Inside the Empire

Night fell, and the Imperial Palace glowed with countless lights.

An endless line of ministers and officials gathered outside the Emperor’s chambers, kneeling to the ground, praying desperately to the Goddess above, begging her to show mercy.

It was true—the Emperor of the Empire was gravely ill, and his life was hanging by a thread.

Inside the Emperor’s chamber, only a handful of high-ranking ministers remained, along with the Emperor’s personal maid Emma, and a mysterious young alchemist in a white robe.

The alchemist leaned quietly against the wall, clutching a red book in her arms. On its cover was the emblem of a violet flower, with a name inscribed beneath it.

Yet the name had been blotted out with ink, and no one knew what the girl’s true name was.

“Miss Alchemist!” Emma sobbed, clinging to the girl’s arm, “Please, you must think of something! Save His Majesty’s life!”

The alchemist only shook her head, refusing Emma’s desperate plea.

Tears streamed down Emma’s face. Shaking her head in disbelief, she collapsed at the Emperor’s bedside, clutching his frail body and crying loudly, but the Emperor’s eyes never opened again.

“Emma, calm yourself,” one of the ministers urged, “His Majesty would not want us to drown in grief. What matters now is the succession decree. Who has His Majesty chosen as heir?”

“His Majesty said… the decree is hidden behind the wall painting in his study…”

“Then hurry and retrieve it!”

“I cannot do it alone,” Emma replied, scanning the ministers. “Duchess Monica, please come with me to bear witness.”

Monica hesitated for a moment, then nodded solemnly.

Emma and Monica rushed out of the chamber. No guards stopped them—everyone knew Emma was trusted by the Emperor, and Monica was of the royal bloodline.

Arriving at the study, Emma activated the hidden mechanism. The painting slid aside, revealing a secret compartment.

A magical barrier glimmered faintly—proof that no one had touched the decree before them.

Reverently, Emma lifted the decree from within, and under Monica’s watchful gaze, began to read its contents. The handwriting was shaky, uneven—the Emperor had clearly been at the brink of death when writing it. Still, Monica recognized it as his own hand.

As tradition dictated, the Emperor recounted past deeds, laid out his vision for the future, gave his evaluations of the two princesses, and finally declared his successor.

“The 174th Emperor of the Empire shall be—Sheryl Whitrose!”

“So it is true,” Monica nodded, convinced. “Lady Sheryl is wise and brave, far superior to Lady Angele. Passing the throne to her is only fitting.”

“You mustn’t say that, Duchess Monica.”

Emma’s voice had turned cold, her tearful façade gone. Monica froze, stunned by the sudden change, instinctively taking two steps back, as though Emma were possessed.

“Everyone knows, Duchess, that you belong to the Second Princess’s faction. If the First Princess ascends the throne, your power will vanish overnight.”

“W-What do you mean by this?”

“Why do you think I chose you, and not Lady Sylvia, to witness this decree? Surely you’ve realized it by now?”

“No… no, you can’t mean—you intend to alter the decree?”

“Duchess Monica, you’ve suffered under Sylvia’s family for years. But here lies your chance to rise again. Only you and I know the decree’s contents. If we alter it, and the throne goes to the Second Princess Angele—then the Empire will belong to us. We would hold the reins of power.”

“No… such treason cannot be allowed!”

“Heh. If you are truly so noble, then I won’t press you further.”

Emma’s mocking smile pierced deep into Monica’s pride.

Sylvia’s family grew stronger by the day, dominating the Empire’s politics. Monica had ambitions, policies she longed to enforce—but she had no stage to wield her talents.

If the First Princess became Empress, Monica’s dreams would never see the light of day. But if the Second Princess rose to power, Monica could finally unleash her vision.

Even if Angele was stubborn and cruel, as long as Monica held the regency, the Empire could still thrive for centuries. Was this not for the Empire’s future?

“W-Wait… Emma… have you planned this from the start?”

“Everything is prepared, Duchess,” Emma said with a cheerful smile. “I have the scroll ready. With it, we can alter the decree perfectly.”

“This… this is for the future of the Empire, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. All for the Empire’s future.”

“Very well,” Monica clenched her teeth. “I agree. When the Second Princess takes the throne, I will not forget your loyalty.”

Emma smirked, pulling a scroll from her magic pouch. Just as she prepared to alter the decree, a chilling voice echoed from beyond the door.

“Duchess Monica, I never thought you would stoop so low.”

The study doors burst open. Standing there was Duchess Sylvia.

She wore a blue military uniform, her golden hair tied into twin drills that framed her face.

Behind her came only a small retinue—two grim-faced adjutants and a handful of powerful advisers. Witnesses, brought for this very moment.

The white-robed alchemist followed at her side, still clutching her red book, her face obscured by shadow. Her lips bore no trace of a smile.

“This… impossible…” Emma’s face went pale. “I made sure…”

“You made sure to spy on me, didn’t you?—Bring her in!”

One adjutant dragged forward a maid, bound and gagged, throwing her to the floor. She looked up at Emma with regretful eyes. Emma, realizing her plan had unraveled, could only stare in horror.

“My plan was flawless… the Blood Seal should have worked! Who… who is it!!—”

Then Emma froze. A strand of white hair slipped from beneath the alchemist’s hood.

Her breath caught. Old intelligence reports flashed in her mind.

“No… it can’t be… you’re Black—”

The alchemist’s killing intent exploded outward. The air turned icy, suffocating.

Her magic surged, forming a black arm of shadow. In an instant, it lashed out, severing Emma’s head cleanly.

Blood sprayed in arcs across the study as Emma’s body collapsed lifelessly to the floor.

Sylvia staggered back in shock, her adjutants drawing their weapons in alarm. Tension filled the room like crackling fire.

“Sylvia,” the girl’s voice was cold, “you don’t want me as your enemy… do you?”

“We… are not enemies, are we?”

“Rest assured. Fate has already shifted. The world now follows the path of hope.”

Sylvia stared at the girl. Her face was obscured by some strange distortion, but her red eyes shone like burning embers.

Sylvia could not understand what “fate” she spoke of, or why it had been “shifted.” But deep down, she felt—the girl was no enemy of the Empire.

“…Very well. Forgive our rudeness. Stand down.”

Her adjutants lowered their weapons, though uneasily.

“Miss Alchemist, may I take Duchess Monica with me?”

“Do as you please. I will be leaving as well.”

The alchemist turned and walked out, silent as a shadow.

No one dared stop her. After the power she had just displayed, not even everyone in the room combined could challenge her.

Emma had known the girl’s true identity—but she had been silenced before she could reveal it. That was the reason for her death.

Only a fool would dig further. For in this world, the more you know, the sooner you die.

“…I can only hope you are not our enemy, Miss Alchemist.”

Sylvia muttered under her breath, then ordered Monica’s arrest, secured the decree, and had Emma’s corpse along with the forged scroll taken as evidence.

Proof enough to condemn Duchess Monica of treason—there would be no escape for her now.