At dawn, the first golden rays of sunlight filtered through the intricately carved, stained-glass windows, casting dappled shadows across the marble-paved corridors.

  Within the imperial palace, all seemed in order, yet beneath this tranquility, subtle fissures were hidden.

  The previous night's darkness had not yet fully dissipated when the Emperor awoke quietly in his secluded bedchamber. He slowly opened his eyes, greeted by familiar opulence: a screen carved from celadon jade, silk curtains embroidered with gold thread, and the faint scent of sandalwood drifting from a censer near the bed.

  As always, the palace maids and attendants were meticulously preparing his morning attire and arranging breakfast, each movement displaying years of practiced coordination and deference.

  However, as he pushed open the heavy, vermilion-lacquered palace doors and entered the grand dining hall, he was met with a sumptuous breakfast: steaming porridge, alluringly colored pastries, and meticulously brewed imperial tea.

  The Emperor took his seat, about to begin, when he felt a sudden, unsettling anomaly—his old chamberlain, who usually stood at his side, constantly attending to his every move, was nowhere to be seen.

  That chamberlain was not only his personal attendant but also a veteran minister who served as both secretary and advisor, a crucial responsibility entrusted to him by the Emperor's late father.

  Now, the sudden disappearance of this steadfast and loyal old minister, adept at handling both large and small affairs of state, was like a pebble dropped into a calm lake, creating ripples of unease.

  The Emperor's fingertips traced the rim of his warm teacup, his mind echoing with his father's deep, imposing voice: "A ruler must be like a drawn sword, a deterrent to the wicked; yet he must also possess a benevolent heart, to bestow grace upon all people."

  His father's image seemed to appear before him, imposing and awe-inspiring, like the scepter he held tightly. And the old chamberlain, always standing silently behind his father, a shadow, assisting in every decision.

  His father's iron fist and benevolence, his majesty and grace, together created a prosperous era and were deeply imprinted in his heart.

  Now, with the chamberlain missing, the support he had relied on since childhood seemed to waver.

  Because of this instinctive rapport and years of accumulated loyalty, the old chamberlain was far more than a mere servant in the Emperor's eyes; he was like an extension of his father's legacy, indispensable.

  Now, the sudden absence of this "arm" brought a sense of emptiness and unease far exceeding the ordinary. Was it an unforeseen incident? Or...

  Suspicion clouded the Emperor's mind, anxiety climbing like vines, entwining his thoughts.

  As the Emperor was lost in memories and doubts, the attendants in the dining hall continued their duties with practiced orderliness.

  The exquisite porcelain dishes on the table held a breakfast that was a feast for the eyes, nose, and palate, yet to the Emperor, it lacked the warmth and reassurance of previous days.

  His mind, in disarray, involuntarily began to consider the various recent unusual movements within the court.

  Decades ago, after the young Emperor vigorously promoted expansionist policies and appointed local nobles as city lords, the power structure of the entire kingdom quietly changed.

  At that time, through the co-opting and dispersing of local powers, the central government enjoyed a period of unparalleled prominence, but it also sowed the seeds of future trouble.

  Now, after years of accumulation, those city lords and nobles who were granted power had gradually amassed enough strength to shake the central authority.

  Some whispered conspiracies in the shadows, while others openly expressed their dissatisfaction with central policies.

  The financial accounts were increasingly strained, tax revenues decreased, and conscription for labor became difficult to enforce—all signs of the wavering balance of power.

  Whenever the Emperor reviewed those densely packed memorials, he felt a sense of powerlessness: the iron-fisted rule of the past was now facing unprecedented challenges.

  The breakfast ended hastily. The Emperor rose and slowly paced into his study.

  Pushing open the door, he was met with an oppressive atmosphere—stacks of memorials occupied most of the study, piled so high they nearly engulfed the entire desk.

  The disordered letters on the desk seemed to silently declare their urgency and importance.

  The Emperor's gaze, as if drawn by an invisible force, fell upon a corner of the desk.

  There, several documents, singled out, lay open starkly: a plan for the propagation of the Dawnlight Divine Temple of the God of Light, the paper somewhat wrinkled, as if it had been repeatedly perused; and, most prominently, a stack of joint petitions bearing the seals of various city lords, the seals so red they were startling, each like a burning brand, searing the Emperor's nerves.

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  The Emperor slowly picked up one of the petitions and pondered for a moment.

