Year 175 A.T.M (Ascension Throne Messiah)

  Trinil, Illemese Continent in the Eastern Annonrial Empire

  Darcshield Brunmar finished the meal, one made with all his mother’s love, with the same subdued air he’d shown as of late. The food, a dinner of braised chicken and various vegetables that had simmered for hours until the chicken was fall-apart tender, was exquisite. Each bite was a testament to the cook’s skill and care.

  And yet, it might as well have been ash on their tongues. The air in the dining room was thick and bleak.

  Pushing his clean plate away, Darcshield folded his napkin with deliberate slowness.

  “Thank you for the meal, Mother,” he said softly, turning to the only other person present in the dining room.

  Yelena offered a weak, fleeting smile that didn’t reach her eyes before her gaze dropped back to her own half-finished plate.

  Darcshield’s eyes then drifted to the third place setting, the one to his right. A plate, still full, held a perfectly portioned serving of the chicken and buttery mashed potatoes. A glass of water, its surface dustless, stood beside it, waiting for an expected guest who had not come. The silence that descended during the time said to be visited by descending angels was… suffocating.

  “…I’ll take it to Loran.”

  Darcshield didn’t want to ruminate for long. He didn’t want to.

  Rising from his seat, the young man moved to the sideboard, picked up a waiting tray, and carefully transferred the full plate and the glass of water onto it. The normality of the action felt like a mockery of the situation. With a final, hesitant glance at his mother, who only gave him a nod, he left the stifling air of the dining room behind.

  As Darcshield came to a stop before the door at the end of the corridor, he shifted the tray to one hand, gave a light knock, and called softly, “Loran? Dinner’s ready.”

  The non-response that followed was the same kind that had become all too common in this house, like an oppressive feeling that pressed down on the chest until breathing felt like an effort. He waited, half hoping for the shuffle of small feet. But no sound came.

  With a quiet sigh, Darcshield reached for the doorknob. It turned without resistance—of course it wasn’t locked. Inside, at the far end of the room, a small figure sat against the indigo glow of the evening sky. Loran, all of eight years old, sat perfectly still on a stool by the open window, his back to the door.

  Crossing the floor, Darcshield placed the tray gently on the small table beside the untouched bed.

  “Hey. You need to eat. Mother made your favorite.”

  “…Sorry……”

  Darcshield dragged another stool and sat beside his brother, not looking at him, but instead gazing out at the same patch of star-dusted heavens. “There is nothing to apologize for,” he said. “Just eat.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Slowly, Loran turned to his plate and picked up his utensils. Darcshield watched as the boy made quick work of the tender chicken and buttery potatoes, finishing every bite. When Loran drained his glass of water and set it back on the tray with a soft click, his brother still said nothing, content simply to sit there beside him.

  When he was about to take the tray and leave, giving Loran his space, the boy’s small voice broke the silence.

  “…Brother?”

  “Hm?”

  Loran’s eyes, wide and glimmering in the dim light, didn’t lift from his hands.

  “…The All-Wielder decides everyone’s fate, right?”

  “……He does.”

  “Then…” Loran’s small fingers curled. “Why did He take Dad like this? Dad’s a good man, right? He always helps people.”

  The older boy stared out at the stars, searching for words: “I don’t know, Loran. I’m sorry…”

  Father…

  Their father had served as a submariner in the Imperial Navy, someone Loran had proudly presented in front of his class the other day. But on that day, when a string of freak incidents occurred in their hometown, news came that the 069 submarine, where their father was stationed, had lost contact during patrol and subsequently been declared missing. That strange incident delayed the news from reaching them, but they eventually did. And it was utterly soul-crushing. After enough time had passed without word, everyone assumed the boat had been lost with all hands.

  Death was a destiny no one could escape, but for a man as earnest as their father, such an abrupt and violent end felt unbearably unjust. Even Darcshield had believed his father would one day pass away peacefully, surrounded by loved ones—not vanish into the cold depths like this.

