Cassius flashed a look, and Trump, standing atop the altar, instantly understood. He raised the staff in his hand. Immediately, an invisible force field materialized beneath Anthony's feet, gently lifting him. In mere moments, he soared nearly a hundred meters into the air, arriving atop the Grand Altar of Isdalia. "Dragon Lord..." Anthony stepped forward, kneeling before the red dragon with his head pressed deep against the ground, his eyes filled with piety. Only upon receiving Cassius's personal assent did he slowly rise and proceed to his seat in silence. Yet the sweat beading on his forehead, his thumping heartbeat, and the slight tremor in his legs betrayed the intense nervousness and excitement within. Though he had endured many hardships, managed the Dragonvow Sanctuary with Fried's assistance, and experienced bloody battlefields firsthand, Anthony was, after all, still just a youth. On an occasion such as this, no amount of excitement or tension could be faulted. "Misha, who slew several high-tier demons attempting to sow chaos in our cities and vanquished a balor on the battlefield... is to be conferred the rank of Duke." An even more ferocious wave of discussion erupted among the crowd, throwing the venue into instant uproar. "Sh-she was directly made a duke?!" "Cassius above!" "I've heard her name—it's that Daughter of Dragonfire!" This was a dragonblood duke! Within the bounds of the Cinder Empire, it was the highest status a mortal could achieve, and it was being bestowed directly upon her! Though many had heard of this "Daughter of Dragonfire" who repeatedly slew high-tier demons from the war column of the *Imperial Daily*, that was merely hearsay. After all, Misha's rise had only occurred in recent years; compared to those household-name heroes, she was still considered relatively new. Yet soon, soldiers from the military spoke up, their expressions fervent and their tone reverent. "You wouldn't understand! I witnessed Lady Misha's power with my own eyes!" "If not for her, our entire legion would have been wiped out by that balor! She is an imperial duke in every sense of the title!" *Hiss—* Accompanied by a sharp crack of detonating air, a scorching gale blew past as sparks and streaming flames danced. Space was abruptly ripped open into a blazing fissure. And from that dimensional rift, the tall, slender girl stepped forth. Misha wore an exquisite robe patterned with draconic motifs. Her crimson hair billowed behind her, surrounded by dazzling dragonflame, and an invisible aura of dread bore down. She looked about, faint light shimmering in her beautiful golden eyes, radiating the pride befitting the Emperor's kin. "Is this the Daughter of Dragonfire..." "As expected of His Majesty's scion." Before such an overwhelming presence, those who had questioned her moments ago fell instantly silent, meekly shutting their mouths. With a light tap of her toes, a pair of broad draconic wings unfurled behind Misha. Flapping her wings, she whipped up a gale that carried her a hundred meters into the air, landing atop the altar. "Master." Folding her wings, she knelt on one knee and spoke softly.