A single car soared just above the ground — sleek, obsidian-black, with its smooth curves reflecting the golden sunlight of Elyndor. The entire body was covered in dark-tinted glass, so opaque it seemed carved from shadow. And at the front, like a badge of royalty, gleamed the golden sigil of House Valerian — a sword piercing a crown.
The vehicle glided toward the central palace, slowing to a stop before a towering white-gold gate guarded by two imposing figures. Both were dressed in military black, their physiques broad and commanding, with long spears latched across their backs.
Inside the car, seated with composure, was Count Alaric Valerian, Arthur's father. Beside him sat Arthur himself, calm and unreadable. At the wheel, with a steady, experienced grip, was their longtime butler — Sebastian.
As the guards stepped forward, the car's window glided down silently.
"We welcome Count Alaric Valerian," one of the men announced formally, bowing slightly upon seeing the Valerian crest.
Without a word, Count Alaric passed forward a written permit — an official document bearing the Imperial seal. Even a duke could not step foot near the Throne Palace without this clearance. This was no common court. It was the heart of the Empire.
Beyond the two elite guards, Arthur noticed multiple defensive systems — wall-mounted high-magitech turrets, rows of surveillance crystals, watchtowers with stationed snipers, and CCTV arrays scanning every inch of the area.
But Arthur wasn't fazed.
In his previous life, he'd seen how presidents and prime ministers were protected.
This felt familiar — just more... magical.
But the difference, he thought, is that this isn't just a government. This is an Empire protecting the bloodline of a God.
After a moment, the guards stepped aside and saluted. The great gates opened slowly with a hiss of arcane steam.
"You may enter."
Sebastian drove forward smoothly, making his way to the inner parking area. This wasn't his first visit.
Arthur leaned toward his father.
"Father, those two guards… they seemed strong. What's their rank?"
Alaric didn't even look away as he answered,
"Rank 6."
Arthur blinked.
"Rank 6... just the gate guards?"
What kind of family has Rank 6s just watching the door...?
As the car rolled into the inner grounds, Arthur looked ahead and took in the view of the palace that towered before him.
The Throne Palace.
Pure white stone, polished and enchanted to reflect the light like a sacred relic, rose high above the grounds. Crystal fountains sparkled in the center plaza, and lush white-gold flora bloomed quietly. Despite its size, the place felt calm… distant… sacred.
Only a select few walked the grounds — and outside the guards, Arthur saw just four others.
This palace was off-limits to nearly everyone.
Only the Emperor, his three queens, and the Crown Prince resided here. The remaining four princes and princesses had their own private palaces scattered across Core area.
Sebastian parked the car, and Alaric and Arthur stepped out, their boots clicking softly against the marble.
As they walked toward the inner steps, a group of five approached from the opposite direction, their footsteps synchronized with military precision. The man in the lead wore a dark cape with crimson lining and the insignia of the Imperial Guard upon his shoulder — a blade above a sunburst crest.
Alaric leaned toward Arthur and spoke quietly.
"That's Captain Ravion — leader of the Imperial Guard. Rank 7."
Arthur's gaze sharpened.
As the group reached them, the man stepped forward, giving a sharp, respectful bow.
"Greetings, Count Alaric Valerian."
He then turned his sharp, silver gaze to Arthur, his voice steady but acknowledging.
"And you… must be Arthur Valerian."
Captain Ravion's silver eyes lingered on Arthur for a moment — not in suspicion, but in curiosity.
"I've heard much about you, young master Arthur. The youngest Valerian, yet already gathering whispers from the higher circles," he said, a slight, professional smile tugging at his lips.
"It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
Arthur bowed his head slightly — measured, respectful, but with an edge of composure that hinted he wasn't easily impressed.
"The pleasure is mine, Captain Ravion. I've heard the Imperial Guard stands unmatched in both discipline and loyalty. Meeting their captain affirms that reputation."
Ravion gave a faint hum of amusement, clearly pleased with the response.
"Sharp tongue. That runs in the family, I see."
Alaric gave a short chuckle.
"And sharper swords. But we'll keep those sheathed today."
The guards behind Ravion allowed themselves a small smile, but quickly returned to their strict posture. The moment of levity passed like a breeze, and Ravion stepped aside with a sweeping motion of his arm.
"The Emperor is expecting you in the west hall. His Highness has cleared all other appointments until your audience is complete."
Alaric nodded once.
"We'll proceed at once. Thank you, Captain."
Count Alaric and Captain Ravion walked side by side in calm conversation, their voices low and composed — two veterans of the noble world exchanging measured words. The guards stationed in the inner palace saluted silently as they passed, recognizing both the count and the captain of the Imperial Guard.
But Arthur, walking slightly behind, felt a different weight.
The closer he got to the throne room, the tighter the feeling in his chest grew. His steps were steady, but inside, a storm stirred.
I'm about to meet the strongest being in this world...
The Emperor of Elyndor.
Even with all his past life memories, all his training, all his power — this moment carried a gravity that couldn't be ignored.
The group finally arrived before an immense set of golden gates — engraved with the sigils of the Empire, the dragon crest, and inscriptions in a lost, glowing script. Two crystal obelisks stood on either side, connected by faint threads of magic that scanned the approaching group.
Captain Ravion stepped forward and spoke into the embedded arcane microphone beside the door.
