Chapter 78
Chapter 78
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 78
Chapter Title: Audience with the Hero Emperor
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Dufer Empire's Imperial Palace, Bergina.
As the heart of the great empire commanding the entire Northern Continent, Bergina boasted an enormous scale that even an ordinary adult man couldn't fully explore in a single day.
Naturally, the interior of Bergina was filled with every imaginable facility for the palace servants.
Thus, it wasn't particularly strange that among all those facilities, there existed a training ground reserved solely for the emperor.
The day after encountering the foolish group underground who shared ideals with Taran.
Darta waited before the training ground with impeccable politeness, eagerly anticipating the end of the session.
His previously arrogant, overbearing demeanor—strutting freely through the palace—seemed like a complete fabrication.
No, he didn't merely wait; he incessantly checked and rechecked his attire.
No matter that he now reigned as the new leader of the Lang tribe, bearing the moniker Greedy Wolf and counted among the empire's top powerhouses.
Before the one whose audience he sought, he was nothing more than a humble subject.
The damp morning air dried away, and the sun, just risen in the east, had climbed to its zenith in the sky.
At last, Darta's prolonged wait reached its conclusion.
“…….”
Training ground main gate.
The two knights guarding the entrance hadn't stirred an inch despite Darta's arrival, but as the sun hit its peak, they silently began sliding open the heavy doors.
Gr-r-r-ind!
Given Darta's temperament, their rudeness—not even a word of greeting to the Lang tribe leader—would normally have sparked his fury.
Yet this time, curiously, he held his tongue.
Of course.
They were no ordinary guards.
Torguud.
The palace's elite guards, killing machines existing solely for the emperor.
No one but him could issue them orders. For them to open the gate meant one thing alone.
The emperor.
He had granted Darta entry.
Darta gave his attire one final inspection, drew a deep breath, and slowly stepped inside.
Step, step!
The narrow, enclosed corridor evoked the tunnel of an arena.
After some distance, the dim passage's end bathed Darta in brilliant sunlight.
Once his eyes adjusted, a vast expanse unfolded—perfectly suited as a true gladiatorial pit.
...Halt!
About to stride forward, Darta froze at the gritty sensation beneath his feet and glanced down instinctively.
“……!!”
The meticulously maintained floor lay in tatters, shredded as if mauled by blades.
From the serpentine gouges—like a colossal snake had slithered through—faint traces of aura lingered.
'The entire vast space bears aura remnants...'
Darta's eyes traced the scars along the floor.
Following them, the full devastation of the training ground came into view.
Shattered and desolate, like the heart of a battlefield.
'How brutally did he train to wreak this...'
Gulp!
Dry saliva caught in his throat.
This training ground's master was no ordinary soul.
He had felled Agena's peerless monster, the Hegemon Lucas Alexei, seizing the empire anew.
A man once dubbed Hero—the accolade for history's greatest champions.
Now hailed as the Emperor of Heroes.
Yet why train with such merciless ferocity?
Darta's puzzled gaze shifted to the center.
There, a swordsman steadied his breath.
His features were ethereal, painting-like perfection.
Lustrous golden locks framed eyes of purest azure ocean depths.
Muscles rippled flawlessly over his frame, eclipsing even beastkin warriors' primal allure.
This was the Dufer Empire's founding emperor, defeater of the Hegemon, era's paramount hero.
Hero Great Emperor, Siegfried Dufer.
As Darta advanced a step toward Siegfried, a visceral twinge—like his brow being rent asunder—jolted him back.
No illusion.
Any flicker of treachery or malice, and the emperor's blade would have impaled his forehead on the spot.
Survival stemmed not from Darta's prowess.
Siegfried had allowed it.
'...He's grown even stronger.'
Darta eyed Siegfried with veiled trepidation.
Over a decade prior.
Siegfried—with allies' aid—toppled Hegemon Lucas.
Protagonist of an upheaval shaking all Agena.
Glory enough to indulge, yet in ten years, Darta never witnessed him slack.
Daily, he forged himself like molten steel under the hammer.
That insatiable thirst propelled Siegfried Dufer's prowess to new heights.
Darta simply couldn't fathom it.
Emperor at Agena's apex—why the relentless self-torment?
“...Darta?”
But idle thoughts evaporated.
The emperor, breath composed, addressed him.
Swoosh!
“I greet Your Imperial Majesty.”
Siegfried regarded Darta's sweat-wiping bow.
“Something amiss? You, seeking me out. Has some fool challenged your dominion?”
...Twitch!
Siegfried's barbed jest furrowed Darta's brow fleetingly—a mere instant.
Composure restored, he chuckled.
