Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: The Empress's Wrath
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Abigail von Edbalt.
The eldest daughter of the Florence family, one of the four pillars upholding the Empire, a house that has produced numerous great knights and magicians since ancient times.
She is currently the Empire's Empress, known as the Mother of All People.
A noble among nobles, elegance radiating even from her breath. A halo seemed to shine as she glided lightly down the corridor.
The label of second wife still lingered. But it would soon cease to matter.
The day her bloodline ascended the throne, Abigail would become the greatest woman in the world.
Thus, she could afford no carelessness. To achieve her lofty goal, she had to scale a towering wall.
The 1st Prince Michael, racking up feats slaughtering monsters at the northern border even now.
Rubia, subduing lifelong mages through theory alone.
Archenemies blocking Abigail's grand dream. She couldn't match them in aura or magic, but she would crush them with wisdom.
But today, her mood soured over a different matter from those two.
Of course, she showed nothing outwardly. Not a ripple marred her serene, lake-like face.
That was the ideal Empress in Abigail's eyes.
------!!!!
An incomprehensible bellow echoed as the door flew open. Frightened maids came scrambling out in panic.
Drenched in cold sweat, the maids froze in terror at the sight of Abigail, as if their breath might stop.
With a sigh, Abigail gestured for the maids to clear out.
Their faces brightening, the maids bowed deeply to the Empress and scurried off on tiptoe.
"Th-th-those damned wenches!! ...Ah, Mother!"
The 4th Prince Arkin, bandages wrapped around his face, lit up at the sight of Abigail.
Despite the rarest potions and the palace's finest healers having treated his wounds spotlessly, Arkin kept his face swathed in bandages like some protest.
As Abigail perched demurely on the bed's edge, Arkin buried his face in the folds of her skirt.
"M-Mother, it's unfair. That damned bastard Damian must've pulled some dirty trick."
The duel between Arkin and Damian.
Word had already spread beyond the palace; every salon worth its salt in the Empire was likely abuzz with the outcome.
"Arkin. Lift your head."
Arkin's heart melted at his mother's gentle tone. As he raised his gaze—
Crack!
Arkin's cheek burned. The sensation differed from Damian's blow. This defied words.
"This mother told you clearly. Even if you can't aid your brothers, do not hinder them."
"M-Mother..."
Arkin gazed up at Abigail, eyes brimming with tears. The look of a rain-soaked, abandoned pup.
But Abigail's heart stirred not. Irritation surged instead.
"You accepted a duel over one lowly maid, lost pathetically, and still lounge in bed!! What makes you so proud to stay sprawled there!"
The door was shut, soundproofing magic in place. No one outside would witness this.
"You should be on your feet now, honing your deficiencies through training... you useless sluggard..."
Abigail trailed off there and turned to exit the room.
Arkin reached out in a pitiful daze, but Abigail spared him only a glance—no more.
"Prince Arkin's magic tutor requests an audience with Your Majesty the Empress."
A cold-faced woman spoke lowly, right on Abigail's heels.
She was a maid who had served Abigail since girlhood, an exceptional knight as well.
"Is that man still drawing imperial pay? Boot him out at once. You're uncharacteristically slow on this, Ciel."
"I shall correct it."
The pair left the corridor and traversed the colonnade.
Passersby they encountered bowed deeply, enchanted by the Empress's radiant smile. None imagined the molten iron seething in her breast.
"What of Damian Renekht?"
Compared to his brothers, 4th Prince Arkin lagged in talent. Abigail held few expectations.
But the victor being Damian Renekht changed everything.
Son of the base dancer who enchanted the Emperor.
When that wench birthed him, Abigail had ached to slit her belly open. Yet imperial law offered no recourse.
The world, however, was just. It discerned right from wrong clearly.
The crime of bewitching the Emperor demanded death. That was the natural order.
Worse, the sin tainted the bloodline. Half the Empire's noblest stock, yet the mother's vileness polluted even that.
Watching Damian topple from afar was Abigail's guilty pleasure.
Thus, she had assigned him the Empire's finest tutors.
To deepen his despair. Ultimately, to make him loathe the mother who bequeathed him such base blood.
Yet this wretch—lesser than her brothers or no—had trounced Arkin, bearer of Abigail's own blood, in abject defeat.
Abigail remained ice-cold on such points. Damian could never shove aside his half-siblings for the throne anyway.
No need to inflame matters now. An Empress meddling in a fair duel ill-befitted her station.
Thus, confirm only how Damian gained that power.
