Ox frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Like Wolman, he was once a military commander who had led troops into battle.
"Now begins... fantasy time."
Archer completely misread the mood, speaking up while the lord's work remained unfinished. Damn this talk of Arlan's fall—theory was theory, but the Emperor was no decorative pillow or Zhou Dynasty puppet ruler.
No one dared utter his true name. The Western Continent was steeped in superstition—those blessed by heaven's mandate must never be addressed directly, lest the speaker be struck by the unseen forces of fate and cursed with misfortune and illness.
Such was the Emperor's overwhelming dominance. Calling him the Western Continent's mightiest warrior wouldn't be an exaggeration.
His legend spread far and wide across the Western Continent, known even to women and children—precisely because his feats defied belief.
Bards, driven by fanatical worship, embellished the tales. As primary storytellers, their versions gradually morphed into pure fantasy.
The old Arlan monarch had been incompetent, obsessed with astrology and arcane mysteries, craving the secret of physical immortality.
Originally, the Emperor was just a simple man—rumored to possess strength rivaling mountain giants yet lacking ambition, content as his hometown's mayor. Trouble only came if provoked.
In the Western Continent, dragons weren't mere flying lizards for anyone to ride—they were legendary creatures whose breath could devastate civilizations.
The panicked monarch thought: Where would one even find a silver dragon? Better kill this descendant first—no man, no dragon.
That descendant was, naturally, the Emperor.
Discovered quickly, the Emperor faced two hundred armored heavy cavalry alone—one man, one iron sword, wearing only linen clothes. After slaughtering seventy to eighty soldiers, the remaining hundred-plus fled in terror.
The Emperor reasoned: "I won't just wait to be killed. Fine—you'll see."
Temporarily lacking a plan against a king's might, he watched as townsfolk fled, abandoning him. Refusing to accept this, the Emperor declared: "Don't uproot yourselves—I'll just kill this territory's duke first."
One man. One iron sword. Linen clothes. A dozen barely-trained town guards. Against a ducal castle.
Why did those dozen follow him? The Emperor possessed an overwhelming charisma that instantly inspired loyalty.
Why didn't the duke send troops earlier? Because... he... didn't... know.
Thinking them mere adventurers, the duke only realized his mistake when the Emperor's band killed the gatekeepers and marched straight in.
Empowered by the Emperor's aura, those dozen guards fought like war gods, slaughtering through the castle together.
Thrilled, the Emperor confronted the terrified duke: "Lend me troops to petition the king. Yes or no—answer now."
Here the fantasies diverge—the Emperor's early obscurity spawned countless contradictory legends.
But his verified later deeds surpassed all absurdity, eclipsing even the wildest tales with their terrifying reality.
Compared to what truly happened, earlier stories seemed almost mundane—no matter how outrageous, they paled against the truth.
Because the truth... was simply too dominant.
100,000 cavalry besieging the capital? In truth, this ragtag army comprised assembled bandits and noble-loaned troops.
The corrupt Arlan king had alienated nobles long ago—they lent forces only to test the monarch's defenses, treating the Emperor as disposable.
The "loaned" troops? Elderly, sickly men on emaciated horses. Of 100,000, barely 2,000-3,000 had intact armor—the rest wore cracked, worn leather.
Hesitating before the capital's impregnable walls—30-meter-high defenses radiating killing intent for miles, reinforced by the royal mage's grand formations—the Emperor knew attacking with these crippled forces meant suicide, playing into the nobles' schemes.
Among them were loyal followers, including a one-eyed veteran still marching despite his disability, utterly devoted to the Emperor.
Then came the shocking decision:
The Emperor disbanded the army.
Spectating nobles erupted in outrage. Global shockwaves followed.
Abandoning his forces, the Emperor fled alone on horseback.
The 100,000 fractured instantly—this motley crew included:
- Families of "witches" executed for the king's immortality potions
- Debt-ridden peasants conscripted as cannon fodder
- Countless refugees from the kingdom's civil wars
Every tragic product of Arlan's failed state had gathered here.
The Emperor's departure triggered collapse—until the one-eyed officer rallied them: "He spares your lives! He goes alone to slay the dragon and fulfill the prophecy!"
Vowing to starve rather than leave, 100,000 men dug in, awaiting their leader's return.
Days passed—one, two, three. Supplies dwindled. By day six, nothing remained.
On the tenth day... storm clouds gathered.
First came hurricane winds scattering dust and stones, then a roar splitting the sky clear for miles.
A titanic silhouette blotted out the sun—wings spanning five kilometers, shaking the earth with its bellows, cracking the ground beneath.
The Emperor hadn't ridden the silver dragon—he'd dragged it here mid-battle, massive chains around its neck.
As the chains twisted, the dragon's head severed—its corpse smashing through the capital gates like a meteor, blood drenching the sinful city.
And there—standing upon the earth—
The Emperor emerged, bathed in blood.
The 100,000 surged forward, sacking the capital. They executed the astrologers and bisected the king upon his throne.
No noble dared enter—only sending envoys to negotiate.
At just twenty-six, the triumphant Emperor crowned himself, abolishing the old system to establish an empire—redrawing all noble territories in his wake.
Distributing... the entire realm.