"Tap, tap."
The command baton knocked twice, slicing through the air.
Cellos and brass horns erupted simultaneously.
The majestic prelude of the Galactic Empire Symphony, like rolling thunder before a great storm, reverberated throughout the resplendent Sun Palace gilded in gold.
A crimson carpet stretched across the winding staircase, from the great arched gate of the Sun Palace, all the way to the solid gold throne at the end of the hall.
Tens of thousands of imperial officers and nobles stood in two rows. Each raised their heads, holding their breath, their bodies taut, as though awaiting the arrival of someone destined.
"Why has His Majesty not yet appeared?" The Grand Duke of Honor of the Galactic Empire, Harison Lauder, stood at the base of the throne's steps.
One hand held a tray carrying a blooming ruby crown, while his impatient voice questioned his attendant. Yet his greedy gaze could not stop devouring the golden crown inlaid with rubies.
"Two weeks ago, he was burning with fever, unable to rise, and even refused my visits... Oh, my pitiful little grandnephew! Could it be that the prayers of the Holy Son have lost their efficacy, preventing this poor child—who endured countless hardships just to reach the capital—from ascending the throne even once?"
A confidant leaned close and whispered, "Do not worry too much, my lord. Did you not send seven beautiful Omegas to care for His Majesty the Emperor? Perhaps he is simply too weary."
The Grand Duke restrained the corners of his lips, feigning outrage instead of triumph: "That makes it worse! It is one thing to be muddle-headed in daily life, but today is his coronation!"
Since Ceasar Augustus Caesis amended the constitution and declared himself lifelong consul, the Third Planetary Federation had existed in name only.
From the ruins of war rose a colossal entity known as the Galactic Empire.
For more than 900 years, the Empire endured countless divisions and foreign invasions. In the ruthless struggle for power, noble conglomerates constantly raised private armies, carving up star systems. Meanwhile, the founding Caesis family gradually fell into decline.
Ten years ago, the cousin of the late emperor Carague, Lord Rupert, launched a coup that shook the entire galaxy.
He and the rebel factions deposed Emperor Carague, secretly executed him along with all his princes, their bodies utterly erased by particle cannons.
But Rupert expended too much effort dividing spoils with the great noble families, committing the gravest mistake of his life.
Nero Augustus Caesis, the young prince of true imperial blood, escaped the massacre.
At just eight years old, Nero was smuggled to the remote fringes of the galaxy by the Chief Wolf Knight. As a child, he had been deeply fascinated by art, architecture, and science, utterly uninterested in ruling. With four elder siblings who were all top-tier Alphas, he had never been formally trained as crown prince.
On the night of the coup, he vanished beyond the reach of the rebels. Despite years of pursuit, they never found him. For Rupert, this was like a bone stuck in his throat for the next decade—though he sat the throne, he wasted away in fear and paranoia.
And rightly so.
Ten years later, the sword of Damocles finally shattered his false crown.
At eighteen, Nero Augustus Caesis returned to the capital with more than three hundred Wolf Knights.
The day the Emperor returned was like a lightning strike. The once-glorious Sun Palace was transformed into a hell on earth.