She already knew of the peculiar shifts in him over two years.
Swordplay and physique from the stablehand. Trifles unworthy of note.
That hand was long gone; tracking such dregs proved no easy task.
Hence, fixate on the green flames Damian wielded.
Many mages bore signature hues.
Rubia's purple lightning epitomized the age—inspiring dread and awe alike. Abigail had witnessed it firsthand.
But Damian abruptly flowering such talent? Implausible. Someone had maneuvered.
"Ezekiel the Recluse."
"Damian's final magic tutor."
"If anyone's design, it's his."
"I'll see to it."
"You know this, but Ezekiel's no pushover. Prioritize tracking and intelligence over direct confrontation."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Even if Ezekiel's handiwork, it posed no grave threat to Abigail's grand design.
Still, certainty was ever wise.
She stamped out variables. That was Abigail's creed.
* * *
KABOOM!
Three fireballs streaked from his fingertips, slamming into targets. Pillars of flame erupted skyward.
As the blaze faded, faint scorch marks lingered—nothing of the targets remained.
He now handled three fingers' worth of Hellfire with ease. The fruit of weeks' training since the duel.
Pure speed outstripped his pre-regression self by leagues. Back then, mastering one finger's portion had eaten months.
Past know-how fused with two years' conditioning yielded this.
His duel-fractured arm was whole again. The palace chief physician had overseen healing at the Empress's command, complete with restorative delicacies.
'Hardly benevolent intent.'
Abigail von Edbalt's loathing was an open secret.
Yet she fussed over him, assigning elite tutors. Image-building as evenhanded toward bastards, plus her perverse streak.
No match for Michael or Rubia, but the Empress and her spawn bore watching.
Arkin was the dullard; his siblings brimmed with talent and guile.
"Ah, Young Master! I told you the tailor's coming today!"
Anna dashed over, skirts fluttering.
The tailor visited the annex for Arneishan Floating Ball attire.
Damian's explosive growth over two years rendered old finery unwearable.
"Capital's most rising star. Took real digging to snag him."
Anna beamed proudly. Post-duel, her cheer had brightened further.
Arkin, rumor had it, remained holed up in his chambers—never mind visiting the annex.
His wounds long healed, Damian couldn't fathom the sulking.
"Our Young Master's looks are peerless, but please craft something worthy."
"No need for such fanfare..."
"Fanfare? I know without you saying."
"Know what?"
Hee hee. Anna flashed a sly grin and poked Damian's side.
"Why you demanded the Floating Ball invite."
Damian could only tilt his head.
Chief reason: procuring a new Book of Hell.
Anna knew nothing of that—clearly some misunderstanding.
'No harm?'
Her beaming face made rebuttal tough.
Till the ball, Damian drilled relentlessly. He gathered Book of Hell intel too.
He even formed a hypothesis on summoning the Hell Lord.
Regression's direct hand seemed likeliest. Yet whether solely that remained uncertain.
Pre-regression Damian had pacted with droves of Infernals.
Post-regression, those bonds vanished—yet soul-scars might've swayed this summon.
'Or Molech's quirks.'
Molech fancied children. Damian wasn't a child now, but greener than pre-regression.
Either way, if old pacts lingered in influence, he could summon those Hell Lords too.
Conveniently, the ball's Book of Hell tied to that demon.
Time flowed. Damian honed on, mastering four fingers' Hellfire control.
"It's today, Young Master."
Ball day dawned.
Half a day's carriage brought them to Arneishan Lake.
"Grand sight."
Carriages grew lavish nearing the lake. Villages decked in riotous colors, eager for profit.
Invitees alone entered the ball, but lakeside revels drew crowds.
"Felix and I will wait here. Send word if trouble."
"Trouble? Enjoy yourselves. Grab gifts for the annex folk."
Anna and Felix waved him off as Damian headed dockside.
Lake's heart cradled three vast cruise ships lashed as one, drifting serene.
Glamorous lamps bathed the water in moonlight glow.
"An honor to escort you, Damian."
Invite presented, the usher bowed low and ferried him via skiff.
-♪♬♪♩♬♩♪♬-
Nearing the cruise liner, laughter and instruments tickled his ears.
"Any discomfort, sir?"
"None."
The usher had little choice but to inquire.
Unlike the dockside guests abuzz with hype, Damian's face stayed utterly composed.
'The game begins.'
Regression altered Damian alone? No—the world bent to him too.
Reaffirming the vengeance undelivered before death, Damian boarded the cruise liner.