  He knew that any neglect of these "seemingly insignificant" matters could escalate into uncontrollable situations; yet, excessive intervention would give those malicious individuals an excuse to accuse him of tyranny.

  As he thought, his mood gradually shifted towards calm and composure, but the shadow of his deep trust in the old chamberlain persistently lingered in his mind.

  Facing this situation, the Emperor felt a profound loneliness.

  As the ruler of a nation, the weight of his responsibility was far beyond what ordinary people could comprehend.

  Every decision required a balance between benevolence and iron will, and every memorial could foreshadow the coming of a future storm.

  The mysterious disappearance of the old chamberlain this morning was a reminder: even the most loyal and reliable minister could not foresee the unpredictable twists of fate.

  As the sun rose higher, the palace gradually became bustling with activity.

  Yesterday, ministers had submitted urgent reports mentioning minor disturbances and conscription problems in various regions.

  The Emperor sat at his desk, his gaze sweeping across the memorials, his heart both anxious and pained.

  He understood that the prestige established by his father's authority had faded with time, and those local nobles who had been granted power were now stirring, attempting to challenge the central authority in the name of the people's will.

  His thoughts turned to the proposal for the expansion of the Dawnlight Divine faith.

  Recently, the High Priest of the Dawnlight Divine Temple believed that interference from the imperial capital was hindering the development of the faith.

  The Emperor knew well that while this faith could, to a certain extent, pacify the people, if it went unchecked, it could lead to a fragmentation of central authority.

  Standing before the large window, the Emperor gazed at the distant, gradually clarifying outline of the city, contemplating the future of the nation.

  The morning sun was beautiful, but behind it lurked many uncertain undercurrents.

  The expansion of noble power and the increasingly vocal dissatisfaction among the common people made him feel that the road ahead was fraught with peril.

  Just then, steady and hurried footsteps broke the silence.

  It was a familiar figure—Lucien Vahl, the Emperor's most trusted chamberlain.

  He wore a well-tailored black uniform, his steps firm yet somewhat hasty, and he lightly knocked on the heavy study door.

  Behind the door, the Emperor's deep and troubled eyes were fixed on the mountain of secret letters before him, but when the familiar voice came, he nodded slightly, signaling him to enter.

  Lucien's Adam's apple bobbed slightly, his right hand instinctively touching the gilded hilt of the sword at his waist—a token of honor bestowed upon his family by the late Emperor, the worn patterns on the scabbard telling of three generations serving the imperial power with their lives.

  He took half a step forward, his voice low but each word clear: "I have urgent news to report. Recently, word has come—a red dragon has appeared in the Elden Beast Mountains, estimated to be an adult, and it is the first time in recent years one has settled here. Your Majesty, if this dragon is not benevolent, it may pose a significant threat to your imperial capital."

  "Your Majesty..." Lucien began respectfully and urgently, his tone carrying the weight of urgent news, a subtle trace of helplessness flickering in his eyes.

  Why is His Majesty so angry? Does he suspect me...? The thought flashed through his mind, but he quickly suppressed it.

  "I have urgent news to report. Recently, word has come—a red dragon has appeared in the Elden Beast Mountains..." He collected himself, relaying the intelligence in full, loyalty and duty now superseding any personal emotions.

  The Emperor's frown deepened, and he repeated Lucien's report in a low voice: "The timing of the red dragon's appearance...precisely at this moment..." The court was turbulent, with undercurrents among the nobles, and now a red dragon suddenly appears in the Elden Beast Mountains... This was no coincidence.

  He abruptly stood up, his voice already carrying a trace of suppressed anger: "Why is such important intelligence only reported today?"

  He surveyed the empty study, a sense of being besieged from all sides washing over him.

  Internal and external troubles, erupting simultaneously, it was as if an invisible hand was trying to push him into the abyss.

  Could it be... that those nobles had secretly reached some agreement with the red dragon? Using the dragon disaster to divert attention, or... an even more terrifying thought emerged in his mind: they might even have deliberately lured the red dragon, using it as a weapon!

  "Lucien," the Emperor's tone suddenly turned stern, "what is the latest news from those spies lurking in the court? What progress have they made?"

  Lucien took a deep breath and reported in a low voice: "Your Majesty, according to the latest reports from my spies, some of those who have infiltrated the ranks of the treacherous nobles are risking great danger to gather intelligence; however, several spies have been killed on the spot. Other reports indicate that these nobles have intentions of rebellion, but the timing is not yet ripe; they still fear your unshakable authority."

