Eye of the Typhoon (4)
“Phew…”
Arnold, Crown Prince of the Messiah Empire, exhaled a long, weary sigh.
In two days, the coronation would commence. He would finally place upon his head the imperial crown he had dreamed of for years. The path here had not been particularly fraught, as his brothers who might have contested the succession had each charted their own eccentric courses.
“Before long, I suppose I will have to address you as Your Imperial Majesty rather than Brother.”
As Arnold struggled to calm his fluttering nerves, someone strode up beside him. He turned his head at the familiar, unhurried voice.
Unlike Arnold, who possessed the refined features of a classical nobleman, the man before him sported an unkempt, bushy beard. His frame was far more massive than Arnold’s, making him look more like a grizzled battlefield general than high nobility. Even so, strip away the thick beard, and their facial contours were virtually identical.
This was Paulo—Arnold’s biological younger brother and the empire’s current Minister of Culture.
“…Paulo.”
“Just because you become Emperor doesn’t mean you get to dump your work on me, all right?” Paulo quipped with an easy grin, slumping down casually onto the seat next to Arnold.
Because they were in private rather than a formal imperial assembly, the two could drop strict etiquette and banter as true brothers. Arnold regarded Paulo, who was thoroughly enjoying the life of a free spirit—which was simply a diplomatic term for an unemployed bum—before speaking.
“So, how is that team you root for doing?”
“Can’t complain. The new manager knows what he’s doing, so we’ve been racking up wins.”
“Embezzle a single copper of the imperial budget for them, and you will be executed immediately.”
“The opposing fans would beat me to death long before the executioner gets his chance.”
Arnold let out a dry chuckle. No matter when they met, this brother of his lived with absolute peace of mind. He was an oddball who harbored zero lust for political authority, devoting every waking hour solely to his personal hobbies. Even those pastimes were remarkably tame, centering on athletics rather than decadent luxury—though on occasion, he did gamble away modest sums, which Arnold considered well within an acceptable margin of error.
“Anyway, congratulations on ascending the throne,” Paulo said. “Have you thought up any bold new policies?”
“I have plenty in mind. Though before I can implement any of them, I have a mountain of problems to resolve first.”
“Come to think of it, I heard the Magic Tower of the Iris Kingdom rocketed straight into the sky, didn't it?”
“If only that were all. From Alfheim to the Holy Kingdom, the entire continent is riddled with unrest.”
“Father certainly picked an immaculate moment to hand over the crown, didn’t he?”
Arnold flashed a bitter smile. There was no denying Paulo’s assessment. Yet Emperor Robert was already frail and exhausted from illness, which was the very reason the succession timetable had been moved forward. It was far too late to drag his feet now.
“Speaking of which, what does Father plan to do once he steps down?” Paulo asked.
“He said he intends to build a villa in the mountains. Apparently, he wants to live all by himself where the air is fresh.”
“A mountain villa? Where?”
“I have no idea. He refused to give me any details.”
Robert, who would soon assume the title of Retired Emperor, had been busily preparing all sorts of arrangements behind Arnold’s back. The whole endeavor seemed beyond suspicious—downright bizarre, in fact—so Arnold had conducted a quiet inquiry, only to be utterly dumbfounded by the findings. His father had placed an imperial bulk order for wooden planks best suited for DIY cabin construction. Arnold could not fathom the old man’s endgame, though one thing was certain: Robert had completely shed any lingering attachment to imperial governance.
“That reminds me, Brother,” Paulo said, shifting the subject. “Have you heard any news about Reva?”
Reva was the youngest of the three imperial siblings. Endowed with fierce, unyielding piety, he had foresworn secular nobility to become a holy knight in foreign lands. Given the political turbulence tearing through El Dorado, news regarding him was of paramount concern.
“I’ve received reports,” Arnold replied. “Fortunately, nothing has befallen him as of yet.”
