"Today's special delivery—Tier-3 Danger Beast, the Giant-Horned Stag, chef's recommendation! Also, one serving of red boar stew, and another of salt-and-pepper Thunderhammer Beast ribs!"
"Master, one matured kilometer-class sea king platter and a Neapolitan-style pizza, please."
On an ordinary commercial street within the old urban district beneath the Imperial Palace, the lively restaurant Sheele's Friends' House ☂ bustled with life. Inside, local civil servants and townsfolk returning from a long day's work gathered in small groups, chatting animatedly about their day's achievements, distant rumors, or neighborhood gossip.
Laughter and the crackling of grills filled the air, as the scent of roasted meat mingled with that of freshly baked bread. Now and then, a traveler would lift the door curtain and step inside.
"The colonial warzones under the 12th Legion's jurisdiction—sectors numbered 231809 through 231832—have been rather unsettled lately. Civilian organizations are advised to avoid travel there for now."
The speaker, a low-ranking customs assistant from the spaceport, spoke between sips of ale.
"Kenny, what have you heard?" asked a local patrol officer in uniform who had just come off duty.
"I was accompanying the spaceport's customs audit officer during a taxation inspection," Kenny said, lowering his voice. "Word is, the local feudal nobles in that savage backwater have been stirring up trouble again—trying to revive their old privileges under the guise of possessing 'a trace of magic and battle aura.' Those barbaric families, claiming thousand-year bloodlines, are conspiring to reclaim autonomy and hereditary power."
"Restoration and rebellion, huh? Then glory and promotion are just around the corner!"
A retired old veteran sitting in the corner burst out laughing. "Treason, rebellion, and crimes against the throne—all punishable by execution, each head worth a commendation!"
"Indeed! Indeed!"
Another old-timer—his face marked by scars from blades, bullets, and burns—slammed his prosthetic-heavy hand around an oversized beer mug. His gray uniform bore no rank, but its cut marked him as a retired member of the old Imperial Guard Garrison.
"Even a discounted bounty's worth, hunting those backwater savages beats dying in the meat grinder on the interstellar frontlines! If only back then..."
"Uncle Fern, are you going to tell us again about that time when, as a member of the Imperial Guard, you heroically defended the Duke's mansion from traitorous assassins in the famous 'Night Raid' incident?"
A young man in a district academy uniform chuckled. "I've learned a new war tune and a heavy sword dance at school—shall I perform them for you, Uncle? I guarantee it'll stir nostalgia even better than those old battle scars you like to show off!"
This was merely one of the many humble wards sprawling beneath the Imperial Palace—an area that, before the city's great expansion, would have been considered the lower district.
But with the Sacred Selene Empire's growth and prosperity—fed by the wealth of billions of colonies—the Imperial Capital had risen beyond measure. The concept of a "lower city" no longer truly existed.
Aside from a few residents who had earned their place through military merit during the Great Crusades, most here were old citizens—descendants of the original city dwellers, families tied by generations of camaraderie beneath the old Imperial eagle.
Uncle Fern barked a laugh, half amused, half furious. "Get lost, you brat!"
"When I was shouldering a rifle and earning the Empress' pay, your father was still wearing split-bottom trousers!" he roared, raising his massive mug as though to throw it.
"No, no, that's not allowed, Uncle Fern," came the soft but firm voice of a waitress balancing a tray. "No fighting inside the restaurant."
"Hah! I wasn't really going to hit him... but you, brat—watch yourself if this old man ever catches you outside."
The restaurant erupted in good-natured laughter.
"Still, it's a shame," someone sighed. "If my boy had gotten word sooner, he might've applied for a transfer. Now it's too late."
"Yeah... what a missed opportunity."
As the crowd lamented that such a fine mission would fall to some lucky garrison unit, the customs officer snickered.
"Heh... you're imagining things!"
"What do you mean? Isn't it a rebellion?"
"Those half-baked nobles? Hardly worthy of that term," the officer said, chuckling as he drained his oolong tea. "And this has nothing to do with local garrisons."
"Then who handles it?"
"The Imperial Taxation Bureau, of course."
"This year's deficit in that region's revenues needs a scapegoat. Severe penalties, heavy sentences—it's gone beyond tax evasion, now it's classified as tax resistance. So the Tax Bureau and the Ministry of Justice have already dispatched an enforcement fleet."
With a sharp tap on the table, the tax officer declared confidently, "That region's specialty resources—such as the edible high-value materials from magical beasts like Pigmen, Metallic Lizards, Deep Blue Ogres, Chimeras, and Roc Birds—along with herbal plants like Qiya Ghostgrass and Majiu Grass, prized for both medicinal and alchemical research, may see temporary disruption."
"Boss, better make sure your ingredient supply stays stable," he added, glancing toward the kitchen curtain.