  How had their idyllic life unraveled so completely? Just weeks ago, this house was normal. Now, the silence was a physical weight, and the only thing chasing Loran was a grief too large for his small frame. How to answer a question that had been gnawing at his own soul?

  Loran was sharp, already critical of the beliefs most would accept without thought. To answer carelessly would not help; it would only build a wall between them. Darcshield feared that if he couldn’t guide his brother through this downward spiral, it would lead to deeper wounds—ones that might scar them both.

  July 1, 1617 Central Calendar

  Alho Island, Southeastern Archipelagic Region of the Holy Milishial Empire

  From the open water, the city rose like a mirage at the bay’s southern edge, with glass and concrete catching the sun until everything shimmered gold. The skyline was a jagged rhythm of towers and cranes, while vessels of various sizes etched fleeting white trails across the glittering waters. And beyond it all, Mount Ophir loomed, its peak veiled in pale morning mist like an ancient sentinel standing guard over the restless city below.

  “Ah yes, Maypita. The Holy Empire’s very own Pearl of the Orient! Young Master, I must say, your summer itinerary is quite the daring lineup. But this one… I’ll give you credit, you’ve got taste.”

  Amidst the chorus of the speedboat’s whining engine and the lively ambience of Maypita Bay, the cheerful remark made Meteos glance back from the scenery toward the speaker in the passenger seat and deadpanned.

  There, seated at the very back, was Secretary Militiades Novachrono, the disguised persona of Princess Lugiel, the Holy Empire’s head spymaster. True to her redheaded fa?ade, she carried herself with exuberant energy, a stark contrast to the grace and reserved demeanor of her true, golden-haired self, who rarely appeared before the public except for important ceremonial events.

  “It’s still too early for theatrics, Miss Novachrono, which begs the question: why are you even here?”

  “Why indeed?” The secretary tilted her head and replied coyly. “I could ask the same of your companions, couldn’t I?”

  And with that, she gestured toward the group of young people gathered near Meteos: his girlfriend Nadia, who smiled bashfully; a grinning Annette; and the lively bunch of Walman, Kaios, Elto, Gabi, and Irmiya, all brimming with excitement.

  …The real answer was obvious: they were cooperating in restructuring their joint spy network across their respective destinations. While the White Lotus Leader’s personal involvement through the Temple of Heaven was one thing, Lugiel figured it was wiser to take advantage of the near-total destruction of foreign espionage within the Holy Empire to look beyond its borders, perhaps by assisting the less experienced Meteos in her area of expertise. Thus, people delegated the duty like Robin and Arthur were doing their part to hold the fort… also under the guise of vacation.

  “Well, it’s that time of the year again, and a summer vacation is best when spent together with friends! I’m also curious about what the others’ homelands look like, so I’m greatly looking forward to it!” Annette declared, the young lady coming to Meteos’ defense. Her cheerful remark drew chuckles from the whole group.

  “Such a sunny disposition.”

  “Young Lady, you make me blush.”

  “She’s so infectious.”

  Elto, Irmiya, and Gabi offered their own comments, respectively.

  Even so, Meteos mumbled under his breath, still sounding doubtful about how things had turned out.

  “Domestic tourism is one thing, but I still mostly think that giving permission to one’s daughter to go on vacation overseas is not an easy decision to make.”

  When he turned to Nadia, she met his glance with a nod, her lips curving in quiet agreement. The sea breeze tugged at her blonde locks as she gave him a look that said, ‘You’re not wrong.’

  His gaze flicked briefly toward Annette Pendragon, who had gone back to leaning over the railing with the wind in her hair, her eyes gleaming with childlike wonder. For someone born into the comfort of noble life, it was easy to forget that this was her first time beyond the borders of her homeland. No matter how much of a Good Duke her father was, the notion of Duke Pendragon allowing it all was, frankly, quite remarkable. Surely there was a lingering doubt borne out of worry that grew after the misfortune that befell his first daughter in this timeline, Guinevere?

