Ian ascended the throne as a boy.
And before he reached manhood, his head was severed.
That's how Emperor Ian Veroshion's life would be remembered. A fleeting reign amidst turbulent times, a young emperor who arrived like the wind and vanished just as quickly. Who would remember him?
A man entered the dungeon, gripping Ian by the hair. Though his face was a mask of blood, his eyes burned with intensity.
"Uncle Ian."
The man's name was Croni. A twisted family tree made him Ian's nephew, despite being twenty years his senior. With each tug of his hair, a bloody spittle dripped from Ian's lips.
"How did you end up like this? I told you. You lacked the qualities of an emperor, you should have refused the throne. If you had listened to me then, none of this would have happened."
Ian stared back at Croni, offering no reply. Displeased by the defiance in his gaze, Croni slapped him hard.
Crack!
"Even a thoughtless teenager should know better than to bite off more than they can chew! That magic of yours! What good is it now?"
Ian sighed inwardly.
Magic, the divine vestige left in the world, a power both sublime and formidable. It was the very reason Ian had ascended to the throne.
"Uncle, look! Your precious magic can't even stop a single kick from me!"
Thud! Thud!
He was right. The mana-sealing shackles binding Ian's limbs had reduced him to a helpless nineteen-year-old. Even if he could break free, death was imminent. The outcome was predetermined.
"One in ten thousand they say, the first noble mage, blah, blah, blah! It's all meaningless. Especially against this blade."
Swish.
Croni finally drew his sword. To think that even a deposed emperor, accused of treason, would meet his end in a dingy dungeon like this. A bitter laugh escaped Ian's lips.
"...Ha."
"Laughing?"
"...Yes. It's laughable, Croni. You haven't changed. Are you still envious of my magic?"
Croni's face hardened at Ian's words.
Just as rarity dictates value, so too was it with mages. They were few in number, perhaps a hundred in the entire Variel Empire.
It was unprecedented for a noble family to produce a mage in the history of the grand Variel Empire.
"I remember. When I was a child, a mere mana manipulator, ignorant of the world, you told me, 'Mages are rare, but most are born commoners. Hide your abilities, or you'll be cast out of the manor.'"
"...Ian. Why bring up the past?"
"Isn't it funny? Of course, commoners outnumber nobles, so naturally, most mages would be commoner-born."
"Shut up!"
"Why, are you ashamed?"
"I said shut up!"
Thud!
Ian's vision went black. Croni's fist had connected squarely with his eye. He collapsed to the floor, his head ground beneath Croni's heel.
"What does it matter? I'm standing here, and you're groveling at my feet. That's all that matters."
Croni pressed the tip of his sword against Ian's throat. Just as he was about to end it, a voice echoed from outside.
"Lord Croni. A message from Duke Hillon."
"...Is it urgent?"
"Yes. My apologies."
Croni clicked his tongue, removing his foot from Ian's head. He glanced at Ian's still form before exiting the dungeon.
How much time passed?
Click. Clatter.
"Your Majesty..."
The unfamiliar sound of metal and a familiar voice. Ian struggled to consciousness, opening his eyes. He lacked the strength to turn his head. He could only shift his gaze to see Naum, the Minister of Magic, tearfully unlocking his shackles.
"Your Majesty. Please, please wake up."
"Naum...what are you doing here...?"
"This isn't the time. You need to escape, you need to live. Your Majesty, please, find the strength..."
But the mana-sealing shackles wouldn't budge. Moonlight streamed through a small window, illuminating Naum's hands, raw and bleeding from his efforts.
"...Stop."
"Your Majesty?"
"...I want it to end."
"W-what are you saying?"
Ian smiled faintly, closing his eyes again. He vividly recalled his first days in the Ministry of Magic.
"Thank you. It was thanks to you that I, a mana manipulator, became a mage and ascended to the throne. Though my shortcomings led to this, you must survive and protect the Variel Empire."
"No. We can't. Without you, the Ministry of Magic has no meaning. So please, come to your senses and take my mana. If you die...if you die, it's all over..."
If he died, it would all be over. That was precisely what Ian desired. He was so tired, so weary, so utterly exhausted. The past three years as emperor had destroyed him.
"Your Majesty. Listen to me."
But Naum wouldn't give up.