“And did you also hear that he was originally slated for the purges, only for the Holy Kingdom to spare him out of fear of our empire’s reaction?” Paulo remarked casually, broaching a remarkably grim geopolitical reality in his trademark nonchalant drawl.
Arnold’s expression hardened as he gave a firm nod.
“I am fully aware. Ludwig, was it? Reva was originally aligned under his banner.”
“And that same Ludwig fled into the Forest of the Four Seasons. From the whispers floating around, he appears to still be breathing.”
“From the Holy Kingdom’s perspective, whether he is dead or alive is an absolute nightmare.”
To El Dorado, Ludwig was a ticking time bomb capable of detonating at any second. Under ordinary circumstances, the Vatican could have simply declared him missing or deceased after he stepped foot into that lethal forbidden zone, effectively erasing him from society. But now, an unprecedented anomaly resided within the Four Seasons Forest—someone capable of communicating freely with the outside world.
“If Ludwig makes contact with that survivor and exposes the Vatican’s dirty secrets…” Arnold muttered.
“The Holy Kingdom will plunge straight into a full-scale civil war,” Paulo stated with utter conviction.
Arnold did not dispute it. Despite his official title being merely Minister of Culture, Paulo possessed razor-sharp political acumen. Whenever time permitted, the brothers exchanged insights like this to forecast continental affairs.
“A full civil war might be a stretch,” Arnold noted thoughtfully. “They no longer have a Hero to rally around.”
“True enough. But if civil strife breaks out there, they will lose the capacity to keep Alfheim in check.”
That was the true crisis. The Holy Kingdom served as the primary geopolitical counterweight against the elven realm of Alfheim. Historically, El Dorado sat flanked between Alfheim and Mephisto. In eras past, whenever the demon realm stirred up war, El Dorado held the front lines. But times had changed; Mephisto was currently basking in peaceful, sports-crazed contentment, while Alfheim’s Queen had grown increasingly erratic. The continent relied on El Dorado to check elven expansionism, a duty the Holy Kingdom could never fulfill if torn apart by internal rebellion.
‘If that happens, Alfheim may turn its predatory gaze toward our empire.’
The Messiah Empire bordered Alfheim just across the perilous expanse of the Forest of the Four Seasons. To make matters worse, the empire shared another volatile frontier with the Iris Kingdom. If Alfheim attacked while Iris seized the opportunity to strike, Messiah would find itself trapped in a disastrous two-front war.
Naturally, Alfheim could choose to strike El Dorado first under the righteous pretext of religious corruption, intervening in the Holy Kingdom’s affairs because of the Pope’s tyranny. Yet that scenario was equally perilous for the Messiah Empire, as Arnold would have no legitimate casus belli to intervene, forced to sit on his hands while the elves swallowed their neighboring theocracy whole.
“All that aside, not knowing what Alfheim’s true objective is makes this terribly frustrating,” Paulo grumbled.
“The Queen publicly claims she is merely planting trees…”
“You can never take a lunatic’s words at face value. Right now, the elves have lost their collective minds under that Queen’s thrall.”
Arnold offered no rebuttal. Both in real-world diplomatic cables and across the public discourse on the Gallery, the elves’ behavior was deeply unsettling. While the older generation of elves retained their rationality, the younger demographic was an unhinged disaster. It was as though they had fallen under mass hypnosis, blindly pledging fanatical devotion to the Queen’s expansionist agenda—a far cry from the serene, pacifistic stewards of nature spoken of in legends.
“We will simply have to navigate the storm carefully,” Arnold sighed. “We may divine Alfheim’s true intentions soon enough.”
“If push comes to shove, shouldn’t we recall Lord Menethil to active service?”
“Lord Menethil…”
At the mention of Count Menethil—Ash—Arnold murmured softly under his breath. Even Robert had advised him to seek Ash’s aid should the empire face an existential crisis. With Ash standing at the imperial vanguard, even an aggressive Alfheim could be adequately deterred.