  As the provincial capital of Malayo in the Eastern Maritime region of the Holy Milishial Empire, Maypita’s inclusion in Duke Pendragon’s approved itinerary was still understandable. However, over the following three months, Meteos dared to go further east, visiting the major cities of what were once deemed “less advanced civilizations”: Le Brias in Altaras; Esthirant and Duro in Parpaldia; Jin-Hark in Louria; Barrat in Quila; and finally, Maihark in Qua-Toyne. Although the Holy Empire’s broadened noblesse oblige policies and subsequent development this timeline had been (hopefully) improving conditions in these regions over the past five years, they were still areas once labeled the “barbarian sphere,” and traces of that old stigma lingered.

  Even so, Nadia and Annette especially…

  “Hm? Oh, come on, Meto! Don’t overthink it. We’re already here, aren’t we? Just suck it up and enjoy the view!”

  “You’re so carefree…” Kaios commented, having overheard the exchange.

  Walman also chimed in.

  “Yeah, no take-backs! Don’t start whining about wanting to go home later, you hear me!?”

  “Young Lady, next you are going to say, ‘What do you take me for, some petty sheltered girl?’” Meteos suddenly intoned.

  “What do you take me for, some petty sheltered girl—uh!? What just happened!?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

  Playing the part of the group’s supposed chaperone, Secretary Novachrono could only burst out cackling at their banter.

  “Hear that, Miss Secretary? No walking out of this—you’re stuck with the younglings from now on,” Meteos called her out, playing along with the charade.

  “Let’s make the most of summer!”

  Came the comeback.

  In the end, Meteos could only shake his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in reluctant amusement. “…I suppose there’s no helping it,” he said wryly, his tone halfway between exasperation and fondness.

  After all, his secret maneuvers as the White Lotus Leader had indirectly set all this in motion—so if he felt inclined toward a bit of self-reproach, he did have only himself to blame. Protecting his friends had simply become another burden to shoulder as the shadow ruler rising behind the world’s power balance, maintaining a double life while resisting Pestilence’s attempts to push him toward either extreme, knowing full well that even intangible ideas could be wielded against him.

  Turning to Nadia again, Meteos’ smile softened.

  “Thank you, Nadia, for deciding to spend the rest of the summer with me. I’m glad.”

  “No, Meteos, thank you. This time, let’s make sure to capture many memories,” his girlfriend giggled, lifting a camera.

  Anyway, Annette was right. It was Summer Vacation, “that time of the year.” Wanting to make up for the time he’d lost with Nadia because of work, Meteos decided to go all in and take her on a tour of the Far East to indulge her love of travel. Of course, since it wasn’t exactly a honeymoon, he couldn’t just leave out the young lady who was practically Nadia’s sister (Annette), and from there, the roster kept expanding until the entire apprenticeship teams of Robin Arkland and Adonis Roguerider were roped in as well.

  And while he was at it, being physically present in the Far East would allow Meteos to develop the White Lotus’ intelligence network, strengthening the region’s defenses against any subversive actions the Annonrial Empire might attempt, similar to what they had tried on Mu not long ago. His visit to Otaheit back in January helped render the plan stillborn for the time being, but Mu was but a country among many. There was always a possibility that chaos, caused by either Annonrial or some random petty squabbles, would start elsewhere.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  The shit the Messiah’s regime tried to pull off in Mu was a reaction to counter the Holy Empire’s eastward advances in this timeline, but being one of the weaker regions compared to the rest of the known world, the Annonrial Empire’s spy network should have flourished in the Far East—at least until Japan appeared in their path and began disrupting their operations. Without Japan, it was up to the White Lotus to handle those threats instead. Heh.

  Then again, between vacation and spywork, perhaps the priorities should’ve been reversed, though it hardly made a difference.

  ‘Spy network, huh… that’s probably it.’

  Now that Meteos thought about it, that might be the root of Duke Pendragon’s confidence in entrusting his daughter and foster child to him, knowing the White Lotus Leader would move heaven and earth to keep them safe.

