The Seventh accepted without hesitation.
For someone like him, the possibility of losing was so remote it barely deserved consideration. His response came immediately, relaxed, almost casual, as if the agreement had already been sealed long before he spoke.
"Alright," he said, directing his gaze at Daverion.
"By the way… my name is Mykado Enryu. You can simply call me Enryu."
The tension that had been suspended in the air shattered at once.
Mael released the breath he had been holding for several moments, as if only now his body remembered how to breathe.
"Well," he said, running a hand over his face, "problem solved."
Theron did not waste time. Before any further exchange could rekindle the latent pressure, he stepped forward and gestured firmly.
"Come with me to the event hall."
As they began to move, Enryu spoke again. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. His words slid forward with a dangerous calm.
"As soon as this is over," he said, "we will have our fight. I do not intend to wait any longer."
Daverion lifted his gaze and nodded without drama, as if that promise were neither a threat nor a challenge, but merely an agreement waiting to be fulfilled.
A few steps away, oblivious to everything else, Lyra continued stroking the small black lizard. Her fingers moved carefully over the dark scales, fascinated by their texture and the subtle warmth radiating from the tiny body.
Daverion set his teacup down on the table.
The soft sound of porcelain touching the surface was the only thing that broke his silence. His eyes shifted to Lyra, then to the creature resting calmly beneath her touch.
"Vision of Envy," he murmured.
At once, an emerald-green glow ignited in his pupils, deep and intense, as if his gaze wished to tear the truth directly from reality itself.
What he saw was no longer a lizard.
The small, harmless form blurred, revealing what it truly was: a dragon. Black as the deepest night, with a presence that was compressed yet ferocious, an existence sharp and ruthless, restrained within a reduced body by sheer will.
Daverion formed a barely perceptible smile.
"I suspected as much…"
He shifted his gaze toward Theron, an edge of irony passing through his thoughts.
What would he think if he knew his granddaughter was petting Enryu's black dragon?
The lizard—no, the dragon—did not notice Daverion's observation. It remained calm, enjoying the contact without the slightest suspicion.
But Enryu felt it.
It was not a clear sensation, nor a direct warning. It was a brush, a faint disturbance in the flow around him, just enough to catch his attention for an instant before he let it pass.
Theron approached Lyra and gently lifted her away, guiding her back with care. Therion also moved closer to his grandfather, following the unspoken signal.
Lyra frowned, reluctant to part from the small creature.
"Come," Theron said, his voice firm yet calm.
"We should not be late."
The group began to move through the garden.
It was a strange procession, even absurd, if one could perceive the truth concealed within it. Two of the most powerful beings in existence walked among them as if they were ordinary guests, without display, without visible guards, without ceremony.
They passed through a side corridor and entered the event hall through an entrance separate from the main one, reserved exclusively for members of the royal family.
When they entered, the emperor was delivering the final words of his speech.
The hall was immense. Beneath the warm light descending from above, several round tables were arranged, each surrounded by five chairs. Every table was covered with pristine white cloths, perfectly laid, not a single crease out of place.
Theron ascended the side stairs, guiding the group toward the second floor.
There, an open gallery extended around the entire main space. There were no walls enclosing it completely, only a continuous railing marking the edge. The design did not seek to hide, but to separate.
The private rooms were not concealed behind doors or curtains. They opened directly onto the gallery, elevated and set slightly back from the edge, enough to ensure discretion. From the first floor, those above were nothing more than distant silhouettes, figures cut by height and lighting, impossible to distinguish clearly.
Only when someone from those rooms stepped toward the railing, resting a hand upon it or moving closer to the edge, did their presence become visible to those below.
The second floor did not need to hide.
Height, angle, and spatial design alone were enough to mark the difference between those who observed… and those who were observed.
And so, the group made their way toward the finest private room in the hall, the one reserved exclusively for the emperor.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted.
The space was wide, silent, isolated from the distant murmur of the main hall. Along the walls, dark brown cushions were arranged with precision, inviting rest without sacrificing solemnity. The material was soft to the touch, yet firm, designed for dignity rather than indulgence.
At the center of the room rested a low table, crafted from materials of the highest quality. Its surface reflected the light with a restrained sheen, free of unnecessary ostentation, making it clear that it was not an ordinary object, but one destined for those at the pinnacle of power.
Everything spoke of status.
Not through excess, but through certainty.
