Lunch With The Emperor II

Why was Cecilia doing all this to torment her father?

Simple: revenge.

If Cecilia had genuinely wanted to introduce Arthur to her family in a proper manner, she wouldn't have orchestrated something this outrageous. She might have been bold, but she wasn't reckless. No, this was all carefully calculated chaos—a way to needle her father in the most infuriating way possible.

Cecilia knew exactly how maddening this situation was for Quinn. An audacious boyfriend, spending the night with his daughter, now casually dining with the family and boldly navigating the undercurrents of imperial formality—it was a perfect storm of aggravation. And Cecilia was reveling in it.

That wasn't to say she didn't also want Arthur to get along with her family. Marriage was in their future, after all, and it would be awkward to hate your in-laws. But this particular meeting wasn't about diplomacy. This was about teaching her father a lesson.

The moment she dropped her innuendo, her father's cup shattered in his hand, the tension in the air sharp enough to cut.

Arthur, to his credit, remained as composed as ever. Too composed.

Cecilia smirked, her thoughts alight with realization. 'I knew it. He's just pretending.' Arthur wasn't nearly as intimidated by her father as he let on. He was playing his part perfectly, but beneath that mask of politeness lay a quiet confidence that only made her admire him more.

For now, she would let the scene play out. After all, revenge was a dish best served with a side of chaos.

And, well, it's not like I'm lying, Cecilia thought, a sly smile tugging at her lips as she brushed her shoulder against Arthur's.

Her waist still ached—a reminder of the prior evening's intensity—and that was why she leaned on Arthur's arm for support. Sure, she could have used mana to steady herself, but doing so would have been far too obvious. Everyone would notice, and in her mind, it would feel like admitting defeat. Meanwhile, Arthur seemed perfectly fine, infuriatingly composed, as though nothing had happened.

But that was beside the point. Right now, her focus was on her father—and exacting her little revenge. 

Quinn had been meddling too much in her love life lately, and it was grating. Yes, she understood that his intentions came from a place of protection and care, but there were limits. He'd crossed them, and now, it was her turn to push back. 

She wasn't about to let his overbearing behavior slide without a response. Tolerating it would only encourage more of the same, and Cecilia Slatemark was not one to tolerate anything she found intolerable. 

And it was undeniably entertaining to see her usually stoic, unreadable father teeter on the edge of composure like this.

While Cecilia quietly enjoyed her little victory, Quinn, on the other hand, was simmering with barely contained frustration. Not that he let it show fully—years of imperial discipline had honed his ability to suppress outbursts. But this? This was pushing him to his limits.

The problem wasn't just the situation—it was the sheer audacity of it. Arthur Nightingale, sitting there with a calm, unshakable presence, made it nearly impossible for Quinn to mount any sort of verbal counterattack. What could he say, really?

By every practical measure, Arthur was an exceptional choice for Cecilia.

As Adeline had so helpfully pointed out earlier, Arthur's epithet was likely to be Zenith Blade—a title that spoke volumes about the heights he was destined to reach. And it wasn't just empty words. Arthur was almost certain to ascend as the Paragon of this generation, in an era filled with monstrous talent.

Ren Kagu, for instance, had talent akin to Liam Kagu, a high Radiant-rank legend in his time. But Ren's brilliance paled in comparison to Lucifer Windward's. And then there was Arthur—whose talent eclipsed even Lucifer's.

Even the matter of his three future wives, something that might have raised eyebrows, wasn't a major issue in Quinn's mind. Cecilia, despite her fierce possessiveness, seemed perfectly content with the arrangement, and that was what mattered most.

In imperial marriages, the Slatemark family usually expected their daughters to marry partners from powerful Marquis houses or higher. Adeline herself was an exception, having come from a Count family, but that was because Quinn had fallen for her—hard.

Cecilia, however, had managed something even more remarkable: falling for someone not only worthy of her status but also of her affection. And that someone was a Nightingale.

'Truly remarkable,' Quinn thought, his gaze lingering on Arthur. Like so many before him, he couldn't help but feel a quiet awe. There was something about Arthur—a sense of strength that bordered on the extraordinary, coupled with an undeniable aura of destiny.

