Chapter 403| Neither Smiling Nor Angry. He Simply Sat There In Silence, Staring At The Closed Doors, Like A Man Who Had Finally Encountered A Worthy Adversary.

?The sun had yet to fully rise when the guards threw open the cell door.

?Morning air in the Iron Empire’s capital bit cold, thick with the stench of factory smoke beneath a heavy gray sky hanging low over steel rooftops. Roland rose from his wooden bench. His white shirt was still grimy with dust and soot from the battle in the Dwarven realm, and the wound on his left shoulder—the jagged mark left by Ignis’s claws—stung dully despite having begun to scab over. His dark hair remained a disheveled mess, left uncombed since the night before.

?Across from him, Rianor pushed himself up. His gray shirt was filthy, his thin-framed glasses hair-fractured and slipping down the bridge of his nose. His left arm hung limply with its completely dead Bracer, while his right arm bore dried lacerations. His face was pale, but his eyes remained as sharp as ever.

?Two Praetorian Guards opened the door—clad in emblem-less black armor, their eyes devoid of emotion, moving with silent, mechanical efficiency.

?Out in the corridor, Riven was already waiting. His colossal frame swallowed nearly half the hallway. The chains on his wrists had been removed, replaced by two armed guards standing vigilantly behind him. Fresh bandages wrapped his left arm, covering the lingering Wyvern claw wounds beneath.

?Beside Riven stood the Dwarf King. Though his stocky frame hunched slightly, his posture remained resolute. Bronze rings braided his graying beard, and his white-runed warhammer rested across his shoulder—no one had even attempted to confiscate it.

?Borch, Thorne, Naya, and Dom brought up the rear, their weapons still confiscated from the day before.

?Grigori and Adrian were escorted out from an adjacent corridor. Grigori walked upright as always, while Adrian stepped alongside him, his footing noticeably steadier than when they had first arrived.

?They were marched through the capital streets as the city slowly stirred awake.

?Laborers trudged toward the factories with lethargic strides, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. Shopkeepers set up their stalls with vacant expressions, far more concerned with stoking their hearth coals than watching the passing party.

?Not a single soul looked up. None of them realized who had just walked right past them—a king, a legendary general, and the future ruler of a nation they had only ever known through state propaganda.

?At the end of the avenue loomed the Palace of Light. It was no grand monument with gilded spires or marble domes as one might imagine. The structure was a brutalist mass of gray steel—monolithic, rigid, and carved with intricate gear-and-cog panels across its facade. Steam chimneys jutted from every corner of the roof, belching thin wisps of smoke into the morning air.

?Two Praetorian Guards stood at the main gates, their armor as dark as the walls behind them. They opened the doors without a word, as if expecting this arrival since last night.

?The colossal doors of the main hall swung open before them.

?The vaulted ceiling towered above, supported by steel pillars carved with clockwork mechanisms. Dim yellow steam-lamps flickered along the walls, casting long, eerie shadows across the polished black plate floor.

?At the far end of the hall, a steel throne sat atop a tiered dais. It was no seat of luxury, but rather a heavy military platform embedded with instrument panels along its backrest.

?Emperor Regulus Velthorne sat enthroned. A long black cloak draped over his broad shoulders, adorned with a golden gear emblem embroidered on the collar. The lower half of his face was concealed beneath a mechanical respirator mask that hissed rhythmically with every breath he took.

?To the right of the throne stood General V Irina—white hair, pale blue eyes, dressed in an immaculate dark gray uniform. Her face remained devoid of a smile from the moment the group entered.

?To the left, General III Volkov stood with arms crossed—a tall, lean man with graying temples and a brass measuring rod tucked into his belt. His expression was far harder to decipher than Irina’s; not because he was serene, but because he was a master at concealing his thoughts.

?Anastasia stood on the right flank, slightly set back from the throne. Her black wolf-fur mantle draped impeccably over her shoulder, though her fingers secretly clenched the hem of the fur.

?The Dwarf King took a half-step forward, his unblinking eyes locked onto the Emperor.

?This was the first time he had laid eyes on the sovereign who had unleashed relentless legions against his people for centuries—even if that face was obscured behind a metallic mask.

?Silence reigned. Only the rhythmic hiss of the Emperor’s respirator filled the void.

?Emperor Regulus scanned them one by one, his eyes dim yet razor-sharp, as if evaluating hidden variables invisible to everyone else in the room.

?"You returned my son," Emperor Regulus said at last, his voice muffled by the mask, heavy and measured.

?"He was never lost," Roland replied, offering a brief, respectful bow—pure diplomatic courtesy, not submission. "Merely delayed on his return, Your Majesty."

?"Why have you come?"

?"Because we share a common enemy," Roland said. "And I have something you need to hear."

?The Emperor tapped his fingers against the iron armrest. Tap. Tap. Tap.

?"You brought my Seventh General back alive," he said. "Why didn’t you simply execute him?"

?"Because Grigori is not my true enemy."

?"Then who is?"

?Roland didn’t answer immediately. He stared directly into the Emperor’s eyes behind the visor.

?General Irina stepped forward half a pace, her hand half-raised, her face hardening as she struggled to contain her mounting fury.

?"Your Majesty," she interjected, her sharp voice slicing through the silence. "Why are we even entertaining this? There are barely ten of them—unarmed. We have thousands of soldiers waiting right outside these doors."

?Emperor Regulus did not immediately reply. He stared at Roland for a long moment before speaking in a low, measured voice.