  Indeed, Duke Pendragon was kind, not foolish, and his consent was not given lightly. As one of the Holy Empire’s most prominent families, the Pendragons also maintained their own private intelligence apparatus, known as the Blue Lions. Likewise, the other great noble houses that also stood at the helm of the Holy Empire’s vast business enterprises commanded their own covert assets, used not only to safeguard their modern ‘fiefdoms’ but also to wage fierce battles of corporate espionage and commercial warfare against rival conglomerates. Even the Roguerider Foundation could be said to follow a similar path, though in its case, the corporation itself served merely as a fa?ade for deeper intelligence operations: the White Lotus.

  However, for those great nobles who had seen the Temple of Heaven, their private spy networks had been integrated into the White Lotus’ broader web. Where rivalry once existed, coordination now prevailed under a unified framework. This, more than anything else, accounted for the Duke’s calm approval. With his Blue Lions incorporated into the larger whole, he gained a far clearer understanding of the Far East’s security landscape than any single noble house could ever achieve alone. His assessment of the risks thus evolved to factor in the White Lotus’ existence. That’s why, even when Meteos himself never used the Temple of Heaven to influence the Duke in this matter, considering it borderline frivolous, the Duke’s own calculations ended up with his blessing.

  Furthermore, that confidence was reinforced by the fact that Meteos had gone to great lengths to ensure his friends’ safety, not just by preparing for a security detail, but also by equipping them with personal tools for self-defense in a very Meteos-like way of doing things. Cutting-edge magical technology, if you will. He only hoped they’d never have to use them.

  ?????

  As expected, the lively summer vacation group began their two-week stay in the city by trying to soak up every bit of the atmosphere they could—dragging Meteos and Secretary Novachrono around to all the famous landmarks they could find before even checking in on their lodgings! …Well, not that it was a real issue.

  Within the Holy Milishial Empire, Malayo Province, where the city was situated, was a unique region and a treasure trove for anthropologists. Why? In ancient times, it had been first inhabited by a people whose cultural roots did not originate from the Middle Lands; rather, they had migrated northward from the Vestal Continent. In fact, the Malago Archipelago marked the farthest reach of that migration, hence the Holy Empire’s name for the province, which was derived from the local term for “faraway lands.”

  Unfortunately, this also meant that after the Winged People slowly, but completely, rendered the Vestal region barren of intelligent life in their bid to form a moat separating their sphere of influence from the known world, the Malayonians became the last surviving descendants of the Vestalian peoples. Their survival was owed only to their proximity to the Middle Lands, which were embroiled in the Warring Kingdoms Period at the time. Yet even though they escaped extinction, they still fell under the weight of colonization.

  “One might expect that a nation with such a past would lean more strongly toward self-determination, yet here we are,” Meteos remarked from the rooftop of their hotel. He was finishing his preparations for the White Lotus quest, several hours after ensuring his exhausted friends were fast asleep thanks to his Angel Fruit concoction.

  Free of side effects—and even beneficial to one’s health—the fruit was practically a cheat item, with its rarity and staggering price justified by the few places it could grow.

  “…Am I perhaps mistaken?”

  With a meaningful gaze, he turned to Lugiel, who stood by a water tank with her arms crossed, watching the reincarnator finish equipping himself.

  “Quite an insightful remark. You’re not just thoughtlessly swallowing the official story, I see,” the princess teased with a grin, though her tone carried genuine approval.

  “Well, I suppose hindsight gives me that edge,” Meteos said with a self-deprecating shrug. “Without my visions of the future, I might’ve been one of those who believed in my country, right or wrong. But even for the mightiest superpower, the Holy Empire’s immense pride is like fuel—waiting for a spark to burn everything down.”

  “Hmm…”

  Lugiel let out a thoughtful hum and joined the silver-haired young man in gazing at the view of the old walled town.

  “But surely you know your own country’s history?”

  “Aye,” Meteos affirmed wryly.

