"Let's make a recap of this shitty situation."
Soon, the four of them found themselves in a small room arranged for the Emperor inside a military building far from Zvenne.
There was a small lamp hanging from the wall by a simple wire. The walls were dark gray, and on each of them, photos of cities and people were pinned. It was almost unsettling, knowing all the secrets an Emperor like Turcan could have.
But Marc told himself that if he was here, it was for a good reason. Still, he couldn't shake off a certain feeling of unease about this room.
So, to calm that unease, he had deliberately tapped the table a bit hard before laying out their situation.
"Marc Zeymond, if you please. You are in the presence of Emperor Turcan."
Yet Exorian could not tolerate such an affront before his Emperor.
But Marc wanted to be clear:
"He's the one who got us into this situation in the first place."
Turcan tilted his head slightly, closing his eyes. Then his emerald eyes filled the room again, and it was then that he spoke, in an even tone.
"That's true, it was a mistake. I never thought Garid would go as far as to track you down. Forgive me."
Marc raised an eyebrow, making a small hand gesture toward the Emperor.
"Why did you give away my name?"
Turcan paused briefly before explaining, in the same steady tone as always.
"I was absent-minded and angry, so I didn't think in the moment and mentioned your name when he was talking about powerful allies. I never believed he would take a name that seriously."
Exorian then turned to his Emperor.
"Your Majesty, you are the greatest threat that exists to them. The fact that you named someone at your allies' table naturally raises more than troubling suspicions."
"I see. In any case, I apologize to both of you. But I intend to settle this quickly to earn your forgiveness."
The Emperor's voice didn't sound all that sorry. In truth, it was hard to tell what the great sovereign was actually thinking.
"And how do you plan to stop the war?"
Turcan's brows lifted slightly, as if the answer were obvious. He looked at Marc:
"By winning it."
Marc wanted to criticize Turcan's simple-mindedness but preferred not to say something too foolish.
"Oh right, I hadn't thought of that."
Turcan slowly turned his head, addressing his guest with an expressionless face.
"Try to avoid sarcasm in my presence, Zeymond. I'm easily irritable at the moment."
Suddenly, Marc felt a shiver of cold run through his body.
"Sorry…"
"It may sound ridiculous, but Garid's empire believes I will strike east first, so as to have the entire north within my reach. So instead, I will surprise them to the southwest by attacking Orizon directly."
Elie frowned as she heard the name of the poor country about to draw Zvenne's wrath for nothing:
"They're not even involved in the conflict."
Turcan lowered his hand and pointed at the country just beyond that nation.
"It's only a matter of time before the Trivide starts moving as one. Informants have told me that Peragone has already sent weapons east to aid Garid."
Marc looked at the map under his eyes and began to think. Across the entire northern hemisphere, there was one great nation: Zvenne. And it was, by far, the most dominant power in history. To face Zvenne, even with all the weapons in the world, was a lost cause from the start.
So, whether they liked it or not, three of the remaining nations in history had been forced to merge into Empires. Garid hadn't changed much but still grew stronger. Arva, the nation farthest southwest, had fused more than twenty-seven countries to become the Empire it was that day. Peragone had done the best, with more than fifty nations merged.
Of course, there were personal motives as well. The nations knew that if they didn't, their power would be much weaker than those who did merge. And the alliance between the three was to their benefit, too.
Only the fourth nation hadn't taken part in that alliance or in those great changes. Their situation was too vague and imprecise. They never took part in global conflicts, and for some reason, no one ever disturbed them.
That intrigued Marc greatly...
But for now, he had to focus on the nations at war.
Thus the Trivide had been formed, and Zvenne was surrounded on all sides. The rule was simple: if Zvenne struck one of the three, the others would follow. Zvenne was therefore encircled by default, carrying a huge disadvantage.
"So that's how you wage war. You against the world."
Turcan sighed.
