A Few Minutes Earlier — Inside The Throne Room.
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The Throne Room of Brastovia stood as a monument to faded imperial glory, a vast and echoing hall whose sheer scale seemed designed to humble all who entered.
A long, deep crimson carpet stretched from the towering entrance doors all the way to the far end like a river of blood, its edges embroidered with intricate golden thread depicting ancient battles and rising phoenixes.
On both sides rose massive marble pillars, each one thick enough for several men to stand behind and carved with spiraling runes that faintly glowed with residual mana.
The vaulted ceiling soared so high overhead that its detailed frescoes of starlit skies and conquering dragons were difficult to make out clearly, creating an almost divine sense of vastness that made mortals feel insignificant beneath it.
At the very end of the hall, ten wide marble steps led up to a raised dais where the imperial throne commanded the entire space. The throne itself was a masterpiece of magi-tech craftsmanship — forged from dark obsidian crystal interwoven with veins of pure arcane gold.
Its high back featured a majestic tree with wide branches, the green leaves glowed with green arcane stones that seemed to watch over the room with eternal vigilance. The seat was upholstered in rich imperial purple velvet, trimmed with gold, while the armrests were shaped like the mouths of beasts, their claws gripping spheres of condensed arcane crystal.
The entire structure radiated an aura of absolute authority, yet today it stood empty, a silent reminder of the fragile power it represented.
Currently, the grand hall was not empty. Standing in a loose cluster below the throne steps were four figures, all dressed in fine attire that reflected their status and personal styles, each exuding a distinct temperament as they exchanged confused glances.
None of them understood why the Kaiser had suddenly summoned them so urgently after weeks of near-total silence from the throne.
A light cough broke the tense silence.
"Ahem…"
The other three turned toward the source. The speaker was a tall, burly man in his mid-thirties wearing a crisp military uniform in dark green with silver accents. His short black hair was cut military-style, and his square face bore a tiny scar beneath his left eye that was only noticeable upon close inspection. Cold green eyes flashed with restrained intensity as he carried himself with the disciplined aura of a battlefield commander.
This was Kurt Weissmann, the current and only General of the Brastovian Military, a man whose loyalty to the crown remained one of the few reliable pillars left in the crumbling empire.
"Do anyone of you know why His Majesty summoned us?" General Kurt asked in a loud voice.
The only woman among them, Isabella Hochberg, shook her head with a weary sigh. She was in her late thirties, possessing a refined beauty with long flowing black hair tied neatly in a professional bun and sharp black pupils that missed little.
She wore a formal dark blue dress suit tailored for court proceedings, complete with a high collar and subtle silver embroidery along the sleeves, projecting the quiet competence of a minor official.
"I have no idea why I was summoned," she admitted softly. "I'm only a minor official under the Ministry of Finance. This feels… unusual."
Beside her stood Heinrich Vossler, the Commander of the Brastovian Intelligence Division. He was a slender man of average height with sharp, angular features, neatly combed dark brown hair, and piercing hazel eyes that seemed to analyze everything around him.
His black and gray formal coat was perfectly pressed, giving him a calculating, shadowy temperament that fit his role perfectly.
"Same here," Heinrich replied in a smooth, measured tone laced with sarcasm.
"Though I did hear rumors. His Majesty didn't just summon us four. Word was sent to all the nobles and high-ranking officials. It seems the truly powerful ones considered themselves too big to bother showing up for the young Kaiser." His lips curled into a thin, mocking smile as he delivered the last part.
The fourth man, Theodor Falkenberg, Head of the Imperial Guards, nodded gravely. He had a leaned but althelitc build with a neatly trimmed beard, warm brown eyes, and a cold temperament that spoke of years battles.
He wore a deep black uniform, reflecting his role in keeping what remained of Brastovia's Imperial Guards and protecting the Palace.
"This sudden summons after such silence… it can't be good," Theodor added, his voice heavy with concern. "The situation is already dire enough without more uncertainty."
General Kurt Weissmann's face darkened with barely contained anger as he clenched his fists. "Those nobles and officials are nothing but traitors in silk robes," he growled, his deep voice rumbling through the hall like distant thunder.
"They bleed the nation dry, ignore royal commands, and now they can't even be bothered to answer a direct summons? If His Majesty is finally taking action, it's long overdue. But if they think they can continue their games while the kingdom burns…"
The conversation flowed with growing tension as the four officials exchanged theories and frustrations, their voices echoing softly off the high vaulted ceiling. Isabella expressed quiet worry about the financial strain, Heinrich offered cynical insights into noble schemes, and General Kurt highlighted the logistical nightmares caused by the four-front wars.
Kurt's temper continues flared repeatedly as he accused the absent aristocracy of outright betrayal, the group's discussion painting a vivid picture of an empire fracturing under the weight of internal rot.
Just as Kurt opened his mouth to respond to another of Heinrich's pointed remarks, the massive doors of the Throne Room swung open with a resonant groan. Golden morning sunlight streamed in dramatically from the hallway beyond, bathing the entrance in radiant beams.
Everyone instantly fell silent, turning as one toward the light. There, framed by the brilliant glow, stood Reinhardt, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette as the sunlight shimmered off his golden hair and light green royal uniform.
His long trench coat fluttered slightly as he stepped forward with measured confidence.
Alfred's voice rang out clearly and powerfully across the grand hall, carrying the weight of centuries of protocol.
"His Majesty has arrived!"
Immediately, all four officials dropped to one knee in perfect unison, lowering their heads in a display of formal deference as they shouted together with practiced reverence:
"Welcome Your Majesty!"