CHAPTER 48: THE EASTERN EMPIRE 4

(Third Person POV)

Year 2032, July 16, according to the Global Calendar.

In the Eastern Empire—formally known as the Empire of Avaron—amidst its diverse landscapes, dense forests, and sprawling coasts, stood its capital: the city of Avaron.

Despite its advanced infrastructure and modern beauty, the capital remained one of the smallest cities in the entire empire, both in area and population. The reason was simple but significant: only members of the imperial family and the noble class were permitted to reside there. This restriction made it a sanctuary of elitism—a haven of extravagance and opulence—where men and women walked its marble-paved streets with pride, flaunting their wealth, lineage, and status.

But behind the glittering façade, the Eastern Empire was ranked among the weakest empires on the global stage. Its weakness extended beyond its economy; it lacked military and magical might as well. In recent history, no warrior or mage had ever reached the prestigious rank of Grandmaster—a level considered the true measure of power in this world.

Its economy, though stable, could not compete with the giants, and its military was modest at best compared to its neighbors. Yet, it was ruled by a hand that strived to maintain its stability.

At the heart of the capital stood the imperial palace—a majestic structure adorned with gold and encrusted with gemstones, echoing the grandeur of ancient kings. Within one of its lavish halls, inside the opulent throne room etched with traditional carvings, sat a grand throne gilded in pure gold, surrounded by marble columns that whispered tales of a glorious past.

Seated upon that throne was a man appearing to be in his early forties. His face was pale, his dark eyes heavy with the burden of responsibility. His thick orange hair was neatly styled, and atop his head rested a golden crown encrusted with diamonds—an undeniable symbol of royalty. In his right hand, he held a royal scepter, embedded with seven differently colored gemstones, each representing a domain of power or governance.

This man was Zilfan Avaron, the current Emperor of the Eastern Empire.

Zilfan was known among both nobles and commoners as "The Wise Emperor"

—a title he earned for his foresight and rational decisions, despite lacking physical or magical strength. He was no mighty warrior, having only reached the level of a mid-tier swordsman, but he ruled with a sharp political mind, weighing his words carefully and knowing when to speak—and when to strike.

At this moment, his face was drawn with fatigue. A weary expression of grief and anxiety shadowed his features—understandable, as he was still mourning the loss of his son and heir, who had died just a few days prior.

Seated on the throne, he watched silently as a group of men knelt before him. One of them finally broke the silence:

"Your Majesty, we have urgent news that you must hear."

The speaker was a man in his fifties, with a dignified presence and a deep voice, kneeling on one knee. His luxurious clothing and tone of voice clearly identified him as a duke of the empire.

"Go ahead, Duke," Zilfan responded with a commanding voice that still carried imperial authority, though fatigue clung to his tone.

"Your Majesty, our intelligence network has reported that Emperor Orlax Tirshtain—Emperor of the North—is currently within the capital."

Zilfan’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. He sat upright, focusing on the kneeling man before him.

"Are you certain of this information?"

"Absolutely, Your Majesty. He is currently in the central garden, sitting on a bench."

The duke stepped forward and handed Zilfan a modern tablet displaying a live image of a mysterious man sitting calmly on a bench, casually looking at his phone.

Zilfan closed his eyes briefly, then sighed deeply, placing his hand on his forehead.

"Why now? We don’t need more problems... What we have is already more than enough."

He spoke with a voice heavy with stress, then gave his orders:

"Duke, go and receive him formally. Tell him I wish to speak with him and understand the reason for his visit."

"As you command, Your Majesty."

The duke departed, taking a group of armed knights with him, heading toward the central garden.

After a few minutes, they arrived. And there, exactly as described, Orlax sat—as if he had been waiting for them all along. His hair was jet-black, contrasting sharply with his fair skin. His eyes—each a different color—carried an air of quiet dominance and indifference.

He had removed his mask and outer cloak, revealing his true features. He reclined on the bench, one leg crossed over the other, his head tilted back, unconcerned by the knights approaching him cautiously.

The duke stepped forward and bowed respectfully, then spoke:

"Ahem... Your Majesty, forgive my impertinence, but Emperor Zilfan wishes to see you—and to understand the reason behind your visit here."

He waited, but Orlax didn’t respond. He didn’t even move. His head remained leaned back, his eyes half-lidded.

"Your Majesty? Did you hear me? The Empero—"

"When will you kneel?"

The words came suddenly, quietly—but they held a crushing force, interrupting the duke mid-sentence.

"P... pardon?" the duke asked, startled.

"I said... when will you kneel?"

Suddenly, an overwhelming pressure descended upon them. A suffocating force settled over the area like an invisible storm. The air grew heavier; breathing became a struggle. Panic crawled into their chests like a creeping fog.

Their bodies began to tremble. Hearts pounded as primal fear overtook reason.

Unable to resist the pressure, the duke dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. The knights behind him followed suit, collapsing one by one.

"That’s better," Orlax said coldly. "Now, what was it you wanted to say?"

He rose from the bench and approached calmly. Standing before the kneeling duke, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, looking down at him with a sidelong glance filled with both amusement and warning.

"Emperor Zilfan wishes to see you... Your Majesty," the duke replied through clenched teeth, barely enduring the humiliation and pain.

"Very well... lead the way."

The suffocating aura began to fade, and the soldiers finally exhaled in relief.

The duke rose shakily and led Orlax toward the imperial palace, passing through cobbled streets and ornate gates until they stood before a colossal black-metal gate, surrounded by towering twenty-meter-high walls. Beyond them, the palace loomed like a monument from a bygone age—ancient yet unbowed, still brimming with silent authority.

Inside, Orlax was guided to a wide reception room. The space was mostly empty, save for a few elegant chairs and a lavish table at the center.

He sat quietly, waiting.

Moments later, a man entered—orange-haired and black-eyed, clad in imperial robes. Orlax recognized him instantly.

"Orlax Tirshtain, I apologize for the lack of hospitality... but as you know, we’re not in the best of times."

"Zilfan Avaron, don’t worry about it. And... my condolences for your son."

"Thank you."

Silence fell over the room as the two men exchanged a long look—two emperors burdened by different struggles.

Zilfan was the first to speak.

"So... what brings you here?"

Orlax replied calmly, "Do you know The White?"

Zilfan’s expression shifted instantly. A cold fury ignited in his eyes.

"Of course... He’s the one responsible for my son’s death."

His voice was laced with pure hatred.

"Well... He’s currently in the Eastern Empire. I’m hunting him, with the help of a partner. We intend to eliminate him."

Zilfan’s eyes sharpened. He stared seriously at the younger emperor before him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. That’s why I came to the capital. There were signs of his presence here. And also..."

Orlax leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes briefly before finishing.

"I propose we form a temporary alliance... to capture The White."