  Sometime during the Warring Kingdoms Period, the historical polities of Malayo were subjugated by Rusalka, one of the powers vying for supremacy of the Middle Lands, and reduced to a colony. This was the same Rusalka founded and ruled by the Heretic King, who had sought to resurrect the Ancient Sorcerous Empire and whose legacy inspired numerous Devil-worshipping cults throughout the Holy Empire’s modern history—an antithesis of everything the Holy Empire stands for. As he destroyed Rusalka, not wanting to risk the rise of another nation that might follow in the Heretic King’s footsteps so near his newly born empire, Lucius of the Morning Star resolved to purge all traces of the Heretic King’s teachings, holding tightly onto all regions impacted and never letting go.

  The secretive cabal that backed the Emperor, the Order of the Ancients, fulfilled his wish to maintain order without resorting to bloodshed. They moved to suppress the independence movements in Malayo, which were driven by covert adorers of the Heretic King, while also swaying public sentiment. Cleansing such corruption with precision, all while providing comfort to the common folk, proved far more arduous than an outright massacre—but after several centuries passed, in the end the effort was worthwhile.

  “In the end, our machinations determined this land’s fate—binding it as part of the August Star of Heaven…” Lugiel remarked, before turning to stare intently at Meteos. “Given that history, do you believe my predecessors’ decisions leading to this point were the ‘right’ solution?”

  Meteos scoffed with mirth as he adjusted his gloves. “Even I know that steering a country cannot be oversimplified by notions of ‘right’ or ‘wrong.’ They are luxuries, something only hindsight can comfortably determine. At the moment of decision, a ruler has only necessity, stability, and survival. But at the same time, the ‘ideal’ solution to any problem seems to evolve with the passage of time. The perfect fix for yesterday becomes today’s burden, and today’s necessary evil becomes the foundation for tomorrow’s peace. But we can only ever build upon the past decisions, however flawed they may seem now.”

  He went on.

  “Consider the current world order. The Civilization Areas, the expanding hegemony of the Holy Empire… this is the Morning Star Emperor’s grand design. It is his way to forge a strong, united front against the inevitable revival of the Ancient Sorcerous Empire. But even for a man of his might, it took centuries just to stabilize the Middle Lands itself. The larger the sphere he tries to influence, the duration required for stabilization grows exponentially. It’s a race against time, building an ark while the floodwaters are already at the door. And humanity does not have the luxury of time. A disunited humanity will be effortlessly swept aside by the Apocalypse. So, I have chosen the path of least resistance. I ride the wave of the entity closest to achieving that necessary, if imperfect, unity: the August Star of Heaven… I’ll use whatever power I have to advance our shared vision, knowing that nothing is true, everything is permitted.”

  Emperor Milishial VIII, Lucius of the Morning Star, had always sought a united world, something he believed was essential for humanity’s survival and worth dedicating his life to. However, rather than hastily pursuing this vision through military conquest, which would only drain his strength in suppressing uprisings from alienated peoples, he chose a more subtle approach to expand his influence across the seas. This was why, after ending the Warring Kingdoms Period, he refrained from immediately proclaiming the formation of a “Holy Milishial Empire,” opting instead for gradual systemic reforms that would take centuries to unfold, completing only 1617 years ago. By the time Japan and the Gra Valkas Empire appeared, he had only just begun to steer the foreign lands in accordance with his grand design. Learning that the Apocalypse would arrive far sooner than he had anticipated caused him great despair, for he knew he had barely started his work.

  Hearing the young man’s speech, Lugiel’s eyes widened slightly, her teasing grin vanishing into a look of genuine surprise.

  “That is… rather cynical.”

  “Heh… it would be, if it were a doctrine to live by. But it is merely an observation of the nature of reality. To say that ‘nothing is true’ is to realize that the foundations of society are fragile, and that we must be the shepherds of our own civilization. To say that everything is permitted, is to understand that we are the architects of our actions, and that we must live with their consequences, whether glorious or tragic.”

  “…So that’s how you see it. But that is a heavy resolve to carry. It makes one wonder… do you ever regret your decision?”