He gently cupped Ian's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.
"There's a Ministry annex next to the main building of the Second Imperial Palace. You remember? The place you went to cry when you first arrived at the palace."
"...I only cried there once."
"Yes, well, anyway."
Why did he cry?
Ian frowned, trying to recall the hazy memory. Just then, Naum seemed to sense something and looked towards the dungeon entrance. Croni was undoubtedly returning.
"...I've unsealed the barrier. Hide yourself quickly."
"I can't. Your Majesty, go that way. If you go there, you'll find a way out."
"What do you mean?"
Naum only responded with silence. Ian could see the worry and concern etched on his face, deepened not by the dungeon's darkness, but by something else entirely. Clinging to his fading consciousness, Ian grasped Naum's sleeve.
"Naum, I asked you a question."
"I mixed my blood with the magic."
"...Naum!"
"I prayed for an answer. It told me that if you went there, it would open a path. I don't know why there, perhaps it's my lack of ability. Regardless, you must hurry."
The power of magic, defying the natural order by its very existence. The slightest imbalance could plunge one into the abyss. The papacy called it Hell, mages called it the Eternal Curse.
"You warped spacetime?"
"I had no choice. Your Majesty, so..."
"Why, why!"
Creak.
"I knew it. Even if we weed out the Ministry scum, it's pointless if the Minister himself acts like this."
It was Croni. Behind him stood the man poised to succeed Naum as Minister. Naum gritted his teeth, chanting a magic spell. The wavelengths shimmering from his fingertips, the chaotic patterns flickering, lacked their usual brilliance. The mana-sealing shackles binding Ian's wrists were too powerful.
"Naum! Please! Don't!"
"Your Majesty. It's alright. There's always, always a chance. The Gods don't give us problems without solutions."
Woooom!
Naum's magic circle erupted in crimson flames. But strangely, the fire wasn't directed at Croni, but consumed Naum's hand.
"Aaargh!"
"...No! Naum, wait! Stop!"
Ian cried out, lifting his head from the floor.
He had no attachment to his own life, but he couldn't bear to see those precious to him die because of him.
He only understood after becoming emperor. The weight of the crown was the weight of the loyalty of those who followed him. And it wasn't him who bore that weight, but them.
Whoosh!
"Ugh!"
Croni shielded his face with his left hand, barely deflecting the surging flames. If the mage behind him hadn't erected a barrier, his face would have been burned.
'Damn it.'
Meanwhile, Ian felt his consciousness slipping away again in the intense heat. As everything turned white with light, and even pain became distant, he noticed a metallic ringing in his ears.
Clang.
Croni's sword touched Ian's throat. This was the end of a three-year reign. He thought he had done his best for Variel, but those who were loyal to him were being slaughtered, and he was about to be beheaded.
"Ian. Don't be reborn in your next life."
With Croni's cruel words, everything vanished. The silence was profound, as if this was what death truly was. And then he saw...
'A fork and a knife?'
Held in his own hands, upside down.
Ian slowly raised his head.
His body felt heavy, but compared to the agony of the past few days, it was as light as air.
"Ian."
An unfamiliar woman looked down at him from across the table.
A sprawling garden, meticulously manicured flowerbeds, and a lavish spread of food before him. He realized everyone seated around him was watching him.
"Ah."
It didn't seem like Hell. Was it Heaven then?
But the scenery wasn't that different from where he lived. Compared to the Imperial Palace, it seemed rather...lackluster.
"What's wrong with him? Ian. That's rude to our guests."
"I suppose some people can't help but show their lack of breeding."
"Chel. Watch your tongue."
"Ian. Get a grip."
A plump boy sitting next to the woman spat harsh words, but Ian paid him no mind. The aroma of the food was too enticing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, trapped in that dungeon.
'...Whatever this is. It's driving me crazy.'
He acted instinctively. With a graceful gesture, he adjusted his grip on the cutlery and assumed the proper dining posture. Then, with more elegance and speed than anyone else present, he began to cut his steak.
"Hmm."
His movements were refined and dignified, a far cry from the person who had just moments ago been clutching a fork like a fist. His appreciative hum was low and restrained, not a hint of vulgarity.
The Margrave across from him, his stepmother the Countess, and his half-brother stared at him in disbelief.