Chapter 987: The Situation

A biting wind howled across the shield above the sea, the horizon of sky and ocean steadily receding behind them. The outline of land grew clearer by the moment, and communication with the North Harbor hub became increasingly stable.

Melita had clearly accelerated.

“Maybe it’s just the Mythril Ring malfunctioning,” Highlord casually remarked to the dragoness, though his mind was preoccupied with the shifting circumstances of Cecil and Typhon. “Talrond’s technology is advanced, but it’s not infallible.”

“Perhaps,” Melita replied, her tone distracted. “Either way, we need to hurry… something big is definitely about to happen.”

Highlord said nothing in response. He turned his gaze toward the distant coastline of North Harbor, staring silently for a long while.

Nearby, Veronica, who had been resting with her eyes closed, suddenly opened them. The “Saint Princess” rose thoughtfully, her expression briefly clouded with confusion as she looked toward the land.

But the look didn’t last. After a few moments, she withdrew her gaze and resumed her usual calm, almost inhuman demeanor.

…

Deep within the wasteland, the forest surrounding the impact crater—formed by the ancient empire’s city explosion—rustled with movement.

A towering pillar of blue-white light surged from the crater’s center, illuminating the dark, tainted earth. Within the dense “forest” growing around the crater, similar streams of blue-white energy flickered ceaselessly among the intertwined branches and vines. Countless bizarre “plants” twisted together like neural synapses within a colossal organism, spreading outward for kilometers from the ancient imperial ruins. The stolen energy flowed through this vast, tangled network like chemical signals and electrical impulses coursing through nerves.

Suddenly, the frantic flow halted. The light flickered erratically, as if suffering a short circuit, then dimmed in patches until the entire “forest” reverted to its shadowy, blackened state.

At the forest’s center, in the buffer zone connecting to the crater’s edge, thick smoke billowed alongside violent flashes. Over a dozen thick vines were severed and whipped into the air, snapping back like elastic cords into the forest. The “High Priest” Borken, who controlled these vines, roared in fury: “Twins! What are you doing?!”

A gust of wind swept in, and the figures of Filna and Relna appeared before Borken. Residual magical energy still shimmered around their hands. The elven twins spoke in unison: “We’re saving your life, High Priest.”

Nearby, the crater’s inner wall was charred where the severed plant structures had turned to ash. A massive energy conduit, once dim, was now brightening again.

Borken’s branches rustled angrily as his wrinkled face emerged from the bark. “What’s happening?”

“The efficiency of the Ophelia Matrix is recovering. It’s begun scanning and resetting the energy conduits. My honored High Priest—” Relna started, and Filna immediately finished, “It looks like she’s ‘awake.’ If we don’t want to start a war with the Iron Legion right now, we’d better leave immediately.”

“What…!” Borken was shocked, then his face twisted with rage. “Damn it, damn it… so soon… the catalysis was almost complete… just a little more…”

His branches shook violently, and the entire twisted “black forest” trembled with a terrifying rustling, as if the whole forest was roaring in anger. But Borken did not lose his composure. Realizing his fury was futile, he decisively ordered a retreat. The twisted plants uprooted themselves, disentangling their vines and branches. With a cacophony of rustling, the black forest shattered into countless fragments and rapidly dispersed across the wasteland.

“Stay optimistic, High Priest,” Relna said with a casual expression as she watched Borken’s angry command. “We never expected to extract so much energy from the conduits at the start. Though the catalysis isn’t complete, most of the work is done. The rest can be converted gradually. For now, safety is paramount.”

Borken turned to look at Relna and Filna, his yellow-brown eyes set deep in mottled bark. After a moment, he nodded. “You’re right.”

The black forest’s evacuation proceeded in orderly fashion. Borken and several senior prelates soon departed, but the elven twins lingered at the crater’s edge, quietly watching the vast pit that resembled a volcanic caldera, the massive crystalline spire at its base, and the blue-white energy beam.

They could sense the “inhuman soul” deep within the crystal spire slowly awakening—not fully conscious yet, but already opening one eye.

“Has she discovered us?” Relna murmured to herself.

“Not yet—the Ophelia Matrix’s direct detection modules were permanently destroyed centuries ago. Now, aside from basic damage alerts, it relies on the Iron Legion to monitor the crater’s surroundings,” Filna answered softly. “Our movements have been cautious, always staying in the blind spots of both the Iron Legion and the warning systems.”

“…How tragic,” Relna said, gazing at the crystal spire with a tone that was part sarcasm, part self-mockery. “Once the brightest star of the constellation, the most beautiful and wisest jewel of the empire… now just a restless ghost trapped in ruins and graves.”

“Such is the fate of the defiant—neither willing to bow nor to die,” Filna said quietly. Then, in unison, the twins sighed, “…Truly tragic.”

The wind stirred, dead leaves swirling into the air. When the wind and leaves settled, the elven twins had vanished from the crater’s edge.

…

Beneath the grand triple-spired roof, the vast council hall gleamed with gold and brilliance. Nobles, mages, scholars, and wealthy merchants sat in rows of fan-shaped chairs.

