Novel Full Chapter 763 - 425: Emperor?
The banquet hall of the Grey Rock Castle had been thoroughly cleaned.
The blood stains that had seeped into the stone crevices were repeatedly washed away, and a thick carpet covered the entire floor, isolating the cold stone slabs below.
The towering arches were relit, the charred marks on the walls were covered by decorative drapes, and the entire hall was restored to its former luxurious state.
As if that bloody reckoning had never happened.
Musicians seated on the side of the hall played an ancient Northern tune, “The Night of Frost’s Breath.”
The melody was deep and restrained, like the low hum before a blizzard, slowly flowing in the warm air.
Crystal chandeliers hung above the long table, the lights refracting in the wine glasses, creating swaying reflections akin to flowing blood.
The nobility cut the steaks on their plates, their movements very light.
Occasionally, the collision of knife and fork against porcelain sounded exceptionally sharp at this moment, like a reminder of something.
They wore newly changed velvet suits, well-tailored, yet vaguely unnatural.
Their gazes briefly met across the table, then quickly shifted away.
It was a look only conspirators would have.
Not confirming positions, but confirming whether everyone was ready to take the same step.
Finally, Count Albert slowly stood up.
He picked up a silver spoon and gently tapped it against the thin crystal cup’s rim: “Ding—”
The sound was crisp and short.
The cellist immediately stopped playing, and the attendants silently retreated into the shadows.
The entire banquet hall fell silent at this moment, all eyes drawn to this small sound.
Albert’s gaze swept over the long table, finally landing on Louis.
“Everyone,” his voice was low and hoarse, “look outside the window.”
The night outside was illuminated intermittently by the castle’s torches.
“The flag of Grey Rock Castle has changed color, but our hearts are still hanging.”
He paused, his tone slowing even further.
“The Imperial Capital is mad, the Southeast is rotten, the Empire is half-sunken, and we stand on a piece of drift ice with gold in our hands.”
No one in the banquet hall objected.
Albert turned to Louis, his gaze no longer seeing just a Lord, but more like looking at a King.
“Sir, the Northern Army’s sword is too sharp, so sharp it frightens everyone, including ourselves.”
His hand tightened slightly in midair.
“If this sword doesn’t have a scabbard, it will eventually cut the hand wielding it. And in today’s chaotic times, the only scabbard that can hold this sword…”
Albert’s voice dropped to a whisper, staring directly at Louis: “is only the crown.”
“Only the weight of the crown can suppress the restlessness of this chaotic world, and only the new law can transform us from divided warlords into the true cornerstone of the Empire.”
Yorn, upon hearing this, began to breathe heavily.
The chubby little man had completely forgotten the table manners by now, his eyes wide and fixed firmly on the direction of the head seat.
As long as Louis nodded.
That would mean founding a nation.
He would be the minister of the new Empire, a key figure.
This thought made his fingers tremble slightly, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.
The beast-like lust for power roiled through his veins, as if at any moment he could tear out the throat of anyone standing in Louis’s way.
It wasn’t just Yorn.
Along both sides of the table, the gazes of all the nobles unconsciously converged.
They didn’t whisper to each other, but they all awaited the same thing, this wasn’t an impromptu suggestion.
This was a possibility that had been repeatedly rehearsed and calculated in private.
And it was now within reach.
Excitement slowly gathered in the air, some holding their breath, others unconsciously clenching their napkins.
Count Albert bent down slowly and maintained his posture, motionless.
This was a gamble.
He used his sixty years of reputation to force Louis to take a step forward.
He gambled on Louis’ ambition.
The banquet hall was frighteningly silent.
Even the “crackling” sounds from the burning pine in the fireplace were exceptionally clear.
Everyone’s gaze seemed to turn into tangible threads, one by one, wrapping around the young man at the head of the table.
Louis sat in the shadow.
The crystal chandelier’s light didn’t reach his face, only reflecting broken lights on the table edge and wine.
He played with that fragile crystal glass in his hand, his fingers slowly sliding along its edge.
His expression unreadable, his eyes calm as a deep, unfathomable pool of cold water.
Louis’s fingers tightened slightly.
“Crack.”
A subtle glass-splintering sound exploded in the deathly quiet banquet hall.
Like a clap of thunder.
He slowly raised his eyes, an ancient aura quietly emanating.
In Vico the secretary’s vision, the shadow behind the head seat twisted bizarrely.
The candlelight seemed devoured and stretched by some force, and that shadow slowly rose, ultimately coalescing into a huge, blurry golden vertical pupil.
It was neither complete nor corporeal.
Yet it seemed to hang from the clouds, coldly overlooking everything in the banquet hall.
Almost the moment that aura appeared, Yorn’s mind went blank.
“Thump.”
The buttocks had already heavily struck the floor, the sound dull yet distinct.
