Chapter 175
The Fall of the Imperium
Tiberia, The Imperial Capital
Another day dawned on the throne of the Third Human Imperium, yet dark, billowing smoke obscured the beautiful sunrise. The fire had raged throughout the night, consumed the warehouse district, and spread uncontrollably into the neighboring market and residential areas.
The populace tried to control the fire by demolishing buildings. However, as desperation grew, a great host of people shifted their attention to the eastern gate. Deprived of food for weeks and encroached upon by the fire, the gathering masses rushed the gatehouse from the inside, seeking escape from the besieged capital.
The eastern garrison, mostly inexperienced and led by officers appointed solely due to their family's connections to top ministers, failed to mount an effective resistance. After only two hours, the poorly trained garrison fled. Many trapped in the gatehouse were either captured or cut down at their posts. In the ensuing panic, they opened the gate to save themselves from the masses.
The heavy gates swung open, and at this critical moment, hundreds of thousands fled south. The military in charge of the Capital's defenses was thrown into chaos as they learned that they had lost control of the eastern gate. They rushed contingents, both on horseback and on foot, to try to retake control of the gate. It became a race as the peasant rebels besieging the west gate learned of this and surged toward the east.
Despite the ditches, marshes, and farmlands, the peasant rebels won the race and stormed the stricken city. For the defenders, the fight turned into a bloody struggle. Despite their efforts, their hastily assembled forces were fighting a losing battle, having lost the protection of their wall and being at a great numerical disadvantage.
It was four thousand—half of the entire Capital garrison, aided by willing militia—against thirty thousand, whose numbers kept growing as many more arrived from the west gate. There were no large fields for deploying formations; it was urban warfare fought from street to street, alley to alley.
In the thick of the fight, the city continued to burn. The Capital garrison, beaten and bloodied, finally broke ranks, fled, and left their stricken comrades and allies to their deaths. For the two million souls still trapped inside, their verdict had been cast.
Seeing victory, the rest of the rebels flooded into the heart of the Capital. In their wake, they beheaded every captured man found wearing a gambeson, ringmail, or any armor. Heads filled the gutters, and blood soaked of what was once a beautiful plaza in the most prestigious market area. The peasants didn’t care about ransom; they sought only food, liquor, and vengeance against those responsible for their misery. When they found nothing to eat, their rage complete, they began to set the city aflame.
The fire that had started from the warehouse remained uncontained, and several more fires had also erupted. From its magnificent towers, one could see that the Capital was burning. Like the aftermath of a volcanic eruption, ashes were showering the city and giving everything a gray coat.
Chants were heard everywhere murmuring that the Imperium was over. The 1300 years of peace in the Capital had come to a sudden bloody end.
The beaten defenders retreated to the inner walled complex, their morale shattered. They were good men but without capable officers and commanders. Outside the inner wall, numerous rebels massacred the population in a blood frenzy. Screams filled every corner of the city as humans butchered one another like animals.
Seemingly hungry for blood, the rebels killed those they encountered, took what they wanted, and set the rest on fire. On that day, filled with ashes, not even children were spared. The masses had hated the Imperium for generations for its heavy taxation, for taking away their much-needed grain, and for conscripting their family members into the nomadic western wars from which they never returned.
Watching the children reminded them of their lost sons, daughters, or siblings who succumbed to famine. It only fueled their hatred further. They believed that those residing in the Capital were responsible for their suffering.
For the rebels, what happened today was retribution against the corrupt officials, a reckoning long awaited.
Amid the turmoil, smoke, and fire, inside the inner wall, where the Imperium palace and officials complex resided, a lone person politely knocked on the door of a mansion as if everything were normal.
"Good afternoon," the gentleman said politely. He was wearing ringmail, but the servant and family recognized his face.
"Let him in, quickly," the father said to the servant, who opened the door. "What news do you bring, good minister?" the father nervously asked as the gentleman entered.
"There's only bad news, I'm afraid," the gentleman replied with a smile, as if it were all just a jest, while he gazed upon his friend's family.
As the rain of ashes fell again, the father quickly motioned for them to get inside. Once in the inner hall, the guest said to them as they all sat down, "I'm here as I promised your husband and son."
"Then are we saved?" the father asked.
