Chapter 33: Supreme Guardian Council
It had been exactly one month since Alexius and the forces of the Principality successfully reoccupied the city of Avarus.
Deep within the heart of the Kalian Empire, the most important meeting in decades had been called.
Though the ten million souls of Aureth Kalian—the Black Capital—continued their usual rhythm—markets roaring, caravans arriving in endless columns, guild bells ringing at dawn and dusk—the true heart of imperial authority, Vargareth Palace, was busier than even in times of war.
At the center of the inner citadel stood the Grand Meeting Hall—the largest council chamber on the continent. Here, wars were declared. Here, kingdoms were erased from maps.
Before it towered the gates.
Two colossal doors, fifty meters high and thirty meters wide, forged from layered mithril and blackened imperial steel. Their surface bore the sigil of the Empire—the Black Wolf standing upon a jagged mountain ridge, its gaze fixed forward as if surveying all lands beneath heaven.
It was less a carving and more a proclamation.
Screeeeech—
With a thunderous groan that echoed through the corridors, the doors slowly parted.
The herald's voice rang out:
"Count Der von Gnadenlose."
"Scourge of the Western Rebellion."
"By His Majesty's own decree—The Merciless."
These titles had been bestowed personally by the Emperor after the Count crushed three insurrections in a single winter campaign.
Der Gnadenlose entered without hesitation, still clad in the same blood-stained armor he had worn against the Prince of the so-called Leo Principality.
The moment the imperial summons reached him, he had marched.
On his way, he unleashed his full might upon Avarus City—reducing it to ruin. The ducal household had been executed publicly, humiliated deliberately to send a single message:
The Kalian Empire was not a state to be challenged.
Without rest, he drove his army toward the capital, riding day and night. Upon reaching Aureth Kalian, he came directly here.
And entered.
The chamber was already occupied.
Around a colossal circular table of black obsidian sat the absolute zenith of the Empire's military and magical power.
The Supreme Guardian Council consisted of:
• Twenty Imperial Sword Masters
• Seven Rank 8 Grand Mages — now reduced to six
• And the twenty-seventh seat… the Emperor himself
Twenty-seven beings whose combined strength could reshape continents.
In the past, the Council convened only once per year on Empire Founding Day. Even then, members on campaign were excused.
Never had every Rank 8 been summoned at once.
Until now.
All expeditions had been halted. Every Rank 8 had been recalled.
All except one.
The Duchess of South Zemlya remained absent—contact with her northern expedition inside the Leo Principality had been lost.
Each member present held exalted noble rank. Dukes. Margraves. Counts. Rulers of vast territories.
After Count Gnadenlose took his seat, the chamberlain announced again:
"General Viktor von Raskolnikov."
"Duke of Rientem."
"Slayer of the High Elves."
"By His Majesty's own decree—The Elven Doom."
Viktor entered and sat without ceremony.
His hardened gaze swept across the gathering.
To his left sat Grand Mage Grigori von Weber, Master of the Aqua Tower and Margrave of the Southern Coast, casually levitating a sphere of razor-sharp condensed water above his knuckles.
Beside him, Grand Mage Anya von Stauffenberg of the Glacial Tower traced intricate frost runes into the obsidian surface.
"Viktor," someone called.
Yuri von Krause. Count. Sword Master.
"I was beginning to think the Elven front had finally claimed you."
"Tch. Those pointy ears hide behind ancient trees like cowards," Viktor replied as he settled into his seat. "By His Majesty's grace, I was about to break their final defensive line. This recall only gave them breathing room."
The two had known each other since childhood. Even now, their exchange carried familiarity beneath the arrogance of Rank 8 power.
Heavy footsteps echoed again.
"Dmitri von Eisenberg, Duke of Occidens."
Behind him followed, "Grand Mage Mikhail von Schiller, Master of the Aether Tower."
The chamberlain declared their titles and achievements before they took their seats.
"Ah, the butcher of the East," Dmitri sneered at Viktor. "Tell me—did you leave enough soldiers to defend against the inevitable Elven counter-offensive? Or are they dying while you sit safely here?"
Viktor's killing intent flared instantly.
"Do not insult my legions. They will butcher every last one of those animals."
"Unlike your forces on the Tri-Alliance border," Dmitri replied coldly,
"who retreat every time a Republican cannon fires."
The temperature in the chamber dropped.
"What did you say?"
Aura collided with mana. The obsidian table trembled under invisible pressure.
BOOM—
A bolt of lightning cracked through the hall.
"Gentlemen."
Grand Mage Boris von Terra, Master of the Lightning Tower, lowered his staff.
"Save your posturing. The Emperor did not recall all twenty-seven—now twenty-six—Rank 8 combatants so you could bicker over border disputes."
"Tch."
Both men withdrew their killing intent.
Silence returned.
Moments later, the side doors behind the dais opened.
The herald struck his mithril staff against the marble floor.
"All rise for His Imperial Majesty—Kaiser Aleksandr von Hohenzollern!"
All twenty-six stood immediately.
The Emperor entered.
Despite decades of warfare, he appeared no older than thirty.
He was strong. Stronger than anyone present.
Pale blond hair rested beneath a gem-studded imperial crown. His icy blue eyes swept across the hall.
He wore a pristine white military greatcoat trimmed in gold and black. At his side hung his legendary longsword.
The ambient mana subtly bent toward him, as if acknowledging its master.
"Sit."
They obeyed instantly.
"Three months ago," the Emperor began calmly, "I received dire news from the North—news that threatens the very existence of the Empire."
Shock rippled across the chamber.
What could possibly threaten Kalia?
The Emperor nodded toward Grand Mage Mikhail von Schiller.
Mikhail stepped forward and struck his staff against the floor.
A massive glowing projection burst to life above the obsidian table.
"For those blinded by the blood of Elves and Dwarves," Mikhail began, "allow me to remind you of the fundamental laws of our world."
The projection shifted to the northern wastes.
"As you know, wild monsters—goblins, trolls, orcs—inhabit the Sea of Forests. In the far north dwell the Void Creatures, restrained for millennia by the ancient wards of the Grey Witch."
The image zoomed deeper into the frozen continent.
"There is another threat."
The projection formed a colossal entity—three-dimensional and horrifying. Its skin resembled jagged volcanic rock, veins pulsing with corrupted violet mana.
"Sins."
"Unique monsters born once every century. When a race overbreeds and absorbs excessive ambient mana, the excess manifests as toxification. A Sin is born from that imbalance."
"When awakened, it becomes a singularity. It unites scattered tribes. Establishes strongholds."
"And if not subjugated immediately… it founds a kingdom."
"The Sin of Gigantum," Dmitri muttered.
"Correct," said the Emperor.
"One hundred years ago, it was the size of a human. But continental wars prevented immediate suppression. It devoured. It absorbed mana. It fed upon toxification."
The projection expanded.
"Today… it stands three hundred meters tall."
A murmur spread across the chamber.
A walking mountain.
A being rivaling Elder Dragons.
"It has united the Giant races," Viktor added grimly. "And we all know what sustains them."
Silence.
"Human livestock," someone whispered.
"Thirty years ago," the Kaiser continued, "it rampaged across our northern borders. We lost an entire province—territory equal in size to the Leo Principality."
A stain on imperial history.
"We believed it would remain contained. We believed we still had time."
His icy gaze sharpened.
"We were wrong."
(Continue....)