This return to the Capital brought an unusually heavy workload, leaving Arno with no time to take Celeste sightseeing. He entrusted her to Tratt’s wife, a gentle woman, asking her to show Celeste around the Capital. Tratt agreed without hesitation—he was tightly bound to Arno, their alliance closer than outsiders realized. Speculators often stake everything on a single gamble, and Tratt fit this pattern, channeling nearly all his resources into Arno. He was betting that House Goldthorn would rise again.

  Leaning on a Golden Noble house as a foundation was far better than trailing after minor noble factions.

  Early the next morning, Arno traveled light and entered the palace.

  He did not encounter Pars. Her Majesty the Empress was currently rehearsing the coronation ceremony with etiquette officials, memorizing every detail of the procedure. Many might assume such a complex ritual could be flawlessly executed on the first try, but this was the result of days—even weeks—of rehearsal.

  Stepping directly into the old emperor’s bedchamber, Arno immediately felt the contrast with the bustling atmosphere of Empress Pars’ quarters. It was eerily quiet here, with not a single minister present. Only a few servants and maids lingered, their faces betraying emotions: resentment, dissatisfaction, and even undisguised vindictive glee. At the sound of footsteps, they quickly schooled their expressions into aloof indifference.

  Arno did not pause, striding directly to the old emperor’s bedside. He drew back the curtain and studied the man before him.

  The octogenarian lay curled on his side, his face split vertically into two halves: one half normal, the other with a slack, crooked mouth and drooping eye, saliva pooling to dampen the bedsheet.

  At the sound, the old emperor opened his eyes and scrutinized Arno. His vacant gaze gradually sharpened, and he nodded faintly, his trembling hand lifting to fall heavily on the bedframe. Arno sat down, and the old emperor’s half-face showed satisfaction as he mumbled, "Long... time... you... well..."

  Gazing into the old emperor’s cloudy eyes, Arno paused before asking, "Do you mean it’s been a long time since we last met, and you’re glad I’m here?"

  The old emperor nodded urgently, eager to say more, but the harder he tried, the more his words dissolved into unintelligible syllables. Arno turned to the servants, who kept their heads down, lost in thought and ignoring him. Frowning, Arno asked, "I heard there’s a board with words on it. Where is it? Bring it here."

  Only then did the servants lazily carry over a three-meter-long, two-meter-wide wooden board. One of them slipped a wooden pointer onto the old emperor’s index finger. The old emperor twitched his finger, repeatedly tapping on several words: "I... want... go out... sun... long... not... been..."

  "Fetch a wheelchair," Arno ordered casually, but the servants hesitated, wearing troubled expressions. Arno’s displeasure grew as he stared at them. "What? Can’t you understand me? Or do you think you’re entitled to ignore my request?"

  One servant grimaced and said, "Noble sir, Her Majesty Pars said it’s too windy outside to let him go out. If he catches a cold—"

  Arno turned to the old emperor. "Is this true?"

  Clearly, it was not. The old emperor’s emotions suddenly surged, his face flushing as saliva flowed faster. Arno understood in an instant.

  Titles like Golden Noble, Sacred Blood, and Royal Family did not elevate one to divinity, detached from human reality. No matter how exalted the labels, people remained human, and families remained families. As long as they were mortal, bound by mortal families, there would inevitably be conflicts and strife.

  After Empress Pars ascended the throne, the old emperor had handed over power, becoming a "thing of the past." Courtiers were eager to curry favor with the new ruler, and the old emperor was gradually forgotten. This forgetting was a demonstration of loyalty to the new empress, but it overlooked the old emperor’s feelings. Speechless and gravely ill, no one knew when he might die, making it pointless to prove loyalty through care.

  A lifetime of martial prowess had led to this end, naturally twisting his temperament and spirit, making him even more difficult to attend to. Servants preferred to drop the curtain to avoid his gaze, ignoring his requests rather than engage with the once-exalted Golden Noble and emperor.

