XXX. Emperor

Ox frowned, his hand on his chin, deep in thought. Like Wolman, he too had once led troops into battle.

"Right now, it's fantasy time."

Archer said this completely oblivious to the mood. Lord's job wasn't even finished yet, damn it, Aran was destroyed. Theory was theory, but the Emperor was no embroidered pillow, Emperor of Zhou.

No one dared to mention his real name. In the Western Continent, there was a superstition: if one's destiny was mighty, one must never call them by name, lest they be harmed by the invisible forces of fate, and be stricken with misfortune and ailments.

The Emperor was such a domineering man, calling him the mightiest man in the Western Continent wasn't an overstatement.

His tales were famous throughout the Western Continent, known to every household, purely because he was so overpowering.

Minstrels, driven by their wild adoration, would embellish the tales. They were the main spreaders of these stories, turning them into fantasies as they told and retold them.

The Monarch of Old Aran was incompetent, obsessed with Astrology and arcane mysticism, yearning for the Secret Power of bodily immortality.

Originally, the Emperor was an ordinary man, rumored to possess Qi strong enough to rival that of a Mountain Giant, but without ambition, content to be the mayor of his hometown's small town, not looking for trouble unless provoked.

That was when the Court Astrologer began to stir trouble: "Your Majesty, you're going to be slaughtered. This man, a descendant of the Overlord from two thousand years ago, would ride a Silver Dragon at the head of a million-strong army, marching towards the Royal Capital."

Dragons in the Western Continent weren't just giant flying lizards that everyone could ride; they were legendary creatures whose Dragon Breath could engulf all life in devastation.

The Monarch went stupid. Silver Dragon, where would one find that? Better to find this descendant and kill him first; no man, no dragon.

This descendant was, of course, the Emperor.

The Emperor was quickly found. Facing a vanguard of two hundred Iron-clad Heavy Cavalry, alone with an Iron Sword and dressed in only linen clothes, he slew seventy or eighty men. The remaining hundred or so terror-stricken soldiers beat a hasty retreat.

The Emperor figured he couldn't just stupidly let himself be killed. Fine, wait and see.

The Emperor couldn't think of a good plan for the time being. It wasn't easy to deal with the ruler of a country. Meanwhile, the townspeople began to flee, seeing everyone deserting him, they all ran off.

The Emperor couldn't sit by idly. He reassured his folks, "You don't need to worry, there's no need to abandon your homes. I'll go and chop up the Duke in charge of this area first."

Alone, with an Iron Sword, wearing just linen clothes, and accompanied by only a dozen or so poorly trained town guards, he went to storm the Duke's Castle.

As for why these dozen or so were willing to follow him, it was because the Emperor had a certain charisma, a charm, that anyone who encountered him would be instantly subdued.

As for why the Duke didn't send out troops in advance, it's because he, simply, did, not, know.

He thought they were an adventure group. By the time he realized what was happening, they had already killed the castle guard and stormed in through the wide-open gate.

These town guards, with the Emperor's charisma, turned into valiant gods of war, and together with the Emperor, they cut through the castle.

The Emperor was ecstatic. When he saw the terrified Duke, he got straight to business, "Lend me some troops to express grievances at the Royal Capital, yes or no, give me a clear answer, quickly."

The imaginary tale paused here, for in the early days, the Emperor was not well-known. The stories were various and vague, mostly speculative, with countless other versions.

After he truly started his rise, the later events were corroborated by all sides, more preposterous than fiction, terrifying beyond measure.

Compared to the events that really happened, the earlier ones were nothing but a drop in the ocean; however absurd, they seemed so real.

Because reality, the truth, was simply too overpowering.

A hundred thousand cavalry approached the Royal Capital. In fact, these troops were a mixed bag, including bandits and brigands gathered from far and wide, and soldiers borrowed from various nobles.

The Monarch of Old Aran was incompetent and ruthless. The nobles had long harbored dissent, and they lent troops to the Emperor only to use him as a pawn, a foot soldier, to test the mettle of the reigning Monarch.

The troops they lent were the sick and weak, the horses frail and feeble. Among the hundred thousand, only two or three thousand were clad in iron armor, the rest wore cracked leather armor weathered by severe wear.

The Emperor hesitated. The Royal Capital was impregnable, its walls ten zhang high, its defending soldiers' murderous intent piercing tens of miles, its dignity inviolable. Moreover, the Aran National Advisor had laid down a great formation; sending these wounded soldiers into battle was akin to sending them to their deaths, paving stones for the ambitions of the Great Nobles.

Among the troops were loyal men who had followed the Emperor on his campaigns; one of them, despite having lost an eye, still went to war, deeply moved by the Emperor.

But the Emperor made a decision.

He decided to withdraw his troops then and there.

The observing Great Nobles were in an uproar, and the world was shocked.

What a coward.

The Emperor abandoned his army and fled the battlefield on a fast horse.

His hundred thousand troops, already injured and weakened, were thrown into chaos.

The origins of these hundred thousand people were diverse.

The King was fatuous and unjust, believing slanderous accusations to capture and kill witches, boiling hearts to concoct immortal elixirs, leading to many because of slaughtered wives and daughters, officials and soldiers killing the innocent for recognition, and thus had no choice but to revolt.

There were also tenant farmers, who toiled away daily but could not pay off their debts, forced by the nobles to march to their deaths for the Emperor.

Endless numbers of wanderers who lost their homes and families due to the King's incompetence and internal strife among the lords.

All the tragic products of Old Aran's system had gathered here.

Such were their hardships, all carried the belief in overturning their fates as they came this far.

When the Emperor left, the collapse began from within, as if the sky had fallen.

Yet the one-eyed soldiers managed to stabilize these hundred thousand people, telling them the Emperor had not wished to create resentful spirits by leading them to their deaths. He went alone to confront the evil Dragon, to fulfill the Prophecy and end the dynasty of Old Aran.

Even if it meant starving to death, they would die here.

The hundred thousand formed a prison of their own, waiting for the Emperor's return.

One day passed.

Two days passed.

Three days passed.

Since the Emperor's whereabouts were unknown, all supply lines had been cut off, and no further provisions were being transported in; the remaining supplies could last at most three days.

Four days passed.

Five days passed.

Six days passed.

The Emperor still had not returned, and there was not a bit of food or water left.

Until the tenth day.

Dark clouds gathered heavily.

First, a fierce wind swept in, blowing sand and rocks about, and then the heavens roared as the wind shook apart the clouds, clearing the sky in an instant.

Then came darkness.

A massive creature spread its wings across the firmament, ten miles wide, casting a shadow as if to eclipse the sun, its majestic presence and thunderous dragon roars causing trembling in the guts, rending the earth asunder.

The Emperor did not ride the Silver Dragon; he had fought and wrestled it all the way here.

Huge chains bound the Silver Dragon's neck, its wings flailing tumultuously, until it approached the Royal Capital's gates.

With the chains tightening, the Silver Dragon's head was severed, and its colossal corpse, like a meteorite from beyond the skies, smashed through the city gates, drenching the City of Sin in a tide of blood-red.

A man stood upon the earth.

The Emperor emerged, bathed in blood.

The hundred thousand-strong army surged forward, capturing the Royal Capital in one fell swoop, heading straight for the court, killing the Astrologer, then beheading the Monarch of Old Aran atop his throne.

No nobles dared enter the Royal Capital, only sending envoys to negotiate matters.

At this time, the Emperor was just twenty-six years old, full of vigor, proclaimed himself Emperor within the Royal Capital, changing the country's form of government to an imperial system, completely reshuffling all nobles, great and small.

He conferred fiefs... throughout the lands.