Imperial blood

Wars throughout the history of the Ozwald Empire were never won by blood and steel, as foolish generals so fondly believed. They were won by ink and grain—by how long a piece of parchment could withstand the slow, relentless rust of time.

That cold, unyielding conviction was the only thing comforting Prince Luai as he sat at the far end of the massive mahogany table inside the Imperial Council Chamber. Around him, the deafening shouts of posturing nobles and battle-hungry legion commanders filled the smoke-choked hall, which was dimly lit by flickering candles rendered from the fat of northern whales. Sprawled before them stretched the Grand World Map, its geography drawn with breathtaking, almost agonizing precision—from the frozen, barren tundras of the north to the blazing, hostile Continent of Fire in the far south, all separated by mysterious oceans that hid countless secrets.

"With fifty thousand armored cavalrymen, we can utterly crush the capital of Lyridan within a single month!" Crown Prince Lucas roared, slamming his iron-clad fist onto the table with enough force to make the silver goblets tremble, spilling rich berry wine across the wood.

Lucas was everything the populace desired in a future ruler: a body built like a fortress wall, a jagged scar of honor slicing across his right cheek, and a booming voice capable of moving an entire legion with a single shout. "The honor of the Empire has been stained!" he declared, his chest heaving. "The patrols of the Republic of Lyridan dared cross our northern borders. History will never forgive us if we remain silent in the face of this blatant insult!"

Luai cleared his throat softly. He did not shift an inch in his plain wooden chair, which was almost entirely hidden behind staggering stacks of heavy leather ledgers. Compared to his towering brother, Luai looked remarkably frail—his face pale from years spent under the suffocating shadows of libraries and archives. Instead of gleaming, polished armor, he wore a simple cloak of dark, heavy wool, looking far more like a common accountant than a prince carrying the royal blood of Moran II.

"A magnificent proposal, Your Highness," Luai said quietly, his calm voice cutting through the uproar without even rising in volume. "But history is equally merciless toward those who cannot read or count."

Lucas snapped his head toward his younger brother, his eyes flashing with open disdain. A sudden, heavy silence spread across the chamber.

Luai pulled a small ledger bound with intricate silver threads and placed it deliberately at the center of the table. "According to Article Four of the Founding Decree of Ozwald, and the sacred law known as the Blood Budget, no war may be declared, nor may any legion larger than five thousand soldiers be mobilized, unless the Superintendent of the Imperial Treasury proves—with documents and cold numbers—that the central treasury can fully finance military operations, soldiers' wages, and grain supplies for a full year without imposing extraordinary taxes upon the common people."

A furious scowl twisted Lucas's features. "Damn the Blood Budget and the cowardly laws our ancestors created! We are talking about conquest! Conquest pays for itself with the spoils of war and seized lands!"

"Our ancestors were not cowards, Lucas," Luai replied coldly, his eyes remaining fixed on the ledger. "They simply understood mathematics. The law was enacted by the Founding Emperor after the Hundred Days War drained the nation completely dry, forcing the capital to feed upon the carcasses of its own horses." He paused, letting the grim imagery settle before continuing. "And now, as the official guardian of these accounts, I regret to inform this esteemed council that the Ozwald Empire does not possess enough Blood Budget to sustain three weeks of warfare, let alone an entire year."

"How is that even possible?!" an elderly general gasped, springing to his feet. "The northern mines are controlled by Her Majesty's family. Trade with the Sultanate of Amroz remains completely stable. The treasury should be overflowing with gold!"

At those words, Luai glanced toward his mother. Empress Mira sat upon an elevated seat embroidered with heavy velvet and silk, showing not a single flicker of surprise. Her expression resembled a flawless marble mask. The House of Valtor, Mira's family, controlled the largest Black Iron mines in the north—a rare, coveted metal used to forge enchanted swords and mana-resistant armor in cooperation with the dwarven smiths of the rugged Dwarven Continent.

The problem was not a shortage of resources, and Luai knew that better than anyone. For the past three months, he had buried himself in tax ledgers and conflicting financial reports, only to discover a terrifying truth: there was an invisible black hole swallowing Ozwald's wealth.

"The issue isn't how much gold enters the treasury," Luai explained, his fingers tracing the erratic figures on the parchment. "It's the value of what leaves it. Over the past two months, the price of Black Iron imported from the dwarven mines has increased by forty percent without a shred of economic justification. At the very same time, the Sultanate of Amroz has imposed crushing tariffs on our eastern ports. The result? Every weapon carried by Lucas's soldiers now costs twice as much to forge and enchant as it did last year. Someone is manipulating the markets from the shadows, purposefully making our Empire appear bankrupt on paper."

At those words, the Third Prince, Cassian, stirred from the dark corner where he had been quietly leaning. A mysterious, knowing smile rested on his lips. Whether he was mocking Lucas's blind foolishness or admiring Luai's precision remained entirely unclear. Cassian was not a man given to loud speeches, but he possessed a thousand hidden eyes and ears across the realm.

"Luai's findings are quite intriguing," Cassian said smoothly, his voice dripping with subtle malice as he glanced toward the Crown Prince. "If some hidden hand is actively preventing us from fulfilling the Blood Budget, then launching a land war becomes political and military suicide. Perhaps our Crown Prince wishes to lead our men into a mass grave... just so history may remember him as a brave hero. A very brave, very dead hero."

"Shut up, Cassian!" Lucas roared, his veins bulging against his neck. "You and Luai are two sides of the same counterfeit coin! One hides behind numbers, and the other behind shadows!"

