Archduke Phillip could not help but curse his luck as he tried to recover. The Second Prince, Jeremiah, was a walking nightmare. The boy didn't have a mythical skill, but with a legendary one and an absurd combat prowess, he may as well have.
It was utterly ridiculous.
Archduke Phillip bowed hastily. "O-OF COURSE NOT, MY PRINCE! I spoke presumptuously, but please reconsider! If—"
Before he could finish, the air itself seemed to rebel against him. A suffocating pressure, so dense and overwhelming, settled on him like the weight of an entire mountain range. Though the Emperor had made an effort to direct it solely at Phillip, the entire hall struggled to breathe.
The Emperor stood, his movements slow and deliberate, as if space itself warped under his authority. The very fabric of the room seemed to ripple with his presence. His voice, when it came, was absolute.
"Phillip, be quiet."
Phillip fell silent instantly. Not that he had a choice—his body was already kneeling against his will. The gravity crushed him, his organs felt like they were being wrung out like a damp cloth. He had barely survived Jeremiah's entrance, and now this? The noble faction never had the foolish ambition of overthrowing Justin. That was an impossibility. Moving the sun from its place was an easier attempt. Justin was an Emperor etched into history, the living embodiment of elven pride.
And now Phillip realized, with perfect clarity, that he was utterly doomed.
Unbeknownst to Phillip, one individual was praying—earnestly—that he would be left alive.
Dante sat in his brother's arms, feeling the subtle pressure in the air. He stared at his father, whose expression was nothing short of fuming. Each step the Emperor took forced Phillip down further and further, the marble floor beneath them cracking.
'Father! You better not kill him! I have plans for that elf's death myself. Don't make me ignore you in the future, you shit! He offended me first! He must pay for the tears my mother shed!'
Dante wanted to say those words out loud, but alas, a mere two-year-old child couldn't start making murder declarations—yet.
'This damnable body, I can't even vent properly.'
[Master, I do not think that even if you were older, murder would be considered an appropriate emotional release.]
"Hmm? You think so? It doesn't matter. Since when have other people's sense of 'appropriateness' ever been my concern?"
[--]
Dante turned back to the scene and noticed something peculiar—his father hadn't taken more than a few steps forward. The emperor, instead, glanced at his wife before sighing. The crushing pressure vanished as if it had never been. The only evidence of its existence was the cracked marble floor and a half-dead Phillip, gasping for breath.
The Emperor returned to his throne and spoke. "Archduke, it is not your right to decide who my children regard as their brothers or sisters. Do you hear me?
Speak nothing more of this. This was meant to be a joyous day—the welcoming of the Crown Prince and Princess. Do not anger me further."
Phillip, barely holding himself together, nodded stiffly and took out a healing pill. Trying to regain some semblance of composure, he stumbled back to his seat.
Meanwhile, the Emperor turned his gaze to Aurora. Her expression had regressed to the same haunted look she had when Dante was in a coma for two years. She stared at the child in Jeremiah's arms, and Dante, sensing his mother's distress, squirmed until Jeremiah got the message and placed him down near her.
The mood in the room had soured. The noble faction, ever watchful, could tell something was amiss. There was something they weren't privy to—something the royal faction was hiding.
Unbeknownst to them, they were being monitored, both from the shadows and in plain sight.
The ones in the shadows?
Nothing new really.
The Emperor, sensing the dreary atmosphere, sighed. "My subjects, due to the Archduke's unwarranted intervention, the mood of the festivities has been soured.
My—" He paused, glancing at Dante briefly. "—my children are unwilling to continue. We will end this here."
With that, he dismissed the court. He stood first, helping his empress, concubines, and children. All eyes turned to Dante, waiting to see whether he would leave with them. If he did, it would be an insult. If he didn't, it would be a rejection.
Dante looked at his mother, her tears threatening to spill. He knew this was something she had to learn to overcome. If he were a typical protagonist, he would fight for his honor, slap the faces of the Archduke and his supporters, and demand recognition. But what was the point?
Why slap a face when he could sever the head?
That seemed much more efficient.
His mother gathered herself and reached for his hand. Dante took it eagerly, a warm gesture that softened Aurora's heart. Together, they left.
Before stepping out, Dante took one last glance at the nobles. Then, he turned his head forward and smiled—a smile that was not, by any definition, appropriate.
'System, remember all the noble faces, names, and any information that would help me. Compile it and deliver it to me later. We will use them as test subjects.'
[Very well. The information has been collected. What do you expect will happen?]
'If the pattern follows the usual script, first, there will be an investigation into my mother's background. That will take some time. There should exist guilds who should have adventurers skilled in intelligence gathering. They will cross-reference my statements. If they don't align, they'll be forced to investigate members of the royal family. Naturally, they won't be able to pry anything from the strong ones, so the process will take at least a few years.
By the time I am in my teens I'm certain, they'll have found something. Likely, the closest they'll get is discovering I am Aurora's son, not her nephew. At that point, I will have to act to ensure nothing happens to her, not doubting My Father and the rest of the old guys are already up to hiding this.'
[Master, when do you wish to intervene?]
"Just before they can confirm my real identity. If Father and his officials aren't incompetent, they'll plant fake evidence to support the 'nephew' narrative. That should delay the noble faction's investigation. Regardless, I need subordinates. Sigh. I'll make proper preparations as time goes by."
[So you believe nothing of significance will happen in the next four to six years?]
"Exactly. That time is for me to master my skills."
[Understood.]