Side Story 4.6: The Emperor's Lament
The Emperor, though born a god through his mother's divine blood and a mortal through his father's lineage, had never in all his years of existence used his full godhood to influence the world in which he lived. In fact, he employed only a fraction of his divine power, never enough to cause interference with the world system or the natural laws that governed reality. That was why he had never been punished by the Heavenly Court.
For example, his use of the Divine Eye to see through lies didn't constitute any breakage of celestial law. What others witnessed when he used his abilities stemmed entirely from his father's bloodline. Only his godhood kept him immortal by any measure or standard, and he used this advantage to learn the ways of the world, to gain wisdom and knowledge across the centuries.
All of this existed within the boundaries of non-interference with the mortal realm and the lower heaven of Centuury. When he went into battle, he used his own powers. Yes, he possessed advantages in raw physical strength, agility, speed, and mental processing that were beyond what any mortal could achieve, but these abilities didn't break any laws because he was born with them. He could use them freely to win his battles and create his vision for the world.
The Emperor didn't act like a god. No, he thought like a mortal being born of this world. Or rather, he was condemned to this world after his birth, cast away from his place in the high heavens. Hence, deep within, he didn't think much of gods and their whims. He, though half divine, could sympathize more with the mortals who shared this world with him.
That was why he forbade any worship of himself, even knowing he was part god. He didn't want to be exalted as a deity. He wanted to be known as a mortal man who strived to coexist with humanity.
The citizens of Elms-Arkanus were free to worship any god according to their beliefs. But to worship him was taboo. So in the end, even if he was condemned and cast down from the high heavens as its literal prince, he didn't think of himself that way. As soon as he began to understand his surroundings, he was already being raised by mortals, the Arkon clan, and they had become his parental figures, his home.
But there was a lament that came with his godhood, one his grandfather, the Heavenly God-King, had declared taboo. It was also the reason he existed in the world beneath: a taboo committed by his mother, the daughter of the God-King, who had created life with a mortal, his father.
For the longest time, this had been his deepest sorrow. He was a god, but he was also a mortal. Yet he couldn't ask anyone about it. Not even the Dragon King Ignid, his godfather who had helped raise him and kept him safe, knew how to answer such questions. This was why, for the longest time, the empire had no queen and no heirs to speak of.
Even if he found someone, a mortal's lifespan was limited. But he would exist forever, and he couldn't bear the thought of witnessing generations of his bloodline cease to exist, one after another, while he remained unchanged. There were other factors to consider as well. Could a mortal soul be impregnated by a god and survive the ordeal? Even if so, would his children also be part god, or would the divinity diminish with each generation? Would they inherit his immortality, or would he be forced to watch even his own children age and die?
These were questions that, for the longest time, he had no answers to.
But seeing the boy August Finn had given him hope for his future. It had sparked thoughts of finding a mortal woman who could carry his seed and live through the burden of bearing a half-god's child. Perhaps a Child of This World could be such a person. Someone whose soul was strong enough, whose connection to this realm was deep enough, to survive what no ordinary mortal could endure.
Hopefully, he could find one, though he only knew of August so far, at least to his direct knowledge. Although he could feel it deep within himself, somewhere else in this vast world, there was another such soul. The sensation was faint but undeniable, like a distant echo of the same unique resonance he felt from August.
These were his personal laments as he sat reading through mountains of paperwork. Thanks to his divine nature, he needed little to no rest, and his superior brain with godlike processing power allowed him to multitask, thinking through multiple problems simultaneously while handling administrative duties.
The imperial study was quiet except for the soft scratch of his pen and the occasional rustle of parchment. Moonlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the opulent room. Maps covered one wall, marking the extent of his empire. Bookshelves lined another, filled with texts on law, history, philosophy, and warfare accumulated over centuries.
He paused in his work, setting down his pen, and gazed out the window at the sleeping capital below. Lights twinkled in the darkness like earthbound stars. Each one represented lives, families, dreams, and hopes. His people. The mortals he had sworn to protect.
Sometimes, in moments like these, the weight of immortality pressed down on him with crushing force. He had watched friends grow old and die. He had seen empires rise and fall before he even began building his own. He had loved, in his way, but always kept his distance, knowing that closeness only meant inevitable loss.
The Dragon King had once told him that immortality was both a gift and a curse. The gift was time, endless time to learn, to grow, to perfect one's craft. The curse was memory, endless memory of all that was lost, all who had passed, all that could never be again.
"Perhaps that's why the gods remain in the heavens," he murmured to himself. "Distance makes loss more bearable."
But he wasn't truly one of them. He had been cast out before he could even understand what it meant to be divine. His grandfather's decree had been absolute: no god shall create life with mortals, for such unions threaten the balance between realms. His mother had defied that law, and both she and his father had paid the ultimate price.
He didn't even know what had become of her mother. Was she dead? Imprisoned in some celestial dungeon? Stripped of her powers and cast into the void? His grandfather had ensured that he would never know, that he would carry the burden of his birth without understanding its full cost.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He had built an empire on principles of justice, fairness, and the rule of law. Yet he himself was the product of the greatest transgression, a living violation of divine law that continued to exist only because his grandfather couldn't bring himself to destroy his own grandson.
Or perhaps because there was a purpose to his existence that even the God-King couldn't fully foresee.
August Finn. The boy represented something new, something unexpected. A mortal soul from another world entirely, transformed by this realm's system, growing in power at a rate that defied normal progression. If such transformations were possible, if mortal souls could be strengthened to withstand greater burdens, then perhaps there was hope after all.
Perhaps he wouldn't have to remain alone forever.
The Emperor returned his attention to the documents before him. Reports from the provinces, requests for infrastructure improvements, judicial appeals, trade negotiations, military assessments. The mundane work of governance that never ceased, regardless of how many centuries passed.
This was how he had spent his existence since taking the throne. Thinking, planning, governing, protecting. He troubleshot problems with the same methodical approach whether they involved grand strategy or minor administrative disputes. His godlike processing power allowed him to work without exhaustion, to maintain focus across multiple tasks simultaneously, to remember every detail of every case and every precedent.
But even divine cognition couldn't answer the questions that haunted him most.
Could he ever have a family? Could he ever know the simple joy of watching his own child grow, without the shadow of inevitable loss hanging over everything? Could he find someone who could stand beside him not as a subject, not as a temporary companion, but as an equal who could share in his eternal existence?
The Children of This World might hold the key. Their souls were different, forged in another reality and reborn here with unusual properties. They grew stronger than normal mortals, adapted faster, survived challenges that would destroy others. If their souls were that resilient, perhaps they could also endure what had seemed impossible before.
It was a hope. A small, fragile hope, but a hope nonetheless.
And for someone who had lived for centuries carrying the weight of loneliness and impossible questions, even a small hope was precious beyond measure.
The Emperor picked up his pen once more and returned to his work. The empire wouldn't govern itself, and his people depended on him. Whatever answers the future held, whatever possibilities August and others like him represented, he would discover them in time.
He had, after all, nothing but time.
But perhaps, for the first time in his long existence, that time might lead somewhere other than an endless repetition of the same solitary existence. Perhaps there was a future where he wouldn't have to face eternity alone.
The thought brought the faintest smile to his face, the Wretched son of the Empire and the Heavens as he continued working through the night, as he had done for countless nights before, and would do for countless nights to come.
Until, perhaps, something finally changed.