"Saved only from pain," he corrected them. "As you may be aware, the city is burning as we speak. The rebels kill indiscriminately. They're unlikely to stop, even if they see the August One flying with wings on his back."
"Then, what then?" the wife trembled from fear.
"But what about the Sages? Surely they have plans to save us all?" the mother said with enviable confidence.
"The top ministers are delusional. Right now, they are collecting everyone's gold and jewelry, trying to bribe the rebels. They've even ordered cooks to prepare fine meals to entertain the rebels' leader." He laughed and clapped his hand at his superiors' stupidity.
"Won't it work?" the mother asked, her confidence waning. Even she knew it was a futile attempt.
The gentleman smiled grimly. "Madam, do you bribe and negotiate with hungry wolves?"
Only now, the family looked aghast.
He continued with eerie calm, "The rebels will either reject or take the riches and the food, but they will continue to watch the city burn. At this point, the fire is already uncontrollable. The fire barrier set by the August One has been trampled by the rich and powerful who built houses, buildings, and shops in the gardens meant to stop and protect us from the fire. Now, everyone is paying the price."
The father could only nod, his expression pained, while the mother and wife were at a loss for words.
Without wasting breath, the gentleman revealed, "My ancestor served in the first Beastman War and became a guard to the First August Emperor." He took out an item bound with a silken pouch. "This dwarven artifact has been passed down in my family. We've kept its function secret. It can grant you instant death without pain or fear. One blink and you'll be in the presence of the Ancients in their eternal hunt over the grand pasture."
The family looked at him in horror and distress.
"I've been a good, exemplary citizen all my life. This..." the father paused. "These horrors, this madness, what wrongs did we ever do to them?"
"I heard the masses blamed the Imperium and the Sages, but we are just families working to serve the Imperium. Surely they can't blame us. We're innocent," the mother added emotionally.
"Everyone is innocent," the minister shrugged. "Sir, you know my uncle. After returning from war, he built farms and tried to house refugees from the west. My late father tried to convince the ministers to give some funding, believing it would alleviate the strain on the community. But the ministers never did. My uncle died inside a burned-down granary when the harvest failed and the migrants and the locals clashed."
"But what does that have to do with us?" the mother pleaded.
"Nothing, if you only look at the surface. I'm only shedding light on the unjust remarks you made," he explained. "You, me, everyone here knows about the heavy taxation imposed on the populace, and you also know about the large influx of refugee migrants from the west, and how they strained the community to the breaking point. And what did you do?"
He let the last question linger for a while before continuing, "Did you help people like my uncle who tried their best to find a workable solution? No. Despite the might of your House with all its affiliates and influence, when the time was critical, you closed your eyes to the injustices that befell the unfortunate. You preferred to bribe your way so your son could become a minister by replacing one of the good ministers."
The gentleman paused. "I must admit, your son turned out to be a better minister. But by then it was too late. Now the unfortunate have come, migrants and locals joining together for a cause, and just like how you closed your eyes to their plight, they will also close their eyes as they deliver injustice to you."
The words hit them hard, and they had no rebuttal.
"I'm not here to joust with words. I'm merely offering a dignified end, but the decision is yours to make. Know that I have granted these merciful deaths to my family, my concubine, the maids, and even to my beloved dog. They feared that the angry mobs would tear them apart for their soft limbs."
The family began to cry, lamenting the end of their lives.
"Take a bath," he warmly suggested. "Wear your best clothes, your gold and jewelry. Eat your best meal. Drink your best wine. Burn your best incense. Make peace with life and then return to me. Or you can opt not to, stay in your room, or try to escape with the servants. Your fate is yours to choose. But I won’t be here for long. I still have things I need to take care of, so give your answer before sundown."
"Can't we decide tomorrow?" they begged for more time.
"My husband surely... There are so many things I wanted to do," the wife rambled, clinging dearly to her luxurious life.
The gentleman laughed dryly. "Can't you smell the bitter taste of soot in the air? Probably hundreds of thousands have died by now, and the noble complex is next. Even with the guards' brave sacrifices, by tomorrow, this mansion will be ashes."
...
