What Is Your Justice?
That was the insult to the Emperor.
Merely targeting the Emperor was already crossing the line, but Philia didn't stop there. Her words were short, carrying almost no emotion, yet their content was as blunt as a blade. The moment they ended, the air in the Imperial Palace froze solid, like invisible ice spreading in an instant. Even breaths grew cautious. The shoulders of the ministers lined up on the marble floor stiffened in unison, and the guards in their ornate armor tensed ever so slightly. Someone swallowed. The sound rang out unnaturally loud.
The Imperial Palace buzzed with endless words—secret negotiations, noble conspiracies, deals of power. But one thing was absent: overt insults aimed at the Emperor. It simply didn't exist. At least, not until now.
And now, in the heart of the palace, the impossible was happening.
A few ministers kept their heads bowed, eyes darting side to side. Others glanced at Philia, then quickly looked away, as if witnessing the scene itself was sacrilege. But amid it all, most eyes fixed on one place: the Emperor.
How would he react? That was what mattered most to everyone in the room.
Two guards were especially blatant. They stood right behind the Emperor. They exchanged a glance, then tilted their heads almost simultaneously—subtle, but unmistakable. No words were needed; their faces said it all.
'That one...'
'You're not seriously telling us to fight her, right?'
It was a natural response. Philia was the Empire's strongest Executioner. Or more precisely, she transcended the Empire. Even on a continental scale, how many could hold out against her for long?
She'd slain monsters. Devil contractors. Rebel generals. And after every feat, her breathing never faltered. She always lifted her sword with the same expressionless face. Eyes devoid of emotion. Hands without a tremor. Receive the order, strike, return. That was Philia.
And now, such a person had hurled a blatant insult at the Emperor. Then stood there as if nothing had happened—as if oblivious to the massive rift her words had torn through the palace.
Or perhaps she truly was oblivious. She was someone who barely grasped emotions, after all.
One guard slowly shifted his gaze to the Emperor, then snapped it forward again. He'd glimpsed his face and realized something. It wasn't anger. At least, not on the surface.
The Emperor hadn't moved. He lounged deeply in his gold-embellished throne, hand propping his chin. And he watched Philia. For a long, long time.
His gaze held no aggression. If anything, it was excessively calm—an observer's scrutiny, like reading an ancient tome or examining intriguing experimental results.
For a fleeting moment—just a moment—the corner of the Emperor's mouth twitched. Barely perceptible. But a few in the room caught it.
One guard swallowed a curse under his breath. "...Insane." He blinked, then confirmed it. The Emperor wasn't angry. If anything... he was amused. Just a little. Ever so slightly. Like a scholar analyzing a novel phenomenon, or a smith reexamining a blade that had moved unexpectedly.
The Emperor watched Philia. For a moment. Just a moment. His mouth curved subtly upward. The face of genuine intrigue.
His hand slowly dropped from his chin. "Hah." He leaned back further into the throne. It creaked faintly.
After a brief silence, the Emperor spoke. "Intriguing."
His voice was low. Astonishingly calm. He tilted his head ever so slightly. And continued.
"Very well. I am base. So what?"
At those words, the palace air quivered once more—subtly. A few ministers' eyes flickered. The Emperor calling himself base wasn't shocking. Most in the palace knew what kind of man Levan de Lowern was. He hid nothing. Use it if needed; discard if not.
The Emperor tilted his head a fraction more. His gaze settled slowly on Philia's face. Those emotionless eyes—so familiar until now.
But. His own eyes narrowed. He'd spotted the difference. Anger. A razor-thin sliver of it, hovering like a blade's edge.
His mouth curved again. "I am this kind of man."
He spoke slowly, lifting a hand lightly. His fingers moved languidly in the air, like flipping invisible pages.
"I purge those who don't touch the imperial bloodline."
"I purge those who do."
"If I deem them worth purging, all of them."
He paused. Then chuckled. Softly.
"Hardly noble."
No one in the palace laughed. No one dared. The Emperor pressed on, unperturbed.
"Which intrigues me."
His gaze fell back on Philia. "And you?"
"What is your justice, Executioner?"
His question was brief. But impossibly heavy. The throne room's air trembled faintly. Someone drew breath; another held theirs, unfinished.
All eyes locked on one person. Philia.
She stood as before—back straight, hands relaxed at her sides, execution sword motionless at her hip. Her posture impeccably disciplined, as always.
The issue came next.
Philia didn't answer. Or rather, couldn't.
Her pupils quivered—just barely. Not enough to notice. Most ministers missed it. But the Emperor saw. And so did the two guards behind him.
A brief instant. But real. A hesitation.
She understood the question. Her mind simply blanked for a moment.
She'd faced countless queries: reports, orders, confirmations, execution protocols. But never this.
Justice. The word had no place in her world.
Philia was the Executioner. What she needed wasn't justice. It was orders. Who to kill. Where. How. When. That sufficed.
So she'd never once pondered: why kill? It wasn't her domain.
The Emperor's question pierced exactly there.
"What is your justice."
The hall remained deathly silent—quiet enough that the rustle of fabric rang clear.
Philia drew a slow breath. Her respiration was always steady—even in battle, right before a kill. But now, it deepened. Just a touch.
Her eyes dipped briefly. Floor. Red carpet. Marble. Then rose again. To the Emperor.
She opened her mouth. But no words came.
The Emperor's mouth curved subtly. He hadn't missed it.
Philia finally spoke. "...Your Majesty."
Her voice remained calm. But lower. Ever so slightly.
"...I."
She paused again. Her fingers twitched faintly—not touching the hilt, merely brushing air.
Philia closed her eyes briefly. Opened them.
But no answer came. Because she'd never once considered what her sword was for.
"Until I hear your justice, why not follow mine for now?"
The Emperor punctuated his victory with a smile. All Philia could do was nod.
Shhhhh... Warm water cascaded from the bath's edge. Pouring steadily from hidden ceiling vents at a fixed angle, it drummed the surface. Tiny droplets splashed, ripples spreading languidly across the bath.
The room was warm. Marble walls glistened faintly with steam; the air hung soft and heavy with moisture and heat. Faintly, herbal scents mingled in— from the scented candles floating in the bath. Imperial bath herbs: easing fatigue, relaxing muscles, soothing tension. They worked. So Philia cherished this time. The one respite. Sword set aside. Free of orders.
"..."
Philia leaned against the bath wall, shoulders submerged. Hair slicked back, a few strands floating. Eyes half-closed.
Not relaxed, though.
What is your justice.
The words ghosted through her mind again. Her eyes shut tighter. Beneath the water, her hand moved slowly. Fingers parted ripples. The surface wavered. Tiny waves lapped the walls.
Splash.
Faint sound. But crystal clear to her now.
Justice. Still alien. Her life needed no such notion. There were orders. Executions. No questions between.
So she'd never dwelled on it. Why kill? Who was right? Wrong? Not her realm.
Philia was the Executioner. She didn't forge reasons. They came from above. She carried them out. That was enough.
But the Emperor's question had prodded the framework.
"What is your justice."
A query that upended her very existence.
Her hand stilled. Underwater. Palm slowly unfurled.
A new sensation stirred. One she'd never felt. A tiny. Infinitesimal. Crack.
Philia didn't know its name yet. But she felt it form. Undeniably.
The water's murmur continued. Shhhhh...
And tonight, for some reason, it sounded strangely—impossibly—cold.