"Hai—!"
Following several serving drones, a young woman entered—graceful, composed, her demeanor calm and refined. Her long violet hair flowed to her waist, her eyes gentle as blooming violets. She wore a pale lavender cheongsam-style dress beneath a matching apron, and a pair of delicate purple-rimmed glasses rested on her nose.
"Thank you very much. Here's today's complimentary dish—soufflé omelette. Please enjoy."
Under the warm light, the freshly baked soufflé omelette gleamed with a golden-brown sheen, its surface drizzled with a rosy sauce made from red vinegar and tomato puree. Just the sight of it was enough to awaken anyone's appetite.
"Mmm... soft and airy, like a cloud. Sheele's cooking has become even more exquisite. Hard to imagine she used to be such a clumsy little girl..."
One of the elderly regulars, who had watched the restaurant grow from its humble beginnings, chuckled and shook his head. "So, when's Tatsumi coming back from the frontier?"
"Ah..."
Blushing slightly, Sheele—now a grown woman, wife, and mother—still retained her natural shyness. Waving her hands in embarrassment, she said quickly, "Uncle Fern, Grandpa Green, you're teasing me again."
In the Honkai Dimension—especially within the blessed lands of the Imperial Capital—physical baselines were far higher than those of ordinary worlds. In truth, those who had lived here long-term had already begun to evolve toward longevity akin to the long-lived races.
Decades left barely a mark on Sheele's youthful face.
The older generation had aged naturally, their faces reflecting their hearts, but the generation that rose alongside General Selene—and their descendants born under the reign of the Divine Empress—showed no such decay. Their aging had slowed, their youth seemingly eternal.
Immortality was still far away, but longevity was commonplace. Where once a centenarian was considered a divine blessing, now such individuals were abundant. Men and women in their eighties and nineties appeared as hale as those in their thirties or forties—strong, hearty, and capable of returning to battlefields of ice and fire without complaint.
"Tatsumi's written back," Sheele said shyly, her voice tinged with pride and happiness. "He'll return before the New Year. His record as an auxiliary colonel is sufficient. This time, he'll be entering the Senior Command Academy for advanced studies, so he'll finally have more time to help with the family business."
"Ahaha! Congratulations!"
"The Senior Command Academy, no less! That's wonderful news! Looks like our district's going to produce another general!"
The nearby patrons raised their glasses in celebration, their voices filled with envy and cheer.
Citizens of the Imperial Capital began life with greater privilege than most subjects of the colonies or governed worlds, yet not all could become officers—let alone field-grade officers or generals.
Especially generals—the gap between a colonel and a brigadier was a chasm as vast as the stars.
"So that good-for-nothing Tatsumi's finally settling down, eh? Off to enjoy a honeymoon with the flower of our district?" one of the older men teased, waggling his brows.
"Th-that's not..." Sheele's cheeks turned bright red, and she looked away in embarrassment.
Yet her expression betrayed her anticipation.
As for how Sheele and Tatsumi first met...
That had been after Her Majesty Selene's ascension.
The war to annihilate the last remnants of the southern rebel armies had ended, peace had returned to the Imperial heartlands. Sheele, then a young girl, had accompanied her parents to deliver food and desserts to the victorious legions. On the way home that night, she found Tatsumi—clad in the armor of the Custodes—sitting motionless on a bench in the rain.
Out of pure kindness, she offered him a meal box and an umbrella. After a few words of conversation, they became acquainted.
Tatsumi had left his home village with two childhood friends to save their impoverished homeland. He joined Selene's Custodes, while his two friends—by cruel twist of fate—ended up joining the infamous insurgent group Night Raid. To save them, Tatsumi needed more merit—only military achievement could offset their death sentences.
He took part in the bloody suppression and extermination of the southern rebel remnants, earning enough merit to be promoted to Centurion within the Custodes. With that rank and recognition, he exchanged his friends' death penalties for life imprisonment.
But by the time he returned, both were already dead.
Suicide.
Having witnessed the darkness of the old Empire and endured torment at the hands of depraved nobles before being rescued by Night Raid, they had come to believe the insurgents were the righteous path. When they heard that their old friend from the same village had earned their pardon through the blood of their revolutionary comrades, they took their own lives in defiance.
Selene's rise had caused ripples through fate—the so-called "butterfly effect." In this altered worldline, Sheele had never lost her family or friends to gang violence; she was still just a small, kind-hearted cook. She could not truly understand Tatsumi's grief, but she comforted him nonetheless, encouraging him to move forward.
Days later, Tatsumi returned to return the umbrella and pay for the meal box.
That was the beginning of their story.
In time, with no one to rely on in the capital, Tatsumi settled in the lower city. Under the stern guidance of his superiors, he began to emerge from his despair—transferring from the Custodes to the Auxiliary Forces. From there, he devoted himself to discipline, study, and relentless physical and combat training.
