Imperial Audience: The Fierce North Wind
A fierce north wind howled through the air, sharp enough to send the unwary straight up to tickle the clouds. The people of Manrmursk, born and raised under the gaze of snow-capped peaks, knew better than to venture out in such weather—they huddled indoors like good little lambs. No wonder one of the local dialects had the saying, "Never cross your wife or the north wind."
But what if that north wind was raging indoors?
Before the servants could even bow their heads in recognition, before the nobles and ladies could raise their glasses in camaraderie, the guards sensed the shift in the atmosphere. They straightened their spines and averted their eyes. The north wind named Manrmursk Byeon Gyeongbaek was barreling toward the exit.
BAM!
The doors of Palatium hadn't been flung open so violently since the last war, had they?
He didn't know when he'd grabbed it, but Byeon Gyeongbaek pressed a bottle straight to his lips. The liquor slid down smooth as silk. This priceless vintage—impossible to gauge its true cost—had no doubt been bought with Manrmursk's territorial budget. The thought made his head burn hotter, his breaths come ragged.
And what happens when you breathe hard with a mouthful of liquid?
"Gah! Ptooey!"
The liquor never reached its destination. Instead, it vented its fury in the border lord's nasal passages. Priceless spirits scattered across the snow like worthless slush.
"That bastard Sachsen…!"
I'd thought I was different from my father.
The bond between father and son—the late Manrmursk Byeon Gyeongbaek and me? All I remembered was his back as he walked away. I'd learned more from war dispatches than from living under the same roof. So when he died, grief took a backseat to the practical question: "What now?"
But today…
The moment he heard Sachsen Duke's cheap provocation, an inexplicable rage surged up, defying words.
"…My lord."
The fury-driven vagrant slowly turned his head. A border lord clutching a liquor bottle? It was only natural for the guards to move in to tidy up. Fortunately, Gustav arrived first, waving them off with a few gestures.
"Sachsen!!"
"There are many eyes and ears about, my lord."
"Like I give a damn!"
The emperor's tour had been half-forced on him. Then came the demand to babysit the troublesome mages and mercenaries. And on top of that, Sachsen Duke's tongue-lashing. Gossip fodder for bored nobles? He didn't care. If he didn't vent like this, the border lord's resolve—to live long, thin, and quiet—might shatter.
Only after sharing an entire bottle with the frozen ground did he finally calm. Then, as if losing his mind, he laughed and flopped onto the snow in a spread-eagle.
"……."
The knight, now bathed in twilight, quietly took his place beside his lord. His gaze remained sharp as ever, ever vigilant against unseen foes. But he held his tongue. Like a sword still sheathed.
"Y'know, Gustav… I thought I didn't give a shit. Not that my mind's changed or anything."
"……."
"I still don't. It's not like, 'He's the lowest duke, and he mentioned my dad, so I'm mad as his son' or some bullshit like that. You get what I'm saying?"
The sword remained sheathed.
"But he keeps pushing because I let him. And now? 'Take care of the mages and mercs'? Ha! Manrmursk maintains more standing troops and mercenaries than anywhere else in the empire. What the hell more does he want?!"
Not yet.
"Hell… maybe I should just raze Palatium. Right now. Call up every standing soldier, every reservist… drag along those mages and mercs who've been eating us out of house and home… and flatten the place."
"If you command it… I shall see it done."
The sword was drawn at last.
But both the drawn sword and its wielder knew the truth. It would never swing.
"Feeling better now, my lord?"
"Don't ask."
The liquor hit late, as always. Even with his back flat on the ground, the world spun. His waist felt oddly warm, like hot springs bubbling below. But drifting off in this weather meant freezing solid. He had to shake it off and rise. Still, he lingered a moment longer, staring blankly at the night sky.
That endlessly heavy evening sky stared back down at Manrmursk Byeon Gyeongbaek. If a shooting star fell, he'd wish on it—but the indifferent heavens just twinkled in place.
"This wasn't a matter to relay like that, Sachsen Duke."
"No amount of gentle words would make it palatable, Your Majesty."
He had a point. Given Manrmursk's nature as a border territory, it already kept twice the standing troops of any other noble house. And they weren't free.
"Besides, you haven't even conveyed the full content yet."
"If I'd mentioned that just now, he really might've stormed off."
"Your Majesty need worry for nothing. As always, I shall handle the rough and dirty work—past, present, and future."