*This scene might be too strong for Royal Road, you can skip this and lose nothing.*
In the aftermath, the father and mother accepted the offer. After ritually cleansing themselves and barely touching the plain food they were served, they freed their servants and maids, allowing them to take whatever they wanted in an attempt to survive the upcoming chaos.
The gentleman, hiding his nervousness, took his dwarven artifact from its silken pouch. It had an odd shape, with short metal barrels bursting forward, arranged like bamboo in a bundle. Its color was that of gray metal, and it was attached to a polished wooden handle, much like the haft of a sword but smaller and cunningly designed to fit one’s hand comfortably. A protruding metal piece on top and a mechanism below gave it a sophisticated appearance.
"Please, close your eyes and imagine the field of the Ancients."
The old couple did as instructed, and the minister, out of respect, loudly announced if he were a speaker in the Court of the Emperor, "Accept this honor bestowed by the First August Emperor, crafted by the dwarves, forged in the Old Progentia Continent." He lowered his arm and held the artifact with both hands before squeezing the trigger.
The loudness of his voice masked the violent popping sound, while his hands recovered from the sudden recoil. There was no smoke as the essence inside the barrel was completely burned, leaving nothing but heated air, as the dwarves had designed it to be used in their underground citadel.
"May the Ancients light your way and may your hunt..." He continued the chant as he moved and squeezed the trigger again.
He abruptly stopped his rites and used his sleeve to wipe his moist eyes. He was relieved to see that the two had met their end with grace; there was no fear or pain on their faces. Despite the circumstances, he was the one who took their lives, and he shouldered the guilt heavily.
With a broken heart, he looked around the now-empty hall that had once been warm and welcoming. He had been there several times as a child in the company of his parents, long before he served in the western war that consumed his entire youth. Departing from there, he headed toward the heart of the complex only to feel the heat emanating from the deeper parts of the house.
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He had heard from the fleeing maid that the mistress had locked herself in her room. Apparently, she set her own chamber on fire, unable to part with the things she loved so dearly.
The minister sighed deeply as he walked to the open courtyard and looked south. "Friend, I have done as promised. Please consider my oath fulfilled."
By now, the sun was high on the horizon, its rays obscured by smoke and competed with by the fire emanating from the city.
In front of the mansion's double door, he checked the artifact and knew well enough that two out of seven barrels were hot. He took out a clean cloth and used a small wooden rod to carefully wipe down the inside of the two barrels, ensuring they were clear of any residue.
Next, one by one, he meticulously loaded the two barrels with white powder from a glass vial, inserted a round metal ball, and used a little paper or cloth to keep them in place. Afterward, he checked the flint on the hammer, which was seldom damaged.
He took one last look at the mansion; it was a large estate that the fire inside had yet to appear on the outside. He bowed his head for the last time as a sign of respect and left.
Outside, he walked with purpose toward the palace. He had debts to settle.
***
History would not recall his deeds, for he spoke of them to no one. Silence was good for secrecy—the fewer men who knew, the less the risk. No man knew, no risk. In this manner, the lone minister had meticulously planned his move to eradicate the plague that had long crippled the Imperium.
He wasn't naive enough to think that his actions would restore the Imperium. His efforts were solely to ensure that the plague died with its host. He wouldn't allow it to infest the sprouts that would arise from the ashes.
After passing the courtyard occupied by wounded soldiers and the few refugees they allowed into the inner courtyard, the lone minister navigated through another courtyard. He used his credentials to pass through gate after gate into the belly of the Imperial Capital.
Despite the ensuing chaos, the grand palace complex remained well-guarded. Though the guards were nervous, many recognized him and let him pass without issue. He was only stopped at the last post, where he had to resort to bribes to satisfy three persistent guards.
"I'll complain to your superior about this," the minister-gentleman said in displeasure after giving them the coins.
"Rules are rules. Even with key and credential, if you don't want company, then you must pay the fee." The guards grinned sheepishly.
"Go on, Minister. Be on your merry way. The Captain's order is clear. Besides, we know what you are hiding in there," another added.
"Hmph," he feigned dissatisfaction and added, "Lock the door behind me. I'm heading straight to the Court."
"At your service," one replied mockingly.
The lone minister paid no heed and quickly entered as the heavy iron gate swung open. Initially, only a faint light greeted him inside, but then an array of sensor gems detected his presence, causing lights to brighten one by one from the ceiling, illuminating the vast cavern.