  Hearing this, the Emperor's eyes suddenly blazed with anger, his voice resounding through the palace: "This is utter nonsense! They still fear this old, weathered Emperor, yet dare to harbor rebellious thoughts against me! Now they dare to play petty tricks in the imperial capital, is this not blatant provocation?"

  However, his anger quickly subsided, the Emperor calmed down knowing he was only going to make himself sicker with rage. And so he instead asked, "What are your thoughts on the red dragon in the Elden Beast Mountains?"

  Lucien pondered for a moment, a hint of determination flickering in his eyes: "Your Majesty, the current situation is one of internal and external threats converging.

  As for the external threat, though the red dragon is fierce, it has only recently settled in this area and has not yet established a strong power base.

  We can take advantage of the red dragon's current predicament and implement a plan to 'kill two birds with one stone.'"

  Lucien spoke steadily, "First, we can use the nobles' hands, ordering them to 'defend the Emperor,' to attack the red dragon.

  This will both deplete their private armies and test their loyalty, observing whether they will feign compliance while preserving their strength."

  He paused briefly, then continued: "Secondly, we can issue a wide-ranging bounty, recruiting brave warriors from among the common people.

  This will both relieve the pressure on the nobles and gather popular support, demonstrating Your Majesty's benevolence as a ruler who loves his people like his own children.

  In my opinion, supplemented by written proclamations detailing the red dragon's atrocities, it will surely stir up public outrage, attracting dragon hunters in droves. But at the same time, it may also attract the help of metallic good dragons to surround and annihilate the evil dragon.

  Although this plan may provoke all-out war, the benefits far outweigh the risks."

  Lucien paused, his voice low and full of strategy: "But Your Majesty, above all else, 'to deal with external threats, one must first secure internal stability.'

  Now that the nobles in the court harbor rebellious intentions, we can take this opportunity to use their greed and ambition for power, using them to resist external threats while simultaneously purging the disloyal, making them panic in fear."

  The Emperor listened quietly, a hint of satisfaction and determination flickering in his eyes.

  He nodded slowly, his voice regaining the authority of an emperor: "Lucien, your suggestion is very pertinent.

  This matter concerns the life and death of the imperial capital, so I entrust you with full authority to plan it.

  You are to plan and prepare to lead troops to attack the red dragon, while secretly investigating those rebels, ensuring that both internal and external threats are eliminated in one fell swoop!"

  Lucien bowed deeply upon hearing this: "Your Majesty is wise, I will not fail in my mission!"

  Having said this, Lucien turned to leave, his steps steady and hurried, as if he carried the weight of changing the fate of the world on his shoulders.

  Outside the palace gates, a gentle morning breeze blew, seeming to foreshadow the impending storm and changes.

  Leaving the Emperor alone in the imperial study, he slowly unfolded the secret letter in his hand, the letter densely packed with the movements and intentions of various nobles.

  Among those letters, there were reports from loyal individuals, as well as secret orders smuggled out by conspirators.

  The Emperor thought to himself: After more than a decade of rule, many of the great nobles remained firmly entrenched, while those of medium and small size, even those on the verge of decline, were pieces he could manipulate and control.

  His gaze fell upon a yellowed letter, his fingers gently tracing the familiar yet downfallen name on it—Baron Blake.

  He murmured: "The fallen Baron Blake, your former glory has long since faded, leaving only the value of being controlled and used by me."

  In his view, this once-prominent, now-struggling baron was perfect to serve as a pawn to quell internal unrest and consolidate imperial power.

  The candlelight in the palace illuminated the Emperor's calm yet resolute face, his mind already having laid a vast net, bringing all internal and external troubles under his control.

  Outside, there was the danger of the red dragon's appearance; inside, the seeds of rebellion were sprouting. A storm involving dragon shadows and conspiracy was quietly approaching.

  At this moment, every decision was a matter of life and death for his nation!

  The emperor thought! One day he would strike at the volcano and drive out the evil dragon, but definitely not now.

  As Lucien's departing figure receded, the air inside and outside the palace seemed to solidify, foreshadowing the coming bloodshed and the magnificent changes of fate.

  And behind all this, there was both a contest of loyalty and courage, and an interweaving of schemes and betrayal, waiting for the great hand of fate to lift the layers of fog.