The group settled into the private room as the emperor's voice reached them, filtered by distance and architecture.
It was not a faint echo. The hall's design allowed every important word to travel clearly, enough for those above to hear without revealing themselves.
The cushions shifted softly as they sat. The central table remained still between them, like a point of balance amid presences that were anything but.
Below, the emperor's voice rose one final time.
There was no exaltation in his tone. He did not need to shout to be heard. He spoke with the certainty of someone announcing a concluded fact, not an aspiration.
"The general who opposed our will has been defeated."
A restrained murmur rippled through the main hall.
"His forces have been dismantled. His routes closed. His banner withdrawn."
The voice continued, steady and firm.
"The territories under his control have officially become part of our lands."
There was no dramatization. No overt celebration. Only a statement, heavy and impossible to misunderstand.
"This was not an unnecessary war," he continued, "but an inevitable correction."
From the private room, the group listened in silence.
Daverion remained still, his posture straight, his eyes calm. Enryu leaned naturally, attentive, missing nothing. Mael had stopped sighing; his expression was neutral but alert. Theron listened with his brow faintly furrowed, recognizing every implication behind the carefully chosen words.
"From this day forward," the emperor said, "our borders advance. Not from reckless ambition, but for stability."
The words lingered for a moment longer.
"Let the world understand this: we do not seek chaos, but we will not retreat from those who provoke it."
The speech ended amid measured, respectful applause.
In the private room, no one clapped.
There was no need.
Everyone there understood what had truly been said.
A general had fallen.
A territory had been absorbed.
And the dynasty's advance continued, silent, steady… impossible to halt without consequence.
The outside world celebrated.
When the speech ended, the emperor lifted his gaze.
Not toward the assembled crowd, but toward the upper level, toward the area reserved solely for emperors.
His voice rose again, clear and solemn.
"Now, for the toast," he announced, "my father, the former emperor, will speak."
The reaction was immediate.
A restrained murmur turned into open excitement. Applause surged in waves, mixed with exclamations and eager voices. The name did not need to be spoken.
Everyone knew who he was.
One of the most powerful emperors since the founding of the empire.
A figure belonging not only to the present, but to history itself.
Renowned for a battle etched into collective memory: the one in which, against impossible odds, he defeated a colossal monster with a single strike.
In the private room, Theron stood.
The gesture alone was enough.
He stepped toward the railing with steady strides, unhurried, and the moment his silhouette became visible from below, the hall erupted.
Ovations.
Not ordinary applause, but cries heavy with reverence, admiration, and stories passed down through generations. The sound surged like a tide, striking the walls and filling the hall completely.
From the other private rooms on the second floor, great generals, viscounts, and members of the royal family turned their attention toward him.
There was no curiosity in their gazes.
Only reverence.
On the first floor, the reaction was even stronger. People stood, some instinctively, others out of ingrained respect. To them, Theron was not merely a former emperor.
He was a living legend.
And in that moment, as the clamor echoed through every corner of the hall, it was clear that his presence still carried the same weight it had during his reign.
On the first floor stood Dorian, the merchant.
He watched Theron with eyes alight, his chest filled with emotion he could barely contain. To him, this was not just a former emperor, but the man who had shaped the era in which he had prospered.
At another table, Valeria also looked upward.
Her expression was different. Not overflowing with fervor, but marked by deep, restrained respect. It did not compare to the devotion she felt toward the Fifth Sovereign, but Theron still held a special place in her perception.
The emperor spoke again.
"Before we begin the toast," he said, "I wish to present an old friend."
Silence fell like a weight.
Conversations faded one by one, replaced by low murmurs. A friend of the Great Emperor could not be ordinary.
"If he is his friend…"
"He must be on the same level…"
Expectation grew instantly.
Even the princess, seated in another private room, focused all her attention on the railing.
Few can call my grandfather a friend, she thought.
Valeria straightened as well.
Above, in the private room, Theron turned his head toward Daverion.
Daverion understood immediately.
His first instinct was refusal. He preferred to remain unnoticed, to observe from the shadows. But another thought crossed his mind: in moments, he would use the imperial family's battle hall… and it would likely end in ruin.
He sighed inwardly.
"Consider this my apology."
Theron did not understand the meaning behind that silent acceptance.
Daverion stood.
The movement was simple, yet enough to draw attention within the private room. He walked toward the railing with unhurried steps.
Confusion spread across the second floor.
