In the grand halls of the Imperial Castle, Emperor Ivan Solstern sat on his throne, lost in thought. His blonde hair, characteristic of the imperial family, shone under the dim light of the room, while his piercing blue eyes gazed coldly into the distance. A long, jagged scar ran across his face, a constant reminder of the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Rhaegal Aurelius, the late Grand Duke of the North.
The empire, once the strongest force in the entire continent of Veridia, had fallen from grace. Once upon a time, the Solstern Empire had stood unchallenged, the mightiest power in all the lands, feared and respected. But now, they were merely the fifth strongest, a fading power in the shadow of their former glory. The Elven Empire, ruled by the ageless and nearly invincible Emperor at the heart of the continent, now claimed the title of the most powerful. The Elven Emperor, a peak 5th-tier existence, held sway over the World Tree, the very source of life and magic for his people. And here Ivan sat, plotting in the shadows, yearning to reclaim the Solstern Empire's former dominance.
The thought alone made his fingers twitch, and his scar throbbed with phantom pain.
As he mused over past glories and the present humiliation, a clatter broke the silence. A porcelain teacup fell from the trembling hands of a maid, shattering on the cold stone floor. She gasped, immediately falling to her knees, trembling and clutching the shards in an attempt to gather them, her words tumbling out in a frantic whisper, "I... I'm so sorry, Your Majesty—"
But before she could even finish, the Emperor lazily raised a single finger. Without a word, the air around him seemed to pulse with dark energy, and in the blink of an eye, the maid's head was severed clean from her body. Blood pooled onto the stone floor, staining the pristine marble as her body crumpled lifelessly.
"Clean it," Ivan said, his tone devoid of emotion, his gaze never wavering from the distant horizon of his thoughts.
In an instant, a black shadow appeared—a formless figure cloaked in darkness. Without a word, the figure swiftly cleared the mess, the maid's body vanishing as if it had never existed.
Ivan exhaled softly, as if the minor inconvenience had merely been a speck in his day. He was about to sink back into his thoughts when a knock on the door drew his attention. A messenger entered the room, bowing deeply before presenting a scroll. "Your Majesty, news from the North."
The Emperor's face immediately twisted into a frown at the mention of the North. His hand absently traced the scar on his face, the one given to him years ago by Rhaegal Aurelius, the former Duke of the Grand Duchy. It burned, as it always did when the thought of that cursed family crossed his mind. Though Rhaegal had long since perished, his legacy continued to haunt Ivan.
The messenger stood frozen in place, awaiting the Emperor's reaction. Ivan snatched the scroll from his hand and dismissed the messenger with a sharp wave.
Unrolling the parchment, his eyes flickered with irritation as he scanned the contents. The North, under the young Marcus Aurelius, had recently stabilized. The greenhouse project had resolved the food shortage, and trade had resumed, bolstering the once-weak Grand Duchy.
"So, the little ant is managing to crawl out of the dirt," Ivan muttered, his jaw tightening as his fingers crumpled the scroll. Just hearing the name Aurelius ignited a flame of anger deep within him.
"Shall I deal with it, Your Majesty?" a voice whispered from the darkness. The same shadowy figure from before reappeared, stepping out from the corners of the room. Cloaked in dark smoke, no discernible features could be seen, but the aura of menace that surrounded the figure was unmistakable.
The Emperor's lips curled into a twisted smile, his fingers once again tracing the length of his scar. "No," he said softly. "Let him think he has won for now. Let him taste victory, savor it."
The shadow tilted its head slightly, waiting for further instruction.
"I enjoy watching the ants struggle," Ivan continued, his voice cold and calculated. "Let him rise. Let him build his little empire. When he's at the height of his success, that's when I'll crush him." His eyes gleamed with a cruel delight, as if he could already see Marcus's despair. "I will take everything from him, just as his father did to me."
The shadow shifted but remained silent, its presence a constant reminder of the darkness lurking in the Emperor's heart.
"Patience," Ivan whispered, his smile widening. "There's no greater pleasure than watching hope turn into desperation. He'll break, just like his father did. And when he does, I'll be there to tear everything away."
For a moment, he let the memory of Rhaegal Aurelius flash before him—those mocking eyes, the way the Duke had scarred him in that fateful duel. The Emperor's hand clenched into a fist, the anger threatening to overwhelm him. But then, with a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. There was a plan in motion, and he would see it through to the end.
The shadow figure, sensing the Emperor's dismissal, melted back into the darkness, leaving Ivan alone with his thoughts.
As the Emperor stared at the flickering flames in the hearth, a single thought echoed in his mind: **Victory is sweeter when your enemy believes they have a chance.**
And Marcus Aurelius, that little ant in the North, would soon learn just how false his hope truly was.