He supported himself on the ground with both hands, gasping for air—this was the instinctive reaction forcibly awakened from the depths of his genes when facing a natural enemy he couldn’t comprehend.
Submission.
Not a choice, but a reflex.
Count Albert’s condition was much better, yet much worse.
As a knight who had stepped into the transcendent realm, he clearly felt his Fighting Energy completely suppressed in an instant.
The power system he had prided himself on all his life did not possess equal qualifications here.
His heart tightened abruptly.
Cold sweat instantly soaked through the silk shirt along his spine.
He clenched his teeth tightly to barely avoid kneeling.
When he raised his head again, there was no longer any fervor in his eyes, only deep reverence remained.
This was not a reliance on external force nor a clever Secret Technique.
This was purely a hierarchical gap.
At least a peak knight, possibly even higher.
This conclusion made Count Albert’s throat tighten slightly.
Shock, joy, and undeniable fear simultaneously surged in his chest.
Shock at how deeply Louis had hidden such prowess, joy in having chosen the right team, and fear stemming from a clear fact.
Such a person, if they wished to ascend the throne, would never need anyone’s permission.
The banquet hall was dead silent.
Louis received the handkerchief handed over by Weir.
The white cloth unfolded between his fingers, and he lowered his head, absent-mindedly wiping his fingers.
The wine had cooled, staining the handkerchief with a dark red color akin to blood.
His movements were slow, the golden vertical pupil still suspended in the shadow, not completely dissipated.
“Albert,” Louis finally spoke, his voice not loud, yet as cold as a blade against the skin, “you’ve become senile.”
He lifted his gaze towards the old Count who still maintained a stooped posture, his tone devoid of any jest.
Albert lowered his head further, not daring to respond.
Louis stood up, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor, producing a short sound.
In the next moment, his voice suddenly rose, overpowering the crackling of pine wood in the fireplace, carrying an unmasked anger.
“Look at those who call themselves Emperor now, oh, there’s that beast Kaelin.
To climb to power, he poisoned the Regent King and cut down the Fourth Prince, slaughtering the Eight Great Clans. He sits on the chair stained with his brothers’ blood, thinking he’s become Emperor?”
Louis sneered coldly.
“No, he’s a kindred killer beast, a rogue usurper of the Divine Artifact. Whoever acknowledges him is complicit.”
His finger swiftly turned, pointing towards the Southeast.
“And then look at Lampard. This time, the tone held almost unrestrained disdain—to counter the Second Prince, he knelt to that group of zealots.
He invited the Church Court to attack, creating the so-called Holy Eastern Empire.
He’s not an Emperor. He’s a prostitute selling ancestral glory, a traitor inviting wolves into the house.”
No one in the banquet hall dared to speak.
Louis turned around.
The flag of the Red Tide hung behind him, the red seeming to flow in the candlelight.
He spread his arms wide, as if encompassing the entire hall within his gaze.
“At this moment of ritual collapse… if I also proclaimed myself Emperor, what difference would there be between me and these two scoundrels?”
His voice lowered again, sharper than before.
“Our great His Majesty the Emperor has merely gone missing, not dead.”
When this sentence fell, the air in the hall seemed utterly vacated.
“Before His Majesty returns,” Louis raised a hand, pressing it firmly on the table edge, “the Empire has no Emperor.”
“Whoever dares to sit up there—” he paused, “I will chop off their head.”
Count Albert understood, slowly straightening up, the panic in his eyes replaced with a near-reverent submission.
Louis suddenly turned, looking towards the corner: “Vico.”
Chief Secretary Vico shivered all over, instinctively clutching the parchment roll in his arms tightly.
Louis walked up to him, his finger lightly tapping the parchment twice.
“Write down what I just said, verbatim. Especially those few lines where I cursed the two false emperors.” His mouth curved into a cold, meaningful arc, “Copy it to every noble in the Empire.
I want everyone to know just how foul those things sitting on the throne are.”
After a brief silence.
Kneeling on the ground, Yorn suddenly raised his head, his face reddened with fervor, eyes only filled with direct passion: “Boss is right!”
He drew his sword, the blade flashing in the candlelight, inserted heavily into the floor.
“Salute the Empire’s only guardian!”
This shout seemed like a fuse, the next moment all nobles rose uniformly, kneeling on one knee.
Swords were drawn, their tips touching the ground.
“Salute the Empire’s guardian!”
The sound echoed in the Platinum Assembly Hall.
Everyone present was a clever person.
They were clear on what Louis was doing, also clear on what he temporarily did not wish to do.
Proclaiming oneself Emperor too quickly, with too much fanfare, would only draw all eyes, all hostility prematurely.
That crown was more a target at this moment than a reward.
As long as the phrase “Emperor has not returned” remained true, everything else had room to maneuver.
Power could come first, title could be added later.
The sword was already in hand, as for what name to call, that’s a matter to discuss later.