Imperial Audience (1)
The endless plain of rough, dust-choked earth gradually gave way to a perfectly paved road, where massive stone slabs fit together without a single gap.
As we drew near the Empire's heartland—especially the capital—the view outside the window shattered every notion of urban life I'd known across both my lives.
You'd have to stand in the bustling cores of megacities like Seoul, Tokyo, or New York from my past life to behold anything surpassing this.
"...Impressive. Truly."
Towering stone edifices stabbed toward the heavens, vast waterways snaked through them like a spider's web, pulsing as the city's veins with hundreds of trade ships gliding along. The streets teemed with crowds of every hair color, skin tone, and clothing style imaginable.
Merchant caravans from across the continent clogged the roads alongside ornate noble carriages. If Sterling's capital evoked a romantic seaside retreat, this place was a ravenous metropolis devouring the continent's wealth, power, and desires in one insatiable maw.
I narrowed my eyes, drinking in the overwhelming vista beyond the walls.
A murmur from the passing throng caught my ear, sparking curiosity. I turned to Amber, who rode beside me at a slowed pace.
"Knight Amber, with so many nations and races gathered here, what language does the Empire primarily use? The accent feels a touch different from Sterling's tongue."
Amber flashed a proud smile at my question.
"Ah, the Empire—and the capital especially—sticks to the continental common tongue. Accents vary a bit, but Your Highness, the language we're using right now will handle daily chatter or noble talk without issue."
"I see. Then... beyond the common tongue, does the imperial family have its own unique language?"
Amber blinked, then gave a small nod.
"It does. An ancient high tongue passed down from the Empire's founding days as a tiny nomadic tribe. It's never used in daily life anymore, and its grammar is bizarrely complex compared to the common tongue—practically no one in the palace masters it fully now."
"Not even the imperial family?"
"Yes. It lingers only in official rites or ancient secret documents—a dead language, really. Serving under Her Highness the First Princess, I know just the unit motto and a few crude words."
'A dead language...'
The blood of my past life's liberal arts student, who'd dabbled in Latin for culture class, stirred oddly.
I stroked my chin, eyes gleaming.
"Fascinating. Could you teach me a simple greeting in that ancient tongue?"
"A greeting? Why all of a sudden... Well, it's not hard. What do you want to say?"
"Hm. Nothing grandiose—just something like 'I greet His Imperial Majesty' or 'I wish peace upon His Imperial Majesty'."
Amber tilted her head but gazed skyward, dredging up the memory.
From her lips came a pronunciation utterly alien to the smooth, Western romance-novel cadence I knew—raw, feral, laced with an eerie intimidation.
"Ezen Khan Thand, amar amgalangiig ailtgaya."
...That's Mongolian, isn't it?
Shocked inwardly, I masked it and pressed on.
"What does it mean?"
"A literal translation: 'I offer peace to the great emperor, lord of all things.' A very ancient greeting."
"Ezen Khan Thand... amar, amgalangiig... Hmm, not easy to pronounce."
It was a tongue-twister, alien to my mouth.
But I persisted, rolling it over my tongue dozens of times in a murmur. Amber watched with eyes screaming why bother, but she didn't stop me.
A few hours later.
We reached the Empire's core: the grand imperial palace of black obsidian and marble. Without a moment to catch my breath, I was ushered straight to the Emperor's audience chamber.
"...!"
The elite guards flanking us shoved open massive doors of black iron, revealing the Grand Audience Hall—and I nearly buckled at the knees.
Sterling's audience chamber had seemed grand and refined; compared to this, it was a local noble's modest parlor.
A dizzyingly high ceiling bore an overwhelming fresco of the Empire's conquests. A blood-red carpet stretched down an endless corridor, flanked by hundreds of high nobles and ministers standing in rigid ranks.
Every eye bored into me—the shallow hostage from a crushed kingdom—with a mix of curiosity and disdain.
The chamber's crushing aura of menace and pressure choked the air.
Don't flinch, Ian Harper. Flinch and you're meat. Lose the momentum, and it's over.
Chanting the mantra inwardly, I strode the red carpet with impeccable princely poise and grace.
At last, I reached the corridor's distant end: the jade throne atop a dais of gold and obsidian.
A firm voice rang down as I bowed before it.
"Raise your head."
I lifted my gaze and locked eyes with the man on the throne—the Emperor of the great Empire—for the first time.
'That man...'
The real Emperor differed slightly from the novel's textual description.
Mid-aged with a sturdy frame, his body looked ferociously solid even under his clothes, like a beast's. Beneath narrowed eyes sat a thick but impeccably trimmed beard, and above all—purple irises, clear and intense as Victoria's, flashed with piercing scrutiny.
But the real shock was his attire. I'd expected an Emperor swathed in blinding gold, gems, and ornate epaulets. Instead, he wore a stark, unadorned black uniform—simple, severe.
Yet in that plain garb, I read the essence of terrifying power. One at the absolute pinnacle needs no gaudy trinkets to proclaim their throne. They simply breathe, sit—and all know.
In the deathly silence of the vast hall, I slowly—but clearly enough to echo through every corner—unleashed the alien phrase I'd gnawed on for days.
"Ezen Khan Thand, amar amgalangiig ailtgaya."
"...!!"
The chamber's air flipped in an instant.
Around the throne, aged, arrogant ministers jolted; some generals gawked, doubting their ears.
The Emperor reacted too. The hand he'd rested boredly on his chin halted—slowly, deliberately—in midair.
"...Prince of Sterling."
A low, scraping voice like gravel on stone filled the hall.
I rose slowly, meeting those flashing purple eyes squarely—but without a hint of arrogance.
The Emperor's narrowed gaze sharpened with intrigue and deep wariness.
"How do you know those words?"
"On the journey, the knight escorting me mentioned the imperial ancient tongue. I asked her to teach me, Your Majesty."
I answered with force from my core, voice steady.
The Emperor's eyes narrowed further; his fingers drummed the throne's armrest. Tap, tap, tap. The rhythmic echo squeezed my heart.
"Why go to such trouble?"
"...Pardon?"
"You're a wretched hostage dragged here. Why bother fumbling through an enemy's dead tongue just to greet us tediously?"
His emanating killing intent thinned the air like rarefied oxygen—an illusion, but visceral.
Any ordinary captive would smash their forehead to the floor, weeping for mercy.
But I quelled my madly pounding heart and summoned the most leisurely smile I could muster.
"As Your Majesty says, I am indeed Sterling's hostage, detained in the Empire."
"..."
"But I entered this grand palace on my own two feet, not in chains... so before hostage, I am a guest on Your Majesty's soil."
"Hmph."
"For a guest invited to the great lord's house to offer first courtesy to his roots—is that not the natural way?"
My words ended, and a silence heavy enough to crush needles blanketed the hall.
The Emperor broke it.
"...Ha."
A short breath leaked from his lips, morphing into laughter.
"Ku, hahaha! Hahaha!!! What an entertaining bastard you are!"