"It has always been this way, Marc Zeymond. Since the conquest of Turcan the First, the world has stood firmly armed against us. But you are mistaken on one point—it is not me against the world, it is the world against me. These wretched insects can feel nothing but hatred for the one who stands above them and, whether for better or worse, when all those miserable insects gather together, they form the entire world. So if they wish to drag me down from my throne—me and my long bloodline…"
The Emperor rose from his seat. His gaze fell on a large photograph fixed to the wall. It showed the castle of Emperor's Glory. Yet it appeared far less new than it did now. Marc realized it was an old picture, which meant this little room had been visited by more than one Emperor.
Turcan stared at the photo with a dark expression, and soon a voice, cold but edged with anger, resonated through the room.
"I will be the one to unify the world under the banner of Zvenne. Where my ancestor failed, three hundred years ago."
A heavy silence settled over the dim chamber. All were contemplating the magnificence of the Emperor—except Marc, who was clearly the only one to notice that he was perhaps overdoing it. Still, he kept his comments to himself.
Suddenly, Exorian glanced at his watch, then lifted his head slightly to look at his Emperor.
"We may proceed, Majesty."
Turcan turned away from the wall with a swift movement, his emerald-green cloak sweeping through the air with effortless grace. His cold voice cut through the silence as he addressed the small group.
"Very well. We move."
Later, they arrived at Emperor's Glory. Marc honestly thought they would not be allowed inside, yet the vehicle drove straight toward the magnificent castle.
"We're really going in?"
The Emperor fixed his piercing green eyes on Marc and replied calmly with an amused tone.
"Since I named you as an ally of great standing, I must treat you as such."
The castle rose in the heart of the city like a slumbering titan, a relic of an age when kings spoke to the stars and walls whispered the secrets of the heavens. It was not merely built—it seemed woven into the very fabric of the landscape, fused with the suspended roads, luminous bridges, and soaring towers that stood around it like silent sentinels.
Its golden spires pierced the clouds, and its stained-glass windows shimmered even under the rain, casting fragments of light across the neighboring facades. Every stone bore the weight of ancient knowledge, every arch murmured fragments of history to those bold enough to approach.
It was not a fortress of war, but a palace of splendor. A sanctuary of balance—where magic and technology had intertwined without betraying one another. Serpentine walkways linked its wings to the city's hanging quarters, and floating gardens, nourished by crystals of light, stretched out like celestial oases.
The palace gates, as tall as a four-story house, were guarded on either side by two towering sentinels. The moment they saw the Emperor approach, their voices thundered:
"The Emperor enters the palace!"
They began to push open the massive crimson doors, carved with symbols only the Emperor himself truly understood.
Scholars had long studied them, managing to decipher fragments of their meaning. From top to bottom, they depicted the history of the most significant Emperors, carved into strange signs and figures. The last symbol, at the very bottom, was that of the current Emperor: the butterfly and the sword resting upon a balance.
Higher above stood the blood-red sword of the Emperor three centuries past—the one who had consolidated the North by sheer force. His blade pointed skyward, and on either side were carved the figures of broken bodies, struggling in vain to escape its reach. The warrior of old, the terror of the North. That warrior's name was…
"The Red Emperor. Rakiel Turcan."
The Emperor turned slightly toward Marc, his emerald eyes gleaming.
"So they teach you history where you come from. That is good. Tell me—what were you taught of Rakiel?"
Marc's expression darkened.
"He was a powerful but violent Emperor, who slew all who dared oppose him. One day, on a whim, he resolved to conquer more land. On the morning of his birthday, he went alone to survey the border between the Kingdom of Jar and the Empire of Garid. Yet he never returned home that day."
Turcan raised a brow, as though unaware of what had transpired.
"And what became of him?"
"He went alone, armed with his blade, and tore through Jar's first lines of defense. His army followed behind, but they were delayed. By the time they arrived, fully prepared, days later…"
Marc's eyes lingered on the red sword carved into the gate, and his voice dropped into a grave tone.
"Jar had already fallen..."