The light revealed walls constructed from massive gray stones on each side. The space was filled with thousands of tall wooden racks containing canvas bags or stacks of crates and barrels, many sealed with a thin sheet of tin to protect them from dust and the elements.
High above, the ceiling disappeared into shadows, giving the cavernous room an almost infinite feel. It resembled a vault, aptly so, since it was the Imperial Armory.
The air began to circulate faster; it was cool but stale, carrying the scent of tallow, old leather, and even mold. Even the bronze fans and ducts were in need of maintenance, but the funds were always embezzled. As he walked, he recalled a time when he cared and tried to address these issues, but he had given up as corruption had run too deep, even in this ancient repository.
He had visited this place dozens of times for inventory and documentation as part of his duties. Despite its regal name, there was nothing special about its contents. There were no dwarven weapons like the ones hidden in his inner pocket. If there had been any, they had likely been taken many generations ago. Here and there, there were only barrels and crates filled with common items like swords, spears, old unwanted scale mails, moldy padded jacks, socks, and various sizes of shoes.
Over the past ten years, he had noticed that many items had been removed without replacement. Yet, he made no issue of this, and for his "cooperation", the Captain in charge of the armory treated him well. Similarly, the top ministers in charge never bothered him about his post. This was further evidence that the money flowed to the very top of the bureaucracy.
Now, most of the functional armor had been stolen, and other valuable items had also been sold; he had seen the missing boots being sold at the market but again did not raise the issue, as he was disillusioned with the entire corrupt ministry. Unlike his friends, he felt that everything they did was fruitless.
"Only fire can end this corrupt nature," he lamented softly as he navigated the turns of the vast labyrinth.
This armory should have been able to arm and equip an army of ten thousand men in case of imminent war or rebellion. But in reality, it was reduced to a warehouse filled with old, rusted, moldy, and subpar equipment. It was in such a state that even now, during an open rebellion, nobody but him ventured down here.
As for the reasons, he could think of at least four:
One, they knew there was nothing of real use here.
Two, they feared that using it would expose the corruption and allow them to be persecuted by their rival factions.
Three, despite the rules forbidding weapons in the Court, in reality, many had secretly armed themselves. Some even had bodyguards disguised as servants or maids.
Fourth, distrust of their own populace. Even in the face of rebellion, the Sages would allow no one but their trusted affiliates to bear arms.
It was almost poetic that their neglect of the armory spelled doom for the Sages' plight. In their greed, they had hammered the final nail into their own coffins. And today, the lone gentleman had decided to be the one to swing that hammer.
Thus, he walked with ease. There was no rush. He had drunk his last good wine, smoked his last cigar, said the last farewell to his family, and delivered his oath to his friend.
To the uninitiated, the armory was like a maze. Everywhere he went, tall wooden storage racks flanked him on the left and right. After all these years, nobody really knew the entire manifest, which had been revised too many times—and mostly poorly—to conceal the embezzlement. The crates and bags visible contained mundane items like scarves, various shoulder bags, rusted crossbow limbs, dilapidated winter undergarments, grain grinders, and canvas for tents.
It took a lot to fully equip ten thousand, and this was reflected in the vastness of this underground space. Finally, after passing seemingly endless uniformly built storage racks and crates, he found a seemingly inconspicuous cluster of wooden barrels neatly arranged next to one another. He knew from memory that one cluster was filled with iron nails, but next to it were ivory granules.
Nobody knew what it was, except his House. His great-grandfather had recognized its similarity to the white powder that the First Emperor had given them. They had taken a little, run some tests in secret, and for years, it led to nowhere. The granules seemed dull and acted like common sand. It did nothing until they mixed it with some of their precious white powder and sealed it in a container. Only then would it violently combust and explode.
Having learned about the experiment from his father, he had tested it himself on a small scale and mastered it. Ever since that day, he had been waiting for the right time to end the Sage's charade. Many times, he had thought to end it, but without a catalyst, he hadn't had the guts to do so.
But now, there was no more hesitation. He pushed several barrels aside. Those had been tampered with, and their seals broken. The previous ministers weren't all incompetent; they had tested the material but, fortunately, found nothing of value—likely because they did not possess the white powder.
