Prologue: The Dawn of Gloria's Ruin
Empress Gloria of the Empire gazes at the spectacle unfolding before her.
"Advance! Advance!"
The giants clad in pristine white armor and shields surge forward amid the bellowing shouts of a man who looks like the commander and the earth-shaking blasts of trumpets. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud! Keeping time with the battlefield's war drums, giants larger than giraffes—emaciated yet wrapped in unyielding muscle—press onward. Magical armor and weapons, bolstered by the human soldiers at the rear, let them advance without resistance.
The giants lumber ahead, mercilessly trampling the human soldiers blocking their path—the armed imperial citizens who have risen against the Empire's Empress. Flesh mashes into pulp, bones (humans' toughest parts) splinter under the giants' crushing weight. Shards of bone pierce deep into vital organs, reducing dozens, hundreds of burly imperial citizens to piles of minced meat.
"……"
Gloria watches the carnage from afar, seated in the safest spot of all.
"Forward! Forward!"
At the command, giants and soldiers advance, grinding the rebels underfoot like insects not even worthy of cockroaches. Each step claims hundreds of lives. The battlefield of the Karel Plains—a vast wasteland—stretches for kilometers. With every giant's stride, waves of blood and meat overflow.
The imperial citizens scream and flee in droves, but tens of thousands in tight formation can't retreat easily. What they're attempting isn't a withdrawal—it's a rout. They're already doomed to annihilation.
Over thirty thousand rebels have gathered here against Gloria. Yet crushing them all won't take ten minutes.
Unless they turn their heads, charge the vanguard, and fight desperately to buy time—but that's unlikely.
"...No chance of that, is there?"
These are giants in mana-forged armor. Even with giant-slaying weapons, they're nearly impossible to defeat. And behind them: countless cavalry, squads with magical cannons. Losing the will to fight is inevitable.
Again: thud. Thud. Thud. Crunch. Snap. Crack. Screams, shouts, clashing weapons. A symphony of deaths too varied for onomatopoeia, blood-mist billowing across the field.
All of it futile, meaningless—dying not by their own hands, but by some other force in the world.
Amid the slaughter and gore, Gloria smiles silently. A hollow laugh—absurd, empty, masked as madness. Yet chilling, trembling too. For even Gloria fears the ruin now dawning.
A ruin lewd and infinitely profane, irreversible and sensual—the coldest doom this empire has ever known.
Born the second princess of the Holy Kingdom, Gloria wanted for nothing—no, "wanting" doesn't cover it; she lived in excess. Every morning, hordes of maids attended her; anything she desired was hers—toys, horses, food, clothes. Save for strict education, hers was the world's most opulent life.
With succession already settled, her royal family knew unprecedented harmony.
Yet Gloria never once felt happiness. Not from misfortune—just born that way. No other reason.
This world's endless cold, dull gray? All Gloria's personal failing. Her nature. Inevitable fate.
Even so, as a child, she harbored faint hopes.
At twelve, her first socialite ball brimmed with slight excitement—and crashed to earth.
—How can it be this boring, this pathetic?
In a stunning gown, Gloria surveys the room. The Holy Kingdom preaches abstinence and noblesse oblige, but it's all formality now. Faces twisted by desire, men and women mingling amid perfume, liquor, and sour sweat—a cradle of debauchery.
She sets down her glass, deftly rebuffing the dullards' idiotic demands, and heads to the terrace.
Alone in the empty terrace's center, she gazes down at the writhing nobles.
I don't get it. Why do they even live?
Not despair or cynicism—just bafflement. Why exist? Born, so they breathe? Pair off, fuck, breed, multiply. Age. Lose the youthful revelry, vitality, emotions—become emotionless husks awaiting death.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Again. And again. And again. Endlessly.
Isn't that... pathetic?
Her heart thumps. A fierce desire surges.
In twelve years, she'd felt nothing—not amid applause, not achieving the impossible. All too natural for her.
Yet even she grasps something inexplicable: anger, answers blooming within.
Why? Why rage at their sight?
Pathetic? Then ignore them.
No—perhaps because it's her future too.
Thus she defines her fury: pity, rage.
But this stinging throb? It feels... good.
Ignoring it, she ponders on: How to avoid their pitiful lives? What's life's meaning? If death comes—immortality solves it. If age uglifies—stay beautiful forever.
But aimless? How to find purpose? Fill this void, this disillusioned heart—with anger, disappointment, shock, anything—
"Hey. Hey, you're the Second Princess, right?"
Behind her worried form, a cheerful girl giggles brightly. Eldest daughter of the infamous central Marquis Shabera house: Pallio Shabera. Most beautiful, brave, witty—yet self-chosen for the vilest end.
The moment her worldview shattered.
Gloria never forgets turning, eyes sparkling, beholding her.
Thud—thud—thud—. Fading footsteps and trumpets pull her from reverie.
Foolish memory. The trigger turning Gloria into a ruin-craving lewd pervert.
That beauty's wretched death before her eyes—unforgettable still. Her choice, yet regret incarnate.
And Gloria, discovering pleasure's remnants there, came to yearn for it.
She'll pour all her sins and karma into her life's ruin. To taste that regret. The unparalleled ecstasy of finality's nerves—to feel alive.
Gloria eyes the blood-and-guts battlefield. Flocks of huge crows peck corpses; giants' arms drip red.
She slowly lowers her wineglass. Atop the mobile altar borne by giants, she senses this rebellion crushed.
But history scholars know: Rebels, revolutionaries, reformers seizing power never hold the throne long.
Not even absolute rulers like Gloria.
By some means, all fall. Common thread: downfall from their own karma, intended or not.
"Hmm~♬"
Her pussy grows wet. Twisted as she is, Gloria anticipates baring her depravity.
The very next day after returning to the capital.
Commanders of the Empire's five legions and masses of nobles rise in revolt.
Thirteen years, three months, and twenty-one days after the Empire's founding—that night.