'Past, present, and future…'
A polite warning: I'll handle the real work, so stay a figurehead emperor. Right to the emperor's face, Sachsen Duke sheathed his dagger in a wrapper of loyalty. Over the line, even for an imperial duke and elector.
But the emperor, bound by invisible strings, could hardly bolt like Manrmursk Byeon Gyeongbaek. He merely tilted his glass.
"…How many more audiences today?"
"The next is the last."
"Oh? Music to my ears. Who is it?"
"The warden of Utopia, Jepeto Cervantes, and the newly appointed vice warden."
At the word "Utopia," the emperor's expression shifted.
"Is that so? Here for their inauguration greetings, then… Sachsen Duke, why not retire first?"
He floated the suggestion casually, as if it meant nothing.
Sachsen Duke fell silent, his face unreadable.
"Not that it'd happen, but Jepeto the warden isn't the type to bow like the border lord."
'So that's his angle…'
A giggle escaped at the emperor's cute mix of concern and check. Already weary, with tomorrow looming, there was no reason to refuse the emperor's paving of the way.
"If Your Majesty insists, who am I to refuse? I shall withdraw, Your Majesty."
"You… nervous or somethin'?"
Jepeto's face screamed, Jackpot—endless teasing material.
"As if. I've already met His Majesty."
A lie. The emperor had skipped Suhwa Romanov's glorious academy graduation. Off on tour, they'd said. The top graduate's plaque and stipend came from some nameless prime minister standing in.
"Who asked that? Yer tense as a bowstring."
No use talking. His expression was set. Denying it now would just hype Jepeto up more. Even Suhwa's tactical silence looked like a grandson clowning for grandpa.
"Lord Cervantes, Lord Romanov. His Majesty will see you now."
Salvation appeared. As they started up the spiral staircase to the second floor, footsteps descended.
Only the emperor himself or a guard could come from there. No clanking armor, though.
"Hear that? The emperor comin' down to greet us himself? I ain't dead yet!"
Jepeto's shoulders nearly brushed the ceiling, his steps light.
"Cervantes. Still not retired?"
But exactly one second later, a voice shattered Jepeto's happy fantasy. Too casual for an imperial greeting. Jepeto's disappointment crashed just as lightly.
"That's my line. Sachsen. Still playin' lapdog to the emperor?"
"Careful, someone might misunderstand. Fled the capital for this snowy backwater, Cervantes?"
Sparks flew across the stairs, invisible but hot. In the empire, only Jepeto would clap back at Sachsen Duke so openly. Realizing his foe wouldn't bend to authority, Sachsen Duke withdrew first.
"His Majesty is weary from the audiences."
"That so? He looks less tired now."
'Wrap it up quick, whatever yer here for.'
'Who made him tired in the first place?'
Strip away the refined speech, and it was kids bickering. The chief steward alone suffered, stifling laughs at the untimely flexing.
"Done talkin'? Move aside? We're two grown men—this staircase's narrow."
"Ah! Age catchin' up on yer eyes? My apologies. Thoughtless of me."
Sachsen Duke lacked the stamina for such childish jabs. Deeming it unworthy, he shouldered between Jepeto and Suhwa and descended.
"What a bore. C'mon, His Majesty's waitin'."
Savoring the petty win, Jepeto stepped forward. But no footsteps followed.
"Heh heh. Suhwa, now yer so tense yer feet are glued—!"
Jepeto cut off mid-sentence.
Suhwa stared blankly at the stair they'd just stood on—the spot where Sachsen Duke had pushed through. His face twisted like he'd spotted an arch-enemy he'd gladly grind to dust. Eyes welled as if a lover long thought dead had returned alive. Unconcealed ecstasy bloomed, like a condemned prisoner granted pardon at the gallows.
'Sachsen, huh… You've shat on every corner of the empire, haven't ya.'
Stunned by Suhwa's vivid blankness, Jepeto swallowed hard.
The old files on Suhwa from Cynthia—sneaked via pigeon, naturally—had plenty redacted. Until now, he'd only vaguely guessed at revenge as the motive. But this changed everything.
'If that's actin', this kid belongs in the imperial opera house, not Utopia.'
Watching a master thespian's private performance wasn't bad, but it was time to fish Suhwa from the whirlpool of rage.
'Damn, he looks his age like this.'
No mask hides the raw scent of youthful folly before a lifelong vendetta. Jepeto decided to overlook it—just this once. Like ignoring wrinkles on a pupa.
Clearing his throat lightly before addressing the Suhwa stewing in fury and murder, Jepeto spoke up.