Yet in this world, absolute martial might translated directly into political authority. If the empire leaned too heavily upon a singular transcendent Swordmaster, treating her as their sole savior, the imperial court could hardly reward her with a mere earldom. The resulting tilt in domestic power would threaten the very stability of the throne.
“That must be weighed with great deliberation,” Arnold said cautiously. “Excessive reliance breeds vulnerability. Besides, her own wishes take precedence, do they not?”
“Fair point. So, do you have someone else in mind? You need to establish your own champion, Brother, just as Father did.”
It was a piercingly astute observation, and Arnold let out a low groan. The decisive reason Robert had earned the reputation of an Emperor of Internal Prosperity was his unparalleled eye for discovering hidden talent, best exemplified by Ash. Provided a candidate possessed genuine competence and power, Robert recruited them without regard for lineage or status. Ash merely stood as the most dazzling example; countless prodigies nurtured by Robert’s patronage were currently driving the empire forward across every sector.
“I will likely have to pluck a promising candidate from the Academy,” Arnold answered. “Or perhaps…”
“Or perhaps?”
“……”
Arnold trailed off into silence. For reasons he could not entirely explain, a single figure flashed through his mind.
A man currently doing God-knew-what just to survive another day inside the Forest of the Four Seasons. Someone Arnold could never meet in the flesh, let alone coerce or command with imperial sovereignty.
Part of him wanted to wipe Wild Grylls from his thoughts entirely. Yet the boons yielded by trading with that man were far too intoxicating to abandon.
‘Normally, I would leave such dealings in Count Gorgon’s hands, but…’
Count Gorgon had pulled off a trade of monumental significance: procuring an Adult Mandrake Root directly from Grylls. That single alchemical marvel had saved Robert from the brink of death, allowing the peaceful abdication and coronation to proceed on schedule.
‘And recently, he even discovered a Sky Whale and obtained its golden ambergris.’
A mythical leviathan spoken of only in divine scripture, accompanied by golden ambergris. Users like Allfather and Praise the Sun, who had cultivated friendly relations with Grylls, had received portions of that priceless substance entirely free of charge! By imperial standards, dumping the empire’s entire annual treasury wouldn’t begin to cover the value of such treasures. The ambergris alone defied imagination, leaving Arnold to wonder what impossible wonder Grylls might unearth next.
‘Do I sponsor him officially through backchannels, or do I act as though he doesn't exist?’
The fruit hung low, bursting with sweet nectar, yet harvesting it was fraught with peril. If Arnold wished to support Grylls, he would have to do so anonymously from behind his terminal screen. And on that matter, Arnold made a silent, ironclad vow: I would rather die than let anyone uncover my gallery handle.
“Brother?” Paulo prompted.
“…I will give it careful thought,” Arnold said, smoothing his expression. “It isn’t as though an imperial champion is an immediate necessity.”
“Hmm. True enough.”
If all else failed, Arnold could simply use Count Gorgon as his cat’s paw, conducting transactions with Grylls through the ambitious noble. Count Gorgon was hungry for elevation and would leap at the chance to serve as the middleman.
‘The greater Count Gorgon’s triumphs, the stronger my imperial prestige becomes. It is hardly a bad arrangement.’
The more Arnold mulled it over, the more sensible it felt. Even if an exchange with Grylls went awry, countless other opportunities would present themselves.
“Well then, Brother,” Paulo said, a sly grin touching his lips. “When are you planning to take a wife?”
“Hm? What?”
“A wife. Marriage! An Emperor needs an Empress, doesn't he?”
“An Empress, you say…”
For monarchs, succession was the paramount duty. Securing heirs was not an elective preference; it was an imperial mandate. Under normal conditions, Arnold should have wed long ago, but circumstances had conspired to leave his marital bed vacant.
“I must begin searching soon,” Arnold murmured, rubbing his temples. “There is simply too much to handle.”
“Weren’t you formally betrothed to Lady Mercedes in the past?”
“We were. But you know as well as I that Lady Mercedes contracted an incurable illness and was teetering on death’s door.”