Exerting his muscles, he carefully laid the barrel on its side and began to roll it toward the other door that led to the Palace above. Wearing a satisfied smile, he rolled the wooden barrels one by one. He took his sweet time and managed to move thirteen barrels, the entire unmolested stock.
He sat down to catch his breath, blaming himself for not bringing a waterskin to drink. However, he smiled. He had finally taken the steps he had always wanted to and his hands were trembling with anticipation.
Standing on his feet again, he prepared his dwarven artifact, removing three of the metal balls and loading a different concoction inside. Next, he straightened his clothes to make them neat, ensured his hair was immaculate, and then went to the door. He inserted the small yet intricate key and operated its mechanism. After generations, nobody really cared about the armory anymore, except to occasionally hide their contraband; thus, there were no guards posted outside.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by ornate decorations, pristine marble floors, and lights cascading from the ceiling, all subtly perfumed with floral scents. There, he spotted a much older minister whom he had known but never had the chance to work with.
"Why are you here? The banquet has almost started," the minister, with deep eye sockets and a thin mustache, asked.
"Then help me with the barrels; they're for our honored guests," the gentleman urged.
The old minister raised his brow and looked at the opened door to the armory. "We keep wine in there now?"
"No, they're opiates," he whispered bluntly.
"Oh..." the older minister exclaimed, knelt, and took a good look at the substances. "Why is it different?"
"It’s the bad unrefined stuff. My order was not to give the good ones to those bloody peasants."
The older man nodded in agreement, "Indeed. Let them empty their bowels for robbing us dry."
"What happened?" he asked.
"They ate so much and had the audacity to ask the palace to cook for their entire officers waiting outside the inner gate."
"And did the Left and Right Ministers consent?"
"We had no choice," he lamented before turning to the corridor and snapping his fingers. Two servants appeared, their movements smooth and quiet, seemingly gliding over the stone floor.
"Get the others and move these to the banquet hall," the old minister ordered. The two bowed and left in a hurry. Afterward, he muttered, "Maybe allowing them to smoke this will enable us to control them."
The gentleman could only nod as if in agreement. He knew the Sages would try alcohol and drugs against the rebels' delegation. They would even prostitute themselves to buy more time, even if only for half a day longer. But he wouldn't allow them to stall any longer. Outside, the citizens was suffering. This terror must end, or millions would die. Everyone had suffered enough, except the Sages and their enablers.
The servants dutifully relocated the barrels to the entrance of the opulent banquet area, positioning them discreetly next to the main pillar. Amidst the commotion, everyone was too preoccupied to notice. Following the old minister, he joined the others to observe the speaker and several ministers as they endeavored to pacify the warlike delegation.
He watched as the ministers unveiled their dwarven artifacts, presenting them as one might present toys to toddlers, demonstrating their capabilities and mystical purposes.
The peasant leaders seemed pleased; the empty plates and bowls indicated they had eaten heartily. However, the distrust and gloating that marred their faces could not be erased. Moreover, their eyes bore the unmistakable look of violence, both as victims and perpetrators. And now, greed was also unmistakably present.
Just as the Sages had corrupted everyone, they also tried to corrupt the rebels.
The minister next to them had been whispering, "We have shifted the blame to the nobles. The only thing left is to shower them with gold and titles, so they would bring their troops home and rule as mini kings. Afterward, we can pit them against one another."
"The Sages' plans are marvelous," one praised in a whisper, without considering the impact of such clashes on the entire population or the agricultural land that had already been heavily strained.
Then one of the rebels, a short but stout man, said, "These things are wonderful toys. We shall take them for our children to play with. But you have yet to show us what we seek."
"And that is?" the speaker minister asked ever so politely.
"The gemstone of life," the man declared clearly. "I need to bring back my son and daughter who died from famine last winter."
Despite the stirring music, the chamber fell silent.
"Please, the elixir requires ingredients and extensive preparation time," the speaker attempted to reassure the rebels.
There was no such elixir, and the gentleman began to realize that the entire meeting was predicated on a lie—that the ministers possessed such a thing. He smirked and promptly returned to his thirteen barrels, each filled with more than two tonnes of ivory granules.
