A New Sun - 1

The Emperor's declaration of abdication was reason enough for every high-ranking official in the administration to gather at the Imperial Palace. An emperor surrendering the throne was not the sort of thing you could brush off with a polite "You've worked hard, Your Majesty." It would have been nice if you could — but that would have been the conduct of a disloyal traitor.

Did I get isekai'd into a Confucian state?

Even as I hurried along beside the Principal, a bitter taste filled my mouth. This bizarre world was a grotesque hybrid of Eastern and Western culture. It was clearly built on a Western foundation — and yet moments like this reeked of Confucianism so thickly you could choke on it.

It was enough to drive a man insane. Ministers assembling to wail over an emperor's abdication? That was textbook Confucian-state behavior no matter how you looked at it. Wasn't this supposed to be the West?

Come to think of it — wasn't my entire career as a civil servant a Confucian product too? This deranged centralized bureaucracy made no sense without Confucianis—

"Minister of the Inspectorate."

At the sudden call I turned, and there was the Duke of Victory, practically running toward us.

For a moment my blood ran cold. The Duke of Victory showing up at a gathering of senior administrators? That wasn't the problem. As the Crown Prince's father-in-law, he was the one who ought to be first in line to cry out for His Majesty's mercy. Fail to appear and he'd look like a traitor who had been praying for the current Emperor to vanish.

The Duke didn't know either?

The real problem was that even the Duke of Victory had clearly heard the news mid-work and come charging over in a panic.

I'd already suspected as much from the typos in the Imperial Household Chief's mass message — but if the Duke of Victory was scrambling like this, then this abdication was something the Emperor had pushed through on his own. Had the Duke received any advance word, there was no way he would have arrived later than me, who had been outside the Imperial Capital entirely.

"Your Grace, the Duke of Victory."

"It has been some time, Your Grace. I trust you have been well?"

"Regrettably, I cannot say that I have."

At our greetings, the Duke of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Victory gave a slight shake of his head.

"An empire no longer guided by His Majesty… How utterly desolate a prospect."

I found myself nodding before I could stop it. The Emperor's abdication was something everyone had steeled themselves for. We had guessed it would come within three years at the latest — possibly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even this year. But that had been worst-case speculation. No one had actually expected it to explode this year.

Over the course of this single year the Emperor had conquered the North, been acclaimed as Khan, and reached the absolute peak of his authority. With a Crown Grandson of unimpeachable legitimacy, every remaining worry had evaporated. I had assumed he would spend this year savoring the joy and glory of it all and hand things over around next year — but the Emperor had declared his abdication without a moment's hesitation.

He's not a machine.

It was astonishing. The Emperor had ground himself to dust for decades and achieved everything. All that remained was a comfortable twilight of enjoying the majesty and privilege he had built — and he was walking away from it. His authority would endure even after he stepped down, but an invisible retired emperor and an emperor seated on the throne were hardly the same thing.

Of course, I was the last person who should be thinking that, given how often I angled for a resignation petition. But in my case there was simply too much work and too many superiors breathing down my neck. The Emperor, by contrast, had no superior — and he had the Crown Prince as a dumping ground for leftover tasks.

Is he even human?

That was why I felt something close to awe. A sovereign who stepped down the moment he no longer had a reason to remain emperor — a sovereign who moved by reason alone, stripped of sentiment. Anyone could see he had been born to wear the crown.

"…He need not abdicate at all."

The Duke of Victory seemed to share the feeling; he muttered it under his breath. Even I, with a mere five years as a civil servant, knew the Emperor's desperate struggle. How much more so the Duke, who had served him far longer and become his in-law? He probably wanted, with complete sincerity, to stop the abdication.

The problem was that the abdication was not a political performance. It was genuine.

The main gate of the Imperial Palace was already thronged with officials of director rank and above. Anyone based in the capital who showed up even slightly late would invite suspicion of treason — so of course they had all rushed over.

The moment we reached the gate, the Duke of Victory headed toward the Imperial Household Chief to get a clearer picture of the situation, while the Principal made for the Ministry of Education contingent that was his own affiliation.

"You made it?"

"Yes. I came as fast as I could."

Naturally, I joined the Ministry of Finance group. Until the Inspectorate Ministry was formally established, I was still the Audit Department Chief under the Ministry of Finance.

"Ah — have you heard anything, by any chance?"

After scanning the surroundings, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠asked carefully. From the way things were unfolding it looked like a unilateral abdication by the Emperor, but with the Minister of Palace Affairs' seat vacant, the Minister of Finance was currently the highest-ranking official in the entire administration. He might have been told something.

"Would I have? Even the Imperial Household Chief doesn't know a damn thing and is losing his mind over it."

The answer that came back was merciless. Even the current number-one minister in the hierarchy knew nothing.

I'm going to lose it.