  “Regret, huh… well, that luxury sailed long ago. To second-guess the foundation I’ve chosen to build upon would only birth a future I would regret infinitely more. No, I must see this through.”

  “I see.”

  Meteos then shook his head lightly, as if to physically dispel the weight of the conversation, and his tone shifted to the practical.

  “Speaking of foundations, my network is broad, but shallow. It expands on a case-by-case basis. Is such a fragile web even sufficient?”

  Lugiel welcomed the shift in topic, nodding in understanding. In a way, the White Lotus Leader’s observation of his own collaborator network was a microcosm of the Holy Empire’s progress in uniting the world with grim patience, even if it means using less-than-savory methods.

  “‘Depth’ and loyalty are not things established in a single night, you know. Taking advantage of your ability, what you are doing is already accelerating the process at an unnatural rate. I’d say you’re doing pretty well.”

  “Thanks. Then… shall we go and make some visits to future collaborators?”

  ?????

  July 2, 1617 Central Calendar

  Vladivostok Kremlin, Maypita

  By the next morning, Meteos and Lugiel had rejoined the vacation group, behaving as though nothing unusual had occurred the night before. Having chosen accommodations near the city’s historic walled area known as the Vladivostok Kremlin, the voting decided that they would make that their first destination. An undercurrent of irony hung between the two spymasters. After all, just the previous night they had discussed the Rusalkan Heretic King’s colonization and its consequences, and now they were about to visit one of the very first structures the Rusalkans under him built following their conquest of Malayo.

  Nadia raised her camera and snapped a few shots after the group passed through the walls enclosing the district from the rest of the city.

  “This part of the city reminds me of the old town back home in Zaftra.”

  A modern-day Rusalkan, Nadia Smirnova couldn’t help but notice how familiar the surroundings felt. The red-brick buildings adorned with white limestone details mirrored the architecture of her homeland. Many structures featured octagonal towers rising from quadrangular bases, a style deeply evocative of Rusalkan design. The only thing missing was the glint of an onion dome.

  Noticing her reaction, Secretary Novachrono joined in with enthusiasm.

  “It’s no surprise, really. The Vladivostok Kremlin is a well-preserved relic from the Warring Kingdoms Period, back when Maypita was under Rusalkan rule for centuries. The influence here is indeed thick, as this was one of the first administrative centers established following the conquest of Malayo by the Rusalkans. In fact, ‘Vladivostok’ once referred to the entire city before the proto-Holy Milishial Empire took over and restored the name Maypita. As with his former rival states, His Majesty decided to preserve the walled town as a historical landmark.”

  Next, they passed through a formidable gatehouse into the innermost stronghold of the walled district, a citadel within the Kremlin simply known as the ‘Detinets.’ Its sheer, high walls seemed to dwarf even the surrounding fortifications.

  As they entered the expansive courtyard, Nadia offered an explanation. “Just so you know, ‘Detinets’ is a Rusalkan word. It essentially means… ‘citadel.’”

  Irmiya Mephilas blinked, then chuckled.

  “Let me get this straight. So this citadel is just called ‘the Citadel’? That’s a bit… on the nose, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it used to bear the Heretic King’s name, but speaking it is now forbidden,” Meteos intoned, to which Nadia nodded deeply in agreement.

  “Wait, but what about the building? I mean, they could have picked a new one.”

  “People in those days were certainly a superstitious bunch!” Novachrono laughed.

  After spending a good time within the walled town, the group ventured out to a 140-acre urban park stretching along the waterfront promenade. They spent the remainder of the day exploring an oceanarium situated behind a grandstand facing the aforementioned park in the Lagyo District, then ended their outing with a leisurely stroll along the baywalk in the Soleni District. By the time they returned to their lodgings that evening, they were exhausted but in high spirits—and, judging by the souvenirs they had bought, had certainly done their part to boost the local economy. Annette, in particular, was the most enthusiastic contributor.

  That night in the hotel, Annette let out a dramatic sigh as she barged into Meteos’ room.

