Chapter 68
“What.”
Bartole tossed a handful of powder into the incense burner on the nightstand. A dreamy, intoxicating scent began to spread.
To Leraije, the smell was unbearably foul. Yet, he didn’t even blink.
The emperor leaned toward the censer, inhaled the scent deeply, and continued speaking.
“Anything that dares sprout must be crushed before it grows.”
Bartole had been a prince who never should have ascended the throne.
His claim to succession was far down the line, and although noble, his mother’s family was weak and insignificant.
But most of all, it was his cruel and greedy nature that made him unfit. Everyone who knew Bartole had said the same: he was not emperor material.
‘And now, those wagging tongues no longer exist in this world.’
Bartole had beheaded all his half-brothers and even his own father, seizing the throne drenched in blood.
He had taken power by force, but his succession lacked legitimacy.
Many noble houses that once supported the crown prince turned their backs on him.
‘And the price they paid was annihilation.’
Even the few who survived his bloody purges could not bring themselves to trust him.
House lords rushed to secure alliances through hasty marriages, sending their daughters away.
But Bartole had never intended to wed a minister’s daughter. What he wanted was a ruler’s daughter—someone who could lend legitimacy to his reign.
Unfortunately, every border duke of the Empire had only sons.
So Bartole turned his eyes beyond the Empire.
When word spread of the usurper’s bloody war preparations, neighboring kingdoms cowered.
The Kingdom of Rubtam was no exception. Its king gladly offered his daughter to the Empire’s tyrant.
The princess of Rubtam, sent as if sold, became the current Empress of Tanesia.
“If you handle this task well, I’ll allow you to take Arsen back to the Verdi County estate.”
Bartole said lazily, his face slack. Leraije clenched his fists tightly.
He had served as the emperor’s hound for years. Yet the humiliation and helplessness never grew easier to bear.
Outwardly, however, he kept his face impassive.
“Understood.”
Perhaps it was the calm reply that displeased him, for Bartole’s face suddenly twisted in anger.
“Do not forget, Leraije Dion Arenfrit.”
The emperor flicked his finger, and Leraije grit his teeth.
“You are in the palm of my hand.”
“Khuk!”
With a chilling crack, Leraije groaned in agony.
It felt as though someone was crushing his heart with their bare hand.
Clutching at his chest, his body trembled violently.
“Beg.”
The pain intensified, and Leraije collapsed. His legs could no longer support him.
“Plead for your life. Grovel and beg me for mercy.”
Bartole ordered, towering over the writhing man on the floor.
But though Leraije’s body convulsed under unbearable torment, not a word escaped his lips. His silence only enraged Bartole further.
He leapt to his feet and shouted,
“Beg! Swear obedience and crawl like a dog!”
As the furious roar rang in his ears, Leraije slowly lifted his head and glared at the emperor.
His golden eyes burned with an unyielding will.
I will never beg you.
The boy who once broke under this torture countless times was long gone.
Grinding his teeth, Leraije endured.
In the end, it was Bartole who tired first. Withdrawing his power, he slumped onto the couch, panting.
“You stubborn wretch.”
The cursed pain binding Leraije’s body vanished at once, leaving behind a brief dizziness.
His mana surged to repair the damage done to his body, quickly restoring him.
Leraije rose to his feet without hesitation.
The emperor scowled at the inhuman resilience of a Sword Master.
“…Monster.”
No, the true monster is you.
Leraije regarded him coldly.
Bartole grabbed another handful of powder and threw it into the censer. The smoke thickened, choking the room with its potency.
Still unable to sleep, it seems.
It was a sleeping incense, used only by those suffering from severe insomnia.
Even with such strong doses, the emperor barely managed two hours of sleep each night.
Facing Bartole’s bloodshot eyes, Leraije asked in a flat tone,
“Now, will you tell me whose life I’m to take?”
Leraije left the emperor’s chamber, walking down the palace corridor.
…Foul as ever.
That was always the feeling after meeting Bartole—the suffocating sorcery binding his body, the filthy “tasks” forced upon him.
Of course, I have no intention of carrying them out as he wishes.
Suppressing the storm within him, he was about to exit the central palace when a voice called out.
“Ha, there you are.”
At the far end of the colonnade stood Crown Prince Lucius.
What a cursed day.
Having faced both emperor and prince in succession, Leraije gave a dry laugh.
“You’re laughing?”
Lucius’ face twisted with rage as he stormed forward.
“Do you have something to say to me, Your Highness?”
Leraije asked evenly.
Lucius, showing no intent to hide his hostility, barked,
“You filthy cur! How dare a mongrel like you strut about without knowing your place?”
The insult was vulgar and degrading.
But Leraije didn’t flinch. He knew well why Lucius acted this way.
A festering inferiority complex. A constant sense of defeat.
Though crown prince, Lucius fell short of Leraije in every personal quality—Sword Mastery, sharp intellect, quick wit, physical prowess, even beauty.
Knowing this, Lucius had schemed against him since childhood, desperate to destroy him.
Had Leraije awakened his Sword Master abilities any later, Lucius might have succeeded in killing him.
“And how dare you presume to marry Calliope Verdi?”
So, he had already heard the news.
Thankful Calliope herself wasn’t present, Leraije replied,
“His Majesty has granted permission. It is hardly a matter that concerns you, brother.”
“What?”
Lucius’ face contorted hideously.
“Cancel it at once! Go to His Majesty and beg him to withdraw his consent!”
He was throwing a tantrum, pure and simple.
Even a child would not whine so pathetically.
Already irritated from his meeting with the emperor, Leraije’s patience wore thin.
If you insist on provoking me… I suppose I must oblige.
A crooked smile tugged at his lips—undeniable mockery.
“The emperor has already commanded it. How could a mere, lowly prince such as myself possibly undo it?”
He flung Lucius’ words back at him, dripping with sarcasm.
Of course, the crown prince’s fury boiled over.
“You insolent bastard…!”
Lucius raised his hand to strike. His filthy habit resurfaced.
But to Leraije, the motion was laughably slow, pitifully weak.
He simply lifted his arm and brushed against the descending hand.
“Aagh!”
A thin layer of aura covered his forearm.
Lucius screamed as though he had smashed barehanded into iron, clutching his swelling hand.
His breath ragged, he whipped his head up and roared,
“You damned wretch!”