He gradually realized that his village had never needed saving. Under Selene's rule, its integration into the Imperial administration had already guaranteed its prosperity.
Through time spent together, affection blossomed naturally between him and Sheele. Their similar temperaments drew them close, and with his honesty, stable position, and helpful nature, Tatsumi quickly earned the approval of Sheele's parents.
"If you're thinking about a honeymoon, I'd recommend Tourist World No. 11 of the XVIII Astartes Salamanders Legion," a local civil servant suggested cheerfully. "The cuisine and service there are top-class. And their culinary tournaments—Sheele, aren't you passionate about cooking? You'd love it."
"I'll give it serious thought," Sheele replied with a gentle smile, pouring everyone a round of chilled sour plum tea.
An elderly patron then asked, "By the way, isn't it around time for the academy's annual military drills to end? Where's your boy, Sheele?"
"Oh, him? The Southlake New Recruits Camp has an open day this week. He went there. Said he wanted to learn martial arts from the camp's Grand Instructor—Immortal Chiyuan herself."
Smiling brightly, Sheele turned to head back to the kitchen.
Just then—ding-ling-ling...
The door opened, a gentle breeze stirring the wind chimes hanging above, their melody chiming softly.
Suddenly, cheerful voices filled the air.
"Boss! One order of fried earth-dragon meat rolls!"
"Same here!"
"Auntie, auntie, I want a fried earth-dragon roll too!"
...
It was a group of children—cadets, no more than eleven or twelve—led by a scout captain, chattering excitedly as they entered. They seemed to be from the neighboring ward's youth corps.
"Fried earth-dragon rolls, huh? If everyone's ordering that, we might run out of ingredients today," Sheele said, crouching slightly to meet the gaze of the small boy leading the group. "Why is everyone ordering the same thing?"
"Because Her Majesty likes it too! They say fried earth-dragon meat is her favorite dish among all Danger Beasts! Auntie, is it true? Did the Empress really come here before?"
"Well..." Sheele's expression softened with nostalgia. She smiled faintly but didn't answer.
She wasn't naive. Sheele knew full well that her family's restaurant owed its first success—and its immunity from the usual gang harassment—to one fateful incident: a chance visit by the Empress herself.
"Now, now—line up properly. I'll go prepare them for you."
Just as Sheele turned to head into the kitchen, a tall shadow suddenly loomed over her.
"Would you... be so kind as to prepare one fried earth-dragon roll for me as well?"
"?!!"
Sheele looked up—her violet eyes widening in shock. "You're... so tall!"
Because the Imperial Capital had to accommodate Astartes and Custodes—beings who stood three to four meters tall in armor—as well as the countless species from the colonies, all buildings within the city, whether governmental or private, were designed with a first-floor ceiling height of no less than six meters.
Sheele's humble yet renowned restaurant, tucked away in a narrow alley of the gourmet district, was no exception. It had been renovated several times to meet such standards.
But the man before her—who was he?!
Even standing straight, his head nearly brushed the ceiling!
"Is there a problem?"
Disabling his psychic presence-suppression field, the Emperor's expression was calm—gentle, even compassionate. He crouched slightly, carefully patting the heads of the wide-eyed cadets who stared at him in awe, then turned to Sheele and asked softly, "Madam, may I dine here?"
"Oh, ah... of course, please come in."
Realizing what was happening, Sheele quickly nodded and stepped aside.
The Emperor entered quietly, his steps steady. He ignored the stares of the other patrons—whose eyes had gone wide at the sight of him and his Primarch sons—and walked straight to the massive dining table clearly built for customers of great stature.
"One serving of the same meal Her Majesty Selene once ordered," he said firmly.
"Please wait just a moment, I'll have it prepared immediately."
Recognizing the gravity of the moment, Sheele straightened her posture, her expression turning serious.
The Emperor's golden eyes followed her as she disappeared behind the curtain into the kitchen.
"Abundant resources, peaceful governance, secure borders, and just administration... a realm overflowing with prosperity and order," he murmured quietly. "A world where even an ordinary person can find a place to belong—that is the true Golden Age."
Even if this empire was, in its essence, diseased.
The splendor was but a facade. Beneath it lay the foundation of exploitation, war, and cruelty. Countless unregistered xenos, and even humans not recognized as Imperial citizens, knew only scorn, suffering, and merciless oppression...
Yet the Emperor had already seen what he came for.
He raised his gaze to the large holoscreen mounted on the restaurant wall. It displayed an official state broadcast from the Imperial Central Media Bureau.
"...By the sacred decree of Her Majesty Selene, the direct administration of the A–13 Grand Sector Governorship shall hereby be established."
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