"They are here."
A soft chime echoed from within, and the massive gates pulsed once with green light — the signal.
Authorized entry.
Captain Ravion turned to them with a firm nod.
"This is where I leave you. From here, the path is yours alone."
Alaric nodded respectfully.
"Thank you, Captain."
Arthur glanced at Sebastian, who remained a few steps behind. The old butler gave a quiet bow.
"I'll wait here, young master. Good fortune."
Arthur inhaled slowly.
Then, together with his father, he stepped forward — toward the gates of power, toward the heart of the Empire, and toward the man said to sit above all.
The doors opened.
And the light of the throne room spilled out like dawn.
As the massive gates creaked open, a cold stillness greeted them — not from fear, but reverence.
Arthur stepped in beside his father, and the moment his foot touched the polished obsidian floor, a sensation unlike any other settled in his chest. It wasn't divine. It wasn't oppressive. It was… calm.
The throne room of the Elyndor Empire was vast — easily the size of a grand cathedral. Towering white marble pillars lined either side, etched with golden vines that shimmered with embedded mana. The ceiling arched high above like the sky itself, a mosaic of the Empire's legacy carved into its very surface. Light poured in from enchanted crystal windows that refracted the morning sun into soft hues across the hall — a spectrum of gold, silver, and platinum dancing over the black-and-gold floor.
At the far end, elevated on a white-stone dais, sat the throne.
It wasn't flashy or oversized like a tyrant's seat — it was dignified. Carved from a platinum-white ore not found anywhere else in the world, it curved elegantly with minimal embellishment. Only one thing adorned it: the crest of Elyndor, A phoenix with wings fully outstretched, cast in flaming gold, soared above a depiction of a burning sun.
And upon that throne… sat him.
The Emperor.
A man of quiet presence.
He had long, neatly combed platinum hair that shimmered like starlight. A short, well-groomed white beard framed his face, giving him the air of a wise and kind grandfather — not the ruler of the greatest empire in the known world. His skin was unblemished, his posture perfect, and his blue Sapphire Glow
Warm. Calm. Unreadable.
He looked nothing like a god.
No divine aura.
No oppressive might.
Only the quiet, unshakable strength of a man who had seen eras rise and fall — and remained standing.
He didn't speak.
He didn't move.
He only watched.
And the moment Arthur's gaze met those blue eyes, he felt it — a pressure not of power, but of presence. Like staring into the ocean. Deep, vast, endless.
Alaric knelt on one knee, his cloak folding neatly behind him. Arthur followed a second later, bending down with the same precision, but inside, his thoughts spun.
This is the ruler of this world…?
He doesn't feel like a monster… but that's what makes him dangerous.
The room was silent.
No guards stood beside the Emperor. No advisors whispered near him. That space — that throne — belonged to him alone.
And yet, in his presence… no one dared fill it.
Emperor—Solan Marvek Elydrion, ruler of the Elydrion Empire.
Solan, with a calm presence and golden eyes that shimmered with intelligence and age, looked down. His platinum hair shimmered faintly under the sunlight, and a short, well-kept white beard added to his grandfatherly appearance. Despite his status as the strongest man in the empire, he radiated not divinity—but a very human warmth.
And then, he smiled.
"Alaric," his deep yet gentle voice carried through the throne room, "welcome. Coming to see me after twelve years... the last time was at Elias' birth, wasn't it?"
Alaric stepped forward and bowed. "Apologies, Your Majesty. I had... duties, and my own cultivation to attend to."
"Hmm, I understand." Solan's golden eyes gleamed with amusement. "But how long are you planning to kneel? Get up already. And you—" he glanced at Arthur, "—you don't need to kneel. Kids these days hate that kind of stuff."
Alaric gave a baffled look, almost whispering through his eyes: What are you even saying?
Solan chuckled, "Hey, don't look at me like that. Now—up."
Before they could react, a subtle pulse spread from the Emperor's throne. Neither Arthur nor Alaric moved of their own will, and yet they stood up—straight as ever.
Arthur blinked, stunned. What just happened...? Even Father didn't resist...
The Emperor looked directly at Arthur now. "You're quite the looker, kid."
Arthur snapped from his trance and gave a polite bow. "Thank you for the compliment, Your Majesty."
Solan observed him for a moment longer, and then—a small, knowing smile tugged at his lips.
In Arthur's mind, Elaris suddenly whispered, alarmed,
"Sh*t... He's seen through."
Arthur stiffened. "What?" he whispered internally, his back beginning to sweat.
Solan then leaned forward slightly. "Alaric, I'd like a moment with your son."
Alaric nodded without question, "As you command, Your Majesty." He turned to leave.
But Solan raised a hand. "Stay. Where are you going?"
Alaric stopped in place, giving a wry smile. "Not again..."
And then—the entire world seemed to halt.
Even the sound of rustling robes froze. The air felt thick. Arthur blinked. What… is this...?
"Come here," the Emperor said calmly.
Arthur found himself taking a step—and in the very next breath, he stood directly before the throne, without understanding how he got there.
Solan's eyes were serene. "So, Arthur Valerian... you have a Divine Core, don't you?"
Arthur's breath hitched. "H-How do you know that...?" Not even his father had sensed it—no one had.
Solan smiled gently. "Because I have one too."