A sigh escaped me at last. An abdication crisis was a once-in-several-generations Big Event even in imperial history. I had the misfortune of living through one in person — and, regrettably, I had no reference material whatsoever.

Damn ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it. I had heard that one previous emperor had dragged out the performance for a full week and paralyzed the entire administration. Surely it wouldn't be like that this time… right?

"How long do you think it will take?"

"A day at the absolute longest. He's declared it in earnest, so there's no reason to draw it out. It might even be over within an hour."

A sigh of an entirely different flavor left me. A day at most — I could survive that.

No. Even a day would be a problem. Today wasn't a holiday; when club time came around the members would gather, and I dreaded what might explode in my absence.

Please. Please let it end within an hour.

"No one else will be coming. Close the main gate and tighten the defenses."

Having received the Imperial Knight Commander's report, I set down the communication orb. I was not entirely at ease about summoning officials who were no doubt in the middle of pressing work — but ministers remonstrating with a sovereign who wished to abdicate was a tradition that transcended nation and age. It was not something I, as an individual, could abolish.

Therefore, concluding the abdication as swiftly as possible was the only courtesy I could offer. An hour or two of formalities would suffice.

…It will suffice.

Among all the successive emperors of the Kpelleofen Empire, not one had ever abdicated. There had been declarations of abdication, yes — but only as political theater to strengthen a ruler's position. No one before me had truly meant to step down.

So even this estimate of an hour or two was of questionable fitness — but what choice did I have? For once, I was not following precedent. I was creating it.

Taking every "first" for myself, am I.

The thought struck me unbidden. The first collateral-line emperor. The first Retired Emperor. Every name history would remember seemed destined to be mine.

And yet I felt no shame. My beginning had been humble, and the road I walked had been stained with blood — but the end would be wrought in glory. Let history call my path reeking and ugly if it wished; it would not be able to deny the result.

Yes. It would be so. It must be so.

"Your Majesty, Father."

While I closed my eyes for a moment and steeled my heart, the Crown Prince spoke.

Following his voice, I turned my gaze and found him prostrate on the floor, his head bowed low.

"I beg Your Majesty to withdraw this resolve. This empire is not yet prepared to leave Your Majesty's embrace."

The Crown Prince, who had come running the instant the abdication was declared, was pleading for me to reverse my decision — just as the heirs of history had always done.

This, too, was a formality. Abdication during my lifetime had already been settled, and the Crown Prince had been receiving my duties and titles one by one in preparation for it. That he still begged like this was simply because history demanded it. A truly tiresome procedure.

And yet… why was it that, looking at the prostrate Crown Prince, I thought I saw not form alone, but sincerity mixed into it?

Not yet prepared, he says.

I turned the Crown Prince's words over in my mind. Perhaps that was his true feeling.

I had been the same. As a mere count — as a man whose blood was almost an embarrassment to call imperial — I had been raised to the throne. The desolation and bewilderment I had felt then defied description.

Was the Crown Prince now as I had been then? Did he, like me in those days, want to delay an inescapable fate by even a little?

"Crown Prince."

Of course I had no intention of reversing my decision now. The destiny of an emperor was not something you could seize because you wanted it, nor escape because you feared it. The harder we tried to force a delay, the more both of us would suffer.

On the contrary — now, with the Imperial Family's authority and the empire's stability at their absolute peak, was the perfect moment. A living emperor transferring authority and power completely to his successor. That was the only true consideration the one who went ahead could offer the one who followed.

"This empire no longer has need of Us."

I approached the Crown Prince and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Nothing in this world is eternal. Even a radiant empire will one day fall — so how could a mere human hope to last forever?"

"Y-Your Majesty!"

Depending on how one interpreted it, it was a statement that the Kpelleofen Empire, too, would someday collapse like the empires before it — a statement that treated the august and magnificent emperor as a mere human being. Words that should never have left an emperor's mouth. The Crown Prince jerked his head up in alarm.

But what else was I to do? The Crown Prince who would succeed me must not be enchanted by the word eternity. He must never forget that this empire is not eternal — that a mere few decades ago, it stood on the brink of ruin.

The mighty Muno Empire. The wise Trica Empire. The wealthy Apels Empire — every empire had fallen in the end. So too would this one. Someday it would lose the Mandate of Heaven and crumble, and to push that "someday" ever further into the distance, the Imperial Family would keep advancing without rest.

Muno, the orphaned mercenary who founded the first empire. The Saint who led the Dawn Church to victory. Emperor Eimanka, who raised an empire of his own — every hero had gone to Enen's side. So too would I. I had fulfilled my mission, and as a mere mortal, the time had come to step aside.

"Therefore, Crown Prince — accept Our will. Succeed Us, become the master of a new empire, and go forth."

For that was the mission of the Crown Prince who would walk the path anew.