Just as Rick broke through the most crucial moment of his life and stepped out of the dungeon marking the start of his new journey, at Ison City's gates, Lant and Moya arrived with the egg shipment, fulfilling an old promise.
Lying on a simple cart, Moya—his shoulder bandaged—tilted his head to gaze at Ison's towering gates.
"I wonder if Rick is still here... Maybe he went to the Almans Wasteland as promised, or... maybe he's dead..."
Rick's face, which Moya missed deeply, flashed before his eyes, along with warm memories of their journey together.
"No, that guy has nine lives—he won't die so easily." Recalling Rick's countless escapes from death, Moya's dazed eyes rekindled.
In truth, Moya felt complicated about Rick. Rick's craving to grow strong from weakness mirrored Moya's own hopes—a version of himself realizing dreams, rising from weakness. Yet he also envied Rick, jealous that someone who started lower had achieved more, leaving him far behind.
"Lucky bastard!" Moya cursed, mixed emotions churning.
"Moya, paperwork's done. Emperor Arthur's personal guard is here for the eggs. I'm heading to Palais Saint-Rosel to meet him. You should return to camp—you're injured. I wanted to take you, but..." Lant approached.
"Meet Emperor Arthur?!"
At the mention of meeting this legendary paragon, Moya—pale from his wound—flushed with excitement. He struggled up, grabbing Lant. "Take me! My injury's fine."
"You..." Lant eyed the blood seeping through Moya's bandage.
But Moya, overwhelmed by the chance to meet a demigod-like legend, stubbornly pulled his coat over the stain. Seeing his insistence, Lant helped him up and into a waiting insect carriage.
"Don't overdo it. Speak up if you can't handle it."
"Heh, don't worry. Missing this would haunt me forever."
"Hehe..."
Watching Moya's expectant face, Lant smiled too—his own excitement matched Moya's, for Arthur was his childhood idol.
Thus, the carriage bearing their hopes entered the magnificent Palais Saint-Rosel.
At the long staircase, the carriage halted. Inside, Lant and Moya preened their travel-worn appearances like nervous brides, then stepped out.
Gazing up at the palace's grand main gate, Lant sucked in a breath, exchanging a nervous, pale-faced glance with Moya.
"So nervous... Hold me later—I can't embarrass myself before the Emperor."
"Dammit, I'm the injured one! My calves are shaking from nerves too."
Lant smiled helplessly, struggling to contain his own tension as he supported Moya up the long stairs. Escorted by waiting palace attendants, they entered the outer reception hall of Palais Saint-Rosel.
To their disappointment, the one greeting them wasn't Emperor Arthur as hoped, but Gria, Prime Minister of the New Tanzan Duchy.
After routinely reporting their journey's events, Lant and Moya waited quietly as Gria finished documenting.
"Remnants of House Zarok—seems they haven't given up." Glancing at his notes, Gria set the report aside and poured them wine. "You've worked hard. Thank you for your efforts for Tanzan. I convey Emperor Arthur's gratitude."
"You're too kind—this is our duty. But... Your Majesty..." Lant looked at Gria expectantly. "You wish to meet the Emperor?" Gria smiled, stroking his moustache.
Lant nodded sheepishly, worried his request was too abrupt.
"Don't mind. It's reasonable—nearly every soldier reporting to Ison hopes to see the legendary warrior. I understand." Gria sipped his wine. "Originally, the Emperor was to receive you personally—you've done great service. But he's delayed by private matters, so I'm standing in."
"What a pity," Lant said, disappointment crossing his face.
"Hehe, if you insist, wait a while. The Emperor keeps his word." Gria patted Lant's shoulder amiably.
"Really?" Lant's face lit up again.
"Of course." Gria returned to his seat, pointing to the wine rack. "Help yourselves. Now, please excuse me—with the Duchy newly founded, much needs handling."
"Certainly, please proceed." Lant bowed respectfully, pouring himself more wine carefully to not disturb Gria.
As Prime Minister, Gria was swamped. Shifting from city-state federation to a duchy affected all aspects of society. Countless decrees needed implementation, and Arthur's policies based on pre-era human nations required Gria's careful review and input to determine feasibility in this era.
Even accustomed to the Guild's meticulous busyness, Gria felt overwhelmed. He worked like a relentless machine, the only sounds in the hall the rustle of turning pages and the scratch of pen on paper.
In this focused state, time flowed like water, so much so that Gria didn't realize two hours had passed, and Lant and Moya still waited across from him.
But time seemed to move differently for them. To Gria, it flew; to Lant and Moya, each minute dragged. This silent waiting felt like torture—they sat rigid, afraid to make a sound or move, lest they disturb Gria.
"Why hasn't the Emperor come? Will he not come?"
"I can't take it—my neck aches..."
"Me too..."
Too afraid to speak, Lant and Moya exchanged complex looks and silent mouth movements.
Finally, Lant could no longer endure the soreness in his neck. The fatigue from the journey seemed to erupt all at once, and he couldn't help but twist his neck.
CRACK.
The crisp sound of joints shifting rang out in the silence. At almost the same moment, Lant paled as he saw Gria, who had been writing furiously, pause his pen and look up at the clock.
"Dammit, I disturbed the Prime Minister." Lant broke into a cold sweat, too late to regret his thoughtlessness.
"Oh, it's been two hours already." Gria looked at the clock in surprise, then at the nervous Lant and Moya across from him. "Ah, you're still here. Forgive me—I was so absorbed I forgot you were present."
"No, it's us who should apologize for interrupting your work." Lant seized the opportunity to stand, stretching his stiff limbs. He hesitated, then said, "His Majesty must be extremely busy. We shouldn't disturb you further. Please convey our thanks to the Emperor."
"Leaving already? Hmm... perhaps for the best. I'll report to the Emperor and arrange another—"
Before Gria could finish, the outer reception hall door burst open. Emperor Arthur, clad in a black robe trimmed with gold, entered holding a brocade box.
"Ah, Your Majesty, you've arrived," Gria smiled and nodded.
"Yes, lost track of time. A servant told me the knights who escorted the eggs were still here, so I hurried over." Arthur spoke, turning his gaze to Lant. The moment Lant met Arthur's eyes, excitement surged through him; he snapped to attention.
"Truly imposing."
Arthur nodded in approval, approaching Lant to pat his shoulder amiably. "Apologies for making you wait due to that boy's matter. I hope you don't mind."
"Your Majesty governs a thousand affairs; we're already overwhelmed with gratitude that you spared time to see us."
Though speaking to Arthur, Lant and Moya both turned their eyes to the young man following Arthur—one who seemed to share an intimate rapport with the Emperor.
But when they finally saw clearly who had entered, their expressions froze—and the other party mirrored their shock.
"Rick!"
"Lant! Moya!"
"You know each other?" Arthur blinked in surprise.