  “Meto, Meto, Meto… It’s not fair, we barely scratched the surface!” she whined.

  “We still have twelve days to go. You’re tired. Go to sleep or something,” Meteos replied without glancing up, busy laying out his clothes for tomorrow.

  “Maaah…”

  Ignoring her pout, Meteos gestured toward Nadia, who had followed in after her.

  “Please ensure this one gets a proper shut-eye.”

  Nadia smiled. “Of course. Good night, Meteos.”

  “…Good night, Nadia.”

  As the two girls disappeared down the hall, Annette’s drowsy voice echoed faintly back. “Why can’t we have a forever summer, Nadiaaaa~? Then we’d never have to go home and we could see everything…”

  “Good grief…”

  “Looks like we’ve awakened her wanderlust. Guess we’ll have to deal with that from now on.”

  Walman, who was watching the earlier exchange silently, snarked to his friend.

  “That’s a problem for future me. Right now, I’m done for the day.”

  “Yeah… same here. Night, Met.”

  “Night, Wal.”

  As Walman left the door with a yawn, mumbling something about setting three alarms before collapsing into bed, Meteos waited until the door clicked shut behind him, then turned the key in the lock and switched off the lamp. Darkness settled over the room, broken only by the faint glow of the city bleeding through the partially open curtains. He exhaled slowly, letting the silence linger for a moment before falling back onto the bed.

  Meteos’ eyes traced the ceiling.

  ‘Sorry, Walman, I lied.’

  He wasn’t going to sleep just yet.

  But just as he was about to proceed with his night work, a soft chime from his Manadriver broke the stillness. The screen flickered to life, illuminating his face in pale blue light. Whatever message it carried drew a quiet hum from him, neither surprise nor alarm—just a calm, knowing sound.

  Without another thought, Meteos turned toward the window. He unlatched it and pushed it open, letting the cool night breeze spill in.

  Moments later, a faint whirring could be heard. Something small and metallic darted out of the shadows of the city skyline, weaving through the air before gliding smoothly into the room. It hovered briefly as Meteos shut the window back and drew the curtains, then landed neatly in his palm with a soft click of metal against skin.

  “A runner drone,” Meteos murmured, raising an eyebrow. Under the dim light, the object’s form became clear: a mechanical stag beetle the size of a fist, its tiny eyes pulsing with a faint cerulean glow.

  This was a Lucanina, one of his personal creations. An insectoid line drone modeled after the common stag beetle, its design had since been adopted and standardized by the Holy Milishial Empire’s intelligence community as part of their compact LEGION drone units.

  Meteos called it a ‘runner drone’ for good reason.

  Even in an era of instantaneous communication, there were times when signals were too dangerous to send—too easily intercepted, traced, or jammed by a capable adversary. In those rare moments when absolutely absolute secrecy was vital, the runner drone was the compromise. Relatively small, swift, and quiet, its insect-like form could slip through cityscapes and forests alike, nearly invisible to both human eyes and most sensors. It was, in truth, a reflection of Meteos Roguerider’s tendency to overestimate his enemies’ reach.

  The concept was ancient, and the primary disadvantage was the same, too: latency. A runner couldn’t deliver information in real-time. To offset this, Meteos had to grant his field operatives and other drones in the network a significant degree of autonomy. They were ordered to analyze and act on intelligence within their operational parameters, only dispatching a runner when condensed, high-priority summaries or items that required his direct oversight. It was a system built to avoid the trap of micromanagement from half a world away.

  “Let’s see what you’ve brought me…”

  Meteos initiated the playback, and a holographic report shimmered into view above his Manadriver.

  This particular Lucanina had clearly been a part of a long journey, carrying a report from the southern part of the Illemese Continent, deep within the Annonrial Empire’s mainland. The message, sent by an infiltration team, made Meteos press his lips into a thin line.

  “…It seems we’ve barged right into an internal conflict…”

  With that, the White Lotus Leader rose to his feet, already preparing his next move. But first, he would consult Lugiel.