As he walked, he observed that every Sage was there, seated in lavish soft chairs, openly displaying their faces, with their top lieutenants behind them. Most were old and looked even older due to their addictions.
His only remorse was for the servants, but there was little he could have done. They had been thoroughly trained. If he had warned them, everyone would have been alerted. Thus, he opened two of the glass vials he possessed and buried them in the ivory granules within one of the barrels.
He gave one last look at the banquet table and then, without giving a speech or making any remarks, he simply took out his dwarven artifact, which had been loaded not with balls but with a fire compound, and squeezed the trigger.
A sharp crack erupted, followed by a sudden burst of flames. His thoughts were fixed on one thing: only with the Sages' deaths could real change begin. He wasn’t an idealist—he knew the bloodshed would likely continue for years, but if he could hasten it by even one day, that would be enough justification.
He watched as people stared at him, their faces filled with terror and confusion, but he was beyond caring. The second shot struck the white powder, igniting the primary explosion. A blinding white flash tore through the vast hall.
The blast hurled him aside, shattering his eardrums, and blood streamed from his ears and nose. The explosion was far greater than he’d imagined, shaking the entire palace, toppling one of its magnificent columns, and sending debris raining like burning ash from above.
The gentleman barely registered the heat or the pain, yet he was acutely aware of his clothes, limbs, and eyelids being scorched. Still, he was content, watching as everyone in the banquet area met the same fate.
Time seemed to stop as he watched several Sages get crushed by falling debris, while others perished when their heavy chairs were lifted by the blast, tumbling forward and landing their occupants face-first into the cold marble with gruesome results. On the other side, the head of the right ministry stood screaming, his face bloodied, his jaw broken, his front teeth falling out as his enablers ran to assist him like headless chickens.
But the worst happened to the head of the left ministry, who was aflame like a human torch. It started at his head and quickly spread to his limbs and body. Apparently, the rumors that he bathed in wine to keep his skin tight were true. He tried to run, his skin melting, but the frightened rebels' men impaled him with spears.
The gentleman grinned one last time as an even stronger blast enveloped the whole palace in fiery wrath. There was no regret—and then it was all over.
***
Korelia
The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows as Lansius hefted his axe and brought it down with a satisfying thud into a log. Chopping firewood was hardly a necessity for him, yet it had become his favored pastime.
Somehow, someone had swapped out his usual axe for one with a better shaft and a keener edge. The thoughtful replacement brought a smile to his face.
With a firm grip, he swung the axe again, effortlessly splitting another log in two. Each strike sent chips of wood scattering, and the sharp crack of splintering timber punctuated the quiet evening air.
Suddenly, Sterling, who was with him, announced, "My Lord, Farkas, Sir Harold, and the Hunter Guildsman are approaching."
Lansius turned to the courtyard entrance and spotted the three. "Now this could be trouble," he mumbled.
Farkas, Sir Harold, and the Hunter Guildsman approached, their footsteps muffled by the soft earth. With a casual flick, Lansius embedded his axe into the stump, the blade sinking deep with a satisfying thunk. A cool breeze swept across his face, drying the beads of sweat on his forehead.
"My Lord," they greeted in unison.
"You three, here at this hour—it must be urgent," Lansius observed.
The trio exchanged somber glances. Sir Harold, spoke first. "It’s a message from the Capital. And likely their last."
Lansius' heart skipped a beat; he knew instantly what it was about. "How? A coup?"
But I'm yet to hear that the Capital was besieged.
Farkas gently nudged the Hunter forward. "Tell the Lord what you told me," he urged softly.
The Hunter looked tense as he began, "My Lord, the message was passed from branch to branch. At first, it seemed chaotic, but I can now confirm it as true: The Capital has fallen to rebellion. The casualties are immense. All the ministers perished in a violent explosion that also destroyed the palace."
Lansius stood frozen, his gaze distant as he processed the news. Slowly, he reached for the axe handle, pulling it free from the wood with a forceful tug and tossing it aside. He sank onto the stump, his mind reeling.
Sir Harold's voice cut through the heavy silence, "The Ageless One is dead. The Imperium... is no more."
Lansius looked at his staff and sighed. "The age of strife is truly upon us."
***