He would only grow stronger, Quinn realized, as the years passed. Stronger, sharper, more legendary. And while that thought didn't entirely ease his irritation, it did grant him some grudging respect for the young man.

Quinn pursed his lips, his gaze steady on Arthur. "I have heard much about your strength but seen little of it myself."

Arthur met Quinn's eyes with a calm, unwavering composure that spoke volumes.

"Of course," Quinn continued, his tone measured but carrying a subtle edge, "I won't ask you to fight me. How about you duel with the Imperial Knights instead?"

The room seemed to hold its breath.

The Imperial Knights were not just soldiers—they were a cornerstone of the Slatemark Empire's power. Elite and unparalleled, their ranks consisted only of Ascendant-rankers and higher, forming the sharpest blade of imperial might. Of the Empire's 1500 Ascendant-rankers, a select 500 served directly under the Imperial family in ten divisions, each led by an Immortal-rank Captain. They were warriors of legend, called upon only in the gravest of crises.

Quinn himself had once commanded a division of these knights, deploying them to bring Marquis Orden to heel when the man refused to surrender Luke Orden for his descent into demonic temptation. But such actions were rare. The Imperial Knights were seldom used, not least because the Slatemark Empire was insulated from the black mana species plaguing other continents. Even the enigmatic Order of the Fallen Flame, situated within their borders, existed without direct conflict.

Yet now, Quinn wanted to see. To truly understand.

'Just how strong is Arthur Nightingale?'

From the sheer force radiating from the young man, Quinn already had a suspicion. 'He would likely wipe the floor with any ordinary Imperial Knight,' he thought grimly, his eyes narrowing.

That was no small feat. Not even Lucifer Windward, with all his monstrous talent, could boast such a capability. To find a real test for him, Quinn might have to consider sending a Vice-Captain, a warrior among warriors.

Quinn's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. The boy had gall, standing there so poised, so unshaken.

Arthur broke the silence. "I accept," he said, his tone steady. But then, he added something that made Quinn's brow lift ever so slightly. "But I want something in return."

Quinn's smile deepened, a mix of amusement and respect glinting in his eyes. 'Bold,' he thought. 'Very bold.'

"Name your price, boy," Quinn replied, leaning forward ever so slightly. "Let's see if you're as daring as you seem."

"I want the right for my guild to contend with the Twelve Great Guilds," Arthur declared, his words cutting through the air like a blade.

The table fell silent, and all eyes turned to him, wide with shock. Even Cecilia seemed momentarily stunned, her usual smirk replaced by an expression of disbelief.

Quinn's composure cracked. For a moment, he simply stared, then leaned back and laughed—a deep, rolling sound that filled the room.

"Arthur Nightingale," he said at last, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. "Do you even understand the weight of what you're asking?"

"I do," Arthur replied, his voice calm and resolute.

Quinn's amusement faded as his sharp, violet gaze locked onto Arthur. 'The right to contend with the Twelve Great Guilds...' The Twelve were no ordinary institutions. Each was a behemoth, entrenched in power and tradition, their foundations built over centuries. Headed by Immortal-rank Guildmasters, they wielded enough influence to rival the Council. Their dominance was not merely due to strength but also a carefully upheld rule—no other guild could challenge them directly for dungeons. This shadow rule had ensured their supremacy for generations.

'How does he even know about that?' Quinn wondered, his curiosity mingling with a flicker of annoyance.

"Then let me raise the stakes," the Emperor finally said, his tone sharp. "If you want the right to challenge them, you'll need to do more than spar with a standard Imperial Knight. You must defeat a Vice-Captain."

Arthur nodded, unfazed. "Understood. But I have one more condition."

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"You will keep this arrangement confidential. No one is to know my guild has the right to compete against the Twelve until the time comes," Arthur said, his gaze steady.

Quinn regarded him, his lips curling into a faint, almost predatory smile. "You're playing a dangerous game, boy," he said, his voice low and laced with both respect and warning. "But very well. If you win, I'll grant your request—and keep it a secret."

Arthur inclined his head. "Then we have a deal."