Bright light from magical crystal lamps poured down from the dome, illuminating the faces below. Perhaps because of the lighting, the faces of these dignitaries appeared paler than usual. Against their favored black formalwear, these pale faces looked like stones flickering in black mud—blind and meaningless.

A tense, oppressive atmosphere hung over the chamber—though it was usually stifling, today’s mood was heavier than ever.

A low hum of whispered conversations filled the hall. Small groups of familiar faces exchanged alarming rumors, but most eyes were fixed on the most special seat at the front—the royal representative’s chair, now empty, guarded only by two fully armored knights and several attendants.

Count Duller sat at his place, irritably twisting a large jeweled ring. He turned the gem inward, clenched his fist until it pricked, then flipped it back and forth—an empty gesture amid the pessimistic, despairing, or blindly confident chatter surrounding him.

The empire and the Cecilians had suddenly entered a state of war… rumors of traitors hidden among the nobility… the War God’s Church infiltrated by desecrators, with Pope Malm Dunit’s death shrouded in suspicion… purges and investigations underway within the military…

Dark clouds hung over Aldernan. The ignorant common folk remained unaware of the truth behind the city’s tense atmosphere, while the nobles and wealthy citizens had access to more inside information. Yet, to Count Duller, those whispering neighbors were no better informed than the peasants.

Just then, a voice came from nearby, a few seats away: “Count, did you know the Protectorate Knights entered the inner city yesterday?”

Duller instinctively frowned but composed himself before turning. He saw a portly, balding man smiling at him. The man wore a tight formal suit, a gold chain dangling from his breast pocket, and another holding a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his fleshy nose.

“Of course. That news has already spread among the council,” Duller replied with a neutral nod.

“Something big is coming, Count,” the man said, shaking his head, his jowls wobbling. “The last time the Protectorate Knights entered the inner city was over a decade ago…”

Duller maintained a polite smile and offered a few perfunctory words, though inwardly he was unimpressed.

Bolberg—a speculative merchant who had doubled his fortune riding the wave of magical industry in recent years. Aside from his father, also a moderately successful businessman, his family had no notable legacy beyond his grandfather. Yet men like him sat beneath the triple spires of the council…

Duller did not question the emperor’s decrees; he understood the need for such “seats” in the council. Still, he disliked speculators like Bolberg—money had inflated their egos far too much.

Such merchants no longer addressed nobles with the honorific “Your Grace,” opting instead for the more casual “Sir”—a clear breach of the traditions and etiquette cherished by the upper class.

Despite these thoughts, Duller maintained proper decorum, engaging Bolberg in trivial conversation. Half out of noble politeness, half because his cotton plantations and factories still did business with Bolberg.

Fortunately, the conversation didn’t drag on much longer. From the corner of his eye, Count Dule suddenly noticed the grand golden doors at the front of the hall swing open.

Immediately, the murmurs among the councilors died down to complete silence.

Princess Mathilda appeared, stepping through the doors in a flowing black court gown. Her long black hair fell straight down to her waist, and her bearing was composed and graceful. She cast a brief glance toward the assembly before fixing her gaze ahead and walking directly to her designated seat.

A group of attendants and guards followed closely behind her.

Many eyes were fixed on Mathilda, watching the empire’s shining jewel as she advanced. But Count Dule’s gaze quickly shifted to the soldiers accompanying her—and as he took in their appearance, a subtle change flickered across the Typhon noble’s expression.

Clad entirely in jet-black armor, their breastplates embedded with obsidian crystals that amplified magical power. Their helmets bore the royal insignia, and at their waists hung enchanted longswords and power-enhancing orbs.

The Obsidian Guard.

Since Count Dule had become a noble councilor, this was the first time he had seen the Obsidian Guard set foot in this very hall.

Instinctively, he turned his eyes back to the golden doors, watching as one by one, the Obsidian soldiers entered and silently replaced the guards who had been stationed throughout the chamber. And just as the last of the guards took their place, as if on cue, a striking young man with black hair stepped inside.

Prince Hadiren.

Count Dule saw the prince, commander of the Obsidian Guard, enter and then stand as if guarding the door himself. His gaze swept across the entire hall, as though taking attendance.

The council chamber, already hushed, seemed to grow even more deathly silent in that moment. And within that silence… there was something else—an unspoken weight hanging in the air.

Suddenly, Count Dule recalled the words of the opportunistic merchant who had spoken with him earlier.

This time… it really was going to be serious.

The next moment, Mathilda settled into her seat. She lightly tapped the table before her, and instantly, every pair of eyes in the hall was fixed on her.

“Esteemed councilors,” she cleared her throat, her gaze steady as it swept over the pale faces illuminated by the flickering lights and black formalwear, “today, we must discuss a matter of utmost importance to the future of the Empire.

“By the Emperor’s decree, in accordance with our sacred and just laws, and with the best interests of all imperial citizens in mind—considering the current state of war and the troubling developments within both the noble and ecclesiastical orders—I hereby, on behalf of the Typhon royal family, propose the following motion:

“To invoke the Emperor’s supreme adjudicative authority and temporarily suspend the Imperial Council.”

(End of chapter)