Before the shouting could escalate, the side doors of the chamber swung open. Princess Jessica entered, accompanied by her younger sister, Marina. Jessica wore a grand gown embroidered with sacred religious insignias, gently waving a silk fan decorated with the austere symbols of the Church of Sanctus—the neighboring, ultra-powerful theocracy.

"If my beloved brothers cannot solve the Blood Budget crisis," Jessica said gracefully, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she approached the table, "then salvation, as always, lies beneath the Banner of Light." Her sharp, calculating gaze landed squarely on Luai. "The High Cardinals of the Sanctus Theocracy are prepared to grant the Imperial Treasury an inexhaustible loan. A loan capable of funding Lucas's glorious war for two full years, not merely one. All they ask in return is a minor tax exemption for their missionaries and merchants within our cities... and permission to administer the schools and temples in our northern provinces."

A deep chill ran down Luai's spine. *The Golden Loan of Sanctus.* Behind those sweet, charitable words, he could clearly see the invisible, suffocating ropes Jessica wished to wrap around the Empire's neck. Exempting Sanctus merchants would utterly destroy local commerce, and allowing them to run the schools would breed a new generation loyal not to the Throne of Ozwald, but to the Pope of Sanctus. Jessica was not seeking wealth; she sought to reshape the Empire's very identity, even if it meant turning Ozwald into a humiliated religious vassal.

Beside her, Princess Marina stood completely silent. Her delicate fingers moved slowly across the vast oceans drawn on the map, passing far beyond Ozwald's borders until they rested heavily upon the Continent of Fire—that mysterious, volcanic wasteland that every sane sailor avoided. Marina seemed entirely lost in another world, yet Luai noticed the way her knuckles whitened the moment Sanctus was mentioned, as if an ancient, venomous grudge slept deep within her heart.

Amid the silent conflicts and the exchange of glances sharper than any dagger, the man seated at the absolute head of the table finally moved.

Emperor Moran II sat upon his great wooden throne, leaning back into the cushions. His face carried the deep, weathered wrinkles of decades spent ruling, fighting bloody wars, and surviving countless conspiracies. He looked fragile, his eyes sunken and half-closed, as though sleep threatened to overtake him during a discussion that no longer held his interest. For years, the nobles had whispered that the old fox had lost his claws, and that the Empire was marching toward ruin while he merely watched blankly.

But Luai—who observed his father with the cold precision of an accountant—noticed something entirely different. The Emperor's right hand resting on the armrest was not trembling. His fingers were tapping rhythmically, calmly, and deliberately against the wood. Those sunken eyes did not belong to a tired old man; they belonged to a patient hunter hidden in his blind, watching his young wolves tear each other apart just to see which one possessed the strongest, deadliest jaws.

Emperor Moran II slowly raised a single hand. With that frail, effortless gesture, an absolute, terrifying silence descended upon the chamber. It was a quiet far more menacing than Lucas's rage; even the breathing of the guards seemed to stop.

"A military proposal from my Crown Prince Lucas... a legal and financial warning from Luai... and a religious salvation from Jessica," the Emperor noted, his voice calm, hoarse, yet carrying an unshakable, heavy authority. "The Ozwald Empire has never survived for centuries by relying on a single arm or a single mind. Diversity of thought is what protects the Throne." His cold, piercing gaze swept across his children and his wife. "The Blood Budget is sacred. I will not break it for fleeting enthusiasm. But neither will I allow Lyridan's insult to go unanswered."

Jessica's fan snapped shut. Lucas straightened eagerly, his chest swelling.

"You have one week," the Emperor continued, his dry lips curving into a faint, unreadable smile. "One week for each of you to submit your plans in ink that cannot be erased. Lucas will present a strategy to wage war while strictly respecting the Blood Budget—if such a path even exists. Luai will present an economic solution that preserves our sovereignty and keeps us from kneeling before any foreign power. And Jessica... you will submit the full, unedited terms of Sanctus's loan, so we may judge whether it is truly compatible with our independence."

Slowly, leaning heavily upon his cane crowned with a silver griffin, Emperor Moran II rose to his feet and left the chamber without looking back. Behind him, he left a room filled with monsters simply waiting to devour one another.

The very moment the heavy oak doors slammed shut, the atmosphere shifted drastically. The royal masks vanished, and eyes collided in a silent warfare fiercer than any physical battlefield.

Lucas leaned aggressively over the table, planting both hands right in front of Luai. "Enjoy your numbers and your little books this week, Luai. Because when I prove to Father that my army is the only real solution, I'll make sure your tiny office is the first thing burned to warm my soldiers."

Luai did not move away, nor did he even blink. He remained perfectly still, watching his brother storm out of the hall with his entourage of generals. As the room emptied, Cassian passed seamlessly beside his chair, leaning close to whisper like a serpent in his ear. "You're remarkably clever, my brother... but intelligence without raw power eventually turns its owner into a martyr. Try not to die too soon. We still have much to play for."

Soon, the grand hall was entirely empty. Only Luai remained, surrounded by his loyal scribes and anxious assistants who waited nervously by the doors. He gathered his scattered papers calmly, his hand tightening around the silver-threaded financial ledger.

He knew his father had not postponed the decision out of weakness or indecision. No, Emperor Moran II had officially opened the gates of hell, and this was no longer a mere dispute over the treasury. It was the beginning of a terrifying struggle for survival in a world where swords, conspiracies, and poisoned gold ruled—and where intellect was the only weapon left to oppose them.