“Hahaha! Perish the thought. Who dares affront one graced by Your Majesty? We beastkin, this servant Darta included, thrive carefree in your vast, benevolent shadow.”
Snicker!
Sneer or approval? Siegfried replied.
“Well, if you say so. Grateful I named you Lang leader—it's a bulwark. My thanks, always.”
Fangs and claws yanked from savage fighters, now meek livestock at my feet.
Deep malice veiled, Siegfried probed casually.
“So, what urgent matter? You know my daily training hour.”
Siegfried opened; Darta plunged to core.
“I know full well this precious time for your ascent to loftier realms. Yet the matter's gravity demanded haste—even seconds count. Spare your wrath.”
Silence from Siegfried.
Silent prod to proceed. Darta cut direct.
“The Isabel Aslan assassination—to destabilize Southern Continent's Aslan Kingdom—has failed.”
“……!”
Gulp, gulp….
Siegfried, sipping water, froze mid-motion—like time halted.
“...Hmm. Darta, I recall ordering you personally. My memory faulty?”
His stoic gaze iced over like frost.
“Peculiar. Didn't you vow a simple task, no disappointment? Simple yet pivotal for Southern turmoil. Or does Greedy Wolf deem my edict trivial?”
Caressing his blade Snow White blankly, the sight chilled Darta to swallow hard.
Siegfried Dufer.
No shining paragon as proclaimed.
Lion-fierce, wolf-cruel.
Merely concealed masterfully.
Continent's few knowing his truth? Countable.
Subjugated, slain, or akin.
“Naturally, Greedy Wolf scorns no command. Valid cause assured. I trust.”
Unconvincing reason? No mercy—intuition screamed.
Enduring cloying killing intent prickling like ants, Darta spoke.
“Lichtenauer Martial Clan interference, they report.”
“Lichtenauer! Fine house indeed. But absent old Paon's hand? Within forecasts, no? Beastkin not so inept against foreseen twists. Else... what point partnering to rule?”
“Apt, Your Majesty. Yet my dispatched youth... filed an odd report.”
“Odd report?”
Siegfried's pressure eased fractionally.
Darta seized it.
“A Lichtenauer direct descendant... wielded the Hegemon's martial arts.”
“……!”
Siegfried's visage stiffened tauter.
“Darta.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Words once uttered, irretrievable. Thus, responsibility binds. Bear those now?”
Unyielding to the frostbite warning, Darta stood firm.
“My agent witnessed Hegemon and Taran's youth duel. No error. No liar for life. Crucially, you know: that art... seared eternally upon sight.”
Siegfried couldn't counter.
Truth.
Last Blood Demon Iron Chain Art clash? Ten years past.
Yet eyes shut, that fray vivid—as yesterday.
Unforgettable till grave.
“Hegemon's art... that direct descendant ape a offshoot?”
“Genuine? Nil chance. Yet nigh-authentic polish, we surmise.”
Snort!
Siegfried scoffed.
“Hmph, absurdity. Blood Demon Iron Chain Art no trifling tome-learned feat.”
“True. But who salvaged it? Restoration viable thereby.”
“……!”
Darta's logic sank Siegfried into thought.
Sound premise.
'Lichtenauer direct... Ah. Old Paon meddled personally.'
Paon aside, Lichtenauer's lore depth vied Agena's finest.
Direct line, Paon's might, abyssal knowledge...
Mere knockoff? Internal refinement yields high fidelity.
'...Tch! Complications.'
Years teemed self-proclaimed Hegemon heirs.
Inevitable.
Hegemon Lucas fallen, Alexandr Empire dust.
Legacy's mourners persist.
Sanction as heir? Forces unified instantly.
Yet decade on, claimants extinct.
Rulers purged.
Siegfried spearheaded most.
Lucas: his endless specter.
Posers? Chastise as ever.
Lichtenauer? No rabble.
Patriarch Paon: Lucas-tier fiend; post-growth Siegfried dares not claim triumph.
“...Very well.”
Silence broken, to Darta.
“Failure justified. True heir? Mere beastkin can't cope.”
“Then, warriors dispatched forthwith for elimination.”
Peak surmounted, Darta exhaled inwardly, proffering fix.
“No. Watch awhile. Royal duty done, clanbound soon. Storming ironclad defenses? Wasteful.”
Approval assumed; headshake defied.
“Earth Dragon stirs ominously. Fortress clan or not, rampage births cataclysm... gaps inevitable.”
Gaze southbound.
“Scout Southern Continent rigorously interim. We claim that impudent heir's head then.”
Evil bond.
Siegfried-Lucas's stubborn fate-thread, unsevered, weaves ripples through time, space—to Ian.