The terminal malady afflicting Selena, eldest daughter of Duke Mercedes, was common knowledge among the high nobility. At first, many assumed she merely possessed a frail constitution, but the horrific truth surfaced soon after. Selena had unilaterally and decisively shattered her engagement with the imperial family—an act that grievously wounded the prestige of the throne, even coming from a ducal house. Suspecting that such irrational defiance must have a grave cause, the palace conducted a discrete investigation, eventually unearthing her death sentence. Strictly speaking, it was a severe condition rather than a hopeless one, but because Duke Mercedes guarded the specifics of the Nine Yin Severed Meridians with fierce secrecy, the palace could glean no further details.
“Yet according to the rumors making the rounds these days,” Paulo noted, “Lady Mercedes has been seen taking walks outside quite frequently.”
“Could her affliction be cured?”
“Perhaps. Though heaven knows what method she could have possibly used.”
A year ago, Selena had severed all public appearances. Vicious rumors swirled in her absence, chief among them that her condition had taken a fatal turn for the worse. How could a woman who broke an imperial engagement due to imminent death suddenly recover enough to stroll through gardens?
‘She must have received extraordinary aid. If she attends the coronation, I will have to speak with her.’
Arnold needed to identify the benefactor who had saved her. Anyone capable of curing an alleged terminal illness had to be a transcendent figure. A certain handle crossed Arnold’s mind for a fleeting instant… but he swiftly shook his head. Lady Selena was infamous for despising—if not utterly loathing—the Gallery network. Moreover, it was doubtful that an Adult Mandrake Root could rectify an innate systemic illness; supreme elixirs were renowned for healing physical trauma and purging virulent poisons, not altering physiological abnormalities.
“Even if she has made a full recovery,” Arnold reasoned, “our engagement was broken publicly. It would be exceedingly awkward to rekindle it now. Are there no other suitable candidates across the high houses?”
“That is a hunt you will have to conduct yourself, Your Majesty.”
“Sigh… Why does the crown demand so much work?”
Ascending the throne was a glorious ambition, yet standing on the threshold of power, the sheer volume of impending labor was suffocating. Arnold found himself feeling genuinely envious of Emperor Robert, who was gleefully abandoning all his burdens to vanish into the wilderness.
Arnold paused, deep in thought, before slowly shifting his gaze toward his burly younger brother.
“Not a chance,” Paulo said instantly.
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“I told you already: I fully intend to loaf around for the rest of my life.”
“Now that I think about it, this is rather infuriating,” Arnold growled, narrowing his eyes. “You wish to keep your cozy seat as Minister of Culture, don’t you? Then roll up your sleeves and help me govern.”
“What help could I possibly offer? You’d be better off summoning Reva.”
“That boy is a meathead who refuses to do paperwork. And I have zero desire to work alongside a religious zealot.”
As the two imperial brothers genuinely fretted over the empire’s chaotic future—
“Hmm-hmm~ This should be more than enough fishing rods. Exquisite work, truly.”
Emperor Robert, soon to be Retired Emperor, was merrily anticipating the bliss of total retirement, having dumped the continent’s woes onto his son’s shoulders. He had already secured a prime plot of secluded wilderness alongside the construction lumber; all that remained was enduring the coronation ceremonies. Once the crown changed hands, he would complete the administrative handoff and immediately vanish into the mountains to erect his dream retreat.
‘I wonder what that fellow is up to right about now?’
What was he up to?
“Damn. Look at ’em go!”
He was living an extraordinarily vibrant life in the Forest of the Four Seasons.
Right before Park Jonghyuk’s eyes, two muscular kangaroos were locked in a vicious, bare-knuckle brawl. A dense ring of fellow kangaroos encircled them, cheering and stomping their feet, transforming the clearing into an authentic underground fighting ring.
“Should I post this to the Gallery? Wonder who they’d bet on.”
Deep within the lethal Forest of the Four Seasons, an impromptu gladiator arena had officially opened for business.