He was not an old man.
Not a venerable figure with white hair.
He was young.
The princess frowned slightly, surprised. She, too, had expected someone elderly.
On the first floor, some recognized him.
"It's him…"
"The one who gave that lecture in the grand vestibule…"
Among the crowd, several young women stirred with renewed excitement. His appearance, his bearing, the calm he radiated, drew whispered admiration.
Dorian stared in astonishment.
Something had always told him this young man was not ordinary. But he never imagined he would stand beside the former emperor, let alone be introduced as his friend.
Valeria froze.
She never expected to see Daverion there. Not beside Theron.
She glanced at the two young women next to her, whispering excitedly.
"Who could be lucky enough to be with him?"
Valeria looked back toward the railing.
Daverion looked at her.
She turned away at once.
A moment later, she looked again… and he was still watching her.
Daverion raised his hand in a simple greeting.
Valeria returned it, embarrassed, acutely aware of the eyes now fixed on her.
Enryu watched the exchange with interest.
Theron noticed and called Valeria over.
He did so naturally, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Valeria stood.
Every step she took was watched. She was nervous. After all, she was approaching the former emperor.
Lyra observed everything with clear dissatisfaction.
She said nothing, but her expression said enough.
When Valeria reached the private room, every gaze turned toward her. The atmosphere felt heavier.
Daverion nodded to her. She returned the gesture and took a seat, still uneasy.
Daverion then lifted his gaze.
He looked over everyone present.
He rested one hand on the railing.
He did not impose himself, nor did he raise his voice. And yet, when he spoke, the hall seemed to lean in to listen.
"I am not someone fond of speeches," he said calmly.
A faint murmur arose, then vanished.
"But today, a victory has been discussed," he continued. "The fall of a general. Lands that now belong to this empire."
His gaze swept the hall without haste, from the first floor to the upper galleries.
"That does not happen by chance. It happens because someone chose to advance… and someone else failed to stop them."
There was no judgment in his words. Only acknowledgment.
"So I will toast to something simple," he added.
"To those who understand the weight of every step they take… and still move forward."
He raised his cup slightly.
"May today's decisions not become tomorrow's ruins."
Nothing more.
There was no grand finale. No epic proclamation.
But the silence that followed was absolute.
Deeper than before. Sharper.
And then, cautiously, applause began.
Theron was the first to break the silence.
His palms met once… then again, firm and steady.
"There is no need for more speeches," he said clearly. "This is more than enough."
He lifted a cup.
That was the signal.
Throughout the hall, nobles, generals, and members of the royal family followed suit.
"Cheers!"
Crystal met softly in the air, wine flowed, and the moment was sealed. The accumulated tension dissolved, giving way to a warmer, celebratory atmosphere.
Servants moved at once. Side doors opened silently, and carefully arranged trays filled the hall. Rich aromas spread through the air as the feast began.
Theron set his cup aside and returned to his seat beside Daverion.
They sat naturally, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred… though both knew otherwise.
And as the celebration resumed, they shared a comfortable silence, the kind shared by those who know that some words need no reply.
Then, something changed.
Enryu, who had remained relaxed until then, froze. It was subtle, but unmistakable to those who knew how to look.
His gaze hardened.
There was no light, no sound, no visible sign. The message arrived directly to his consciousness, carrying the unmistakable weight of those at the absolute pinnacle of existence.
The Primordial Sovereigns.
For a brief moment, the hall's noise faded. The message was concise, cold, impossible to misinterpret.
It was not a warning.
Nor a suggestion.
It was a declaration.
Enryu's expression shifted completely. Lightness vanished, replaced by sharp, focused attention, like someone who had just seen a piece move that should not have… yet already had.
Almost simultaneously, far away, within the Celestial Court, chaos stirred.
A messenger breached the outer seals without announcement. He did not request audience. He did not wait for protocol.
His arrival alone was enough to force the high command to rise.
The message he carried was not of the same level as the one Enryu received.
It lacked the authority of the Primordial Sovereigns.
And yet… it was enough to cause upheaval.
Expressions shifted. Voices fell silent. Some exchanged rapid glances, others clenched their fists beneath their robes.
Something was moving.
And this time, it was not small.
It was the second time the date had shifted.
While the empire celebrated, cups raised and plates filled, two different messages had been delivered in separate places… both announcing the same thing, though in different words.
The balance had begun to strain.