  Understanding this, Arno felt a flicker of pity. He ordered again, "Bring the wheelchair."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The servants still hesitated. For some reason, Arno’s temper flared. He lashed out with a kick, sending the nearest servant flying, clutching his side. The man rolled twice before kneeling, forehead pressed to the floor in pain. Another servant finally reacted, but a stab of pain in his neck silenced him.

  Blair rushed in at the commotion, drawing his sword to press against the servant’s neck.

  Arno regarded the servants and maids with disgust, sneering as he ordered, "Kill them all. They’re revolting to look at."

  The dozen or so servants and maids in the hall paled, screaming as they fled for the door. Blair gave a grim laugh, his sword flashing. A head soared upward, blood spurting two meters high, carrying a coppery stench. When Arno turned back, the old emperor wore a twisted grin of vindictive glee, his eyes blazing with a terrifying hatred. His flushed face showed deep satisfaction—Arno understood the old man’s psychology all too well.

  Not long ago, this man had ruled the empire, his word capable of elevating or destroying nations, gazing down like a god. Now, even trivial requests were denied, a contrast that fueled his rage and fear. In this moment, the thrill of death pierced him like tiny arrows, igniting a strange ecstasy. Death gave him unprecedented satisfaction, making him feel valued again.

  Soon, the hall lay littered with corpses. Arno fetched a wheelchair himself, gesturing for Blair to lift the old emperor into it. Pushing the wheelchair, Arno exited the hall.

  The late February weather had warmed noticeably, with 14–15°C temperatures no longer deterring outings. Fresh air washed over the old emperor, who perked up in his sickbed. Speaking extremely slowly, he struggled to convey his meaning: "I... know... why... you’re here." Though some syllables were still slurred, his meaning was mostly clear—his mental state had improved, bringing physical changes.

  "My... hand... ring... take it... key..." The old emperor’s eyes fell on his numb left hand, where a strangely shaped ring rested, like a miniature castle with glowing windows. As Arno removed the ring, all lights in the castle dimmed and died. At the same time, a small cut appeared on the old emperor’s finger, oozing dark, thick blood.

  "Put... it on!" The old emperor strained, pain contorting the half of his face still capable of expression. With each word, he felt something inside him tearing apart, the agony driving him to the edge of madness.

  Arno did not hesitate. He trusted the old emperor had no reason—nor the ability—to harm him. As he slipped the ring onto his finger, a faint tingle shot through him, something embedding into his flesh through the ring’s base. The miniature castle on the ring suddenly blazed with light, each window brighter than when worn by the old emperor. The old emperor stared in shock, eyes nearly frozen.

  As a bearer of Sacred Blood, his lineage had always been highly pure, but he had not expected Arno’s blood to be purer. He understood better than most the significance of Sacred Blood—a meaning beyond the ordinary. With difficulty, he tilted his head to gaze at Arno, speechless with astonishment.

  Arno studied the ring, finding the castle’s brightness unpleasant. As he considered removing it, a thought flickered, and the castle dimmed until no light remained.

  The old emperor nearly popped his last good eye, his broken body suddenly radiating intense killing intent—as quickly as it came, it vanished. Arno looked thoughtfully at the ring, laughing softly.

  "Does this ring relate to some hidden treasure?" he asked. With no one else around—Blair stood guard at a distance—he continued, "Let me guess. First, it’s a key. You said it, and someone told me yesterday that Pars is about to enter the Secret Vault. Is this the key to the vault? Or to a hidden chamber within?" Ignoring the old emperor’s murderous gaze, he went on, "What about the light? It glowed on you and on me, but I bet it wouldn’t glow on my retainer. That means the ring detects Sacred Blood.

  "I’ve always been curious about something... we—you can call us Golden Nobles—always talk about Sacred Blood. All day: bloodline, bloodline, bloodline! It seems there’s a secret to this bloodline that I don’t know—or most people don’t.

  "Coincidentally, before coming to the Capital, I built a church in Pramisburg. You know, Pramisburg’s winters make going outside impossible, so I spent my free time reading.

  "Some books were extremely interesting!"