?"Because he brought my son back alive," he said. "If I imprison him, I am not merely seizing an envoy. I am arresting the man who saved the heir to my throne. Every noble in this hall would remember that."

?Irina snapped her jaw shut. Her expression tightened further, but she yielded and stepped back into position without another word.

?"And more importantly," the Emperor continued, "I want to see how much he truly knows."

?He shifted his gaze back to Roland. "Now. Convince me why I shouldn’t order my guards to throw you all into chains right this instant."

?Roland didn’t flinch. Not a single drop of sweat beaded on his face, nor was there a tremor in his voice. "Because of a letter I dispatched the day before we arrived at your gates. And should we fail to return, that letter will fall into the wrong hands."

?The Emperor remained silent. Volkov glanced sideways at Roland. Anastasia’s fingers froze against her mantle.

?"What letter?" the Emperor asked.

?"I dispatched two letters," Roland answered smoothly. "One requesting an audience. The other—a sealed contingency—to be unsealed if I do not return within ten days. Inside lies the full truth behind Project Legion, complete with classified intelligence your own red archives don’t even possess."

?He paused briefly, letting the gravity of the statement sink into the hall.

?"If we fail to return within ten days, its contents will be leaked to every sovereign kingdom across this continent."

?A suffocating stillness fell over the grand hall.

?The only sound remaining was the prolonged, rhythmic hiss of the Emperor’s respirator.

?Then the Emperor laughed—a short, muffled chuckle devoid of warmth or humor.

?"You believe you can pressure me with a cheap threat like that?"

?"I am not threatening you," Roland replied cleanly. "I am simply laying out the reality of the situation."

?"And what reality is that?"

?"You have two choices," Roland stated. "Execute us now and face the fallout. Or hear me out first, and make your decision after."

?Emperor Regulus tapped his armrest once more, his cadence noticeably slower this time.

?"Why do the Dwarves still exist to this day?" he asked abruptly.

?Roland hadn’t anticipated the question, yet he betrayed not a single hint of surprise. "Because Your Majesty still needs them."

?Volkov glanced sharply toward the Emperor. Irina furrowed her brow, failing to grasp the underlying meaning of the exchange.

?The Emperor remained silent.

?"I am not trying to back anyone into a corner," Roland continued smoothly. "I am merely offering a reminder."

?"A reminder of what?"

?"General Rudigor," Roland said. "One of your finest generals, lost alongside a massive naval armada during the invasion of Northreach. Not because our forces outmatched yours in raw strength—but because we were far better prepared."

?The temperature in the hall seemed to drop another degree. Even Volkov, who had remained a silent observer until now, straightened his posture ever so slightly.

?"You dare speak that name in my presence?" The Emperor’s voice dropped an octave, heavy with implicit threat.

?"I bring it up not to insult you," Roland answered calmly. "But because I do not wish to see history repeat itself—especially not for the Iron Empire."

?The Emperor stared at him for a long, drawn-out silence.

?Anastasia held her breath, her fingers stilling against the fur of her mantle.

?Then the Emperor moved—rising slowly from his throne. His imposing, towering frame cast a massive shadow, his mechanical respirator hissing faster and louder. He descended the stairs step by deliberate step. The Praetorian Guards on either side tensed instantly, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapon hilts.

?The Emperor halted just two paces in front of Roland. Discomfortingly close.

?His eyes bore directly into Roland’s. At this proximity, Roland could make out fine hairline cracks on the respirator’s glass lenses, and the pale, aged gray of the eyes behind them.

?"You are far more dangerous than I anticipated," the Emperor murmured.

?"I am merely a diplomat," Roland replied.

?The Emperor held his gaze for one second. Two seconds. Then he turned around, ascended the dais back to his throne, sat down, and tapped the armrest a single time.

?"Ten days," he declared. "After that, we speak again."

?Roland offered a formal bow. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

?The Emperor offered no verbal response, merely shifting his gaze to Volkov with a silent gesture.

?Volkov stepped forward, giving a brief nod to Roland, signaling for the party to follow.

?The group turned, following Volkov toward a side exit. Grigori cast a lingering glance back at the Emperor before moving, his expression unreadable.

?Anastasia remained rooted to her spot, her eyes fixed on Roland’s retreating back until the heavy door clicked shut behind him.

?The grand hall fell quiet as everyone departed.

?Emperor Regulus sat alone upon his throne, the faint, rhythmic hiss of his respirator the sole sound remaining in the vast, silent hall.

?He stared toward the door where Roland had disappeared—the very door that had just swallowed the boldest, or perhaps most reckless, individual who had ever stood before him.

?"Ten days," he muttered, his voice muffled by the metal mask.

?He pressed a small, hidden button embedded in the armrest. A concealed panel slid open, revealing a glowing interface displaying rows of classified reports archived over decades.

?Reports on the Dwarven realm. Reports on Northveil. Reports on Rudigor—the name Roland had uttered without a flicker of hesitation before his entire council of generals.

?And at the very bottom corner lay a single file he had never shown to another soul—one accessible strictly to him alone.

?The title read: PROJECT LEGION — THE UNFORGIVABLE TRUTH.

?Emperor Regulus snapped the panel shut.

?"Ten days," he repeated.

?Neither smiling nor angry.

?He simply sat there in silence, staring at the closed doors, like a man who had finally encountered a worthy adversary—for the first time in years.