"Akemonde? So he finally makes his move."
The ancient archmage's voice echoed in his mind, yet Aaron's face remained a placid mask. He did not react outwardly, but instead drew his focus inward, his mind a fortress of cold obsidian.
"...Young Regent?"
The voice dripped with condescending familiarity. Aaron still gave no reply. He had already confirmed Reynolds's betrayal; Akemonde's arrival was merely a vulture circling a battle it thought was already over.
"I have learned from the mistakes of a thousand lives. I will not make another."
"A powerful Archmage like Reynolds… if this 'Imperial Rule Magic' was so potent, a path to ascension, why would he ever give it to another?"
"He played me for a fool."
"But why go to such lengths? The Magus Council has strict prohibitions against this kind of soul-theft. A direct attack would be cleaner, less risky."
Then, the answer clicked into place with chilling clarity.
"How could I have ever believed in an Archmage's 'generosity'!"
"The rules only matter if you're caught. If I simply... faded away, refined into a font of pure energy, who would know? It wouldn't be murder. It would be a 'tragic magical accident.'"
As the pieces fell together, Aaron's expression remained utterly impassive. He thought back on how perfectly Reynolds had played the part of the concerned mentor and loyal ally.
He had offered the Golem legions, the fealty of the court mages, the secret histories of the Empire—a king's ransom in power and influence, all laid at Aaron's feet.
It was all a facade.
Every gift, every word of advice, was designed to lead him to this single moment. To make him accept the 'Imperial Rule Magic' without question, to make him trust in the archmage's benevolence.
"He didn't just want my power, my soul."
"By absorbing me, he would inherit the entire Terran Empire. The throne, the armies, the treasury… everything I have fought and killed for would become his spoils. That's why he was so eager to help."
The absolute bastard.
Just then, the voice of Akemonde resonated once more within his mind, stronger this time.
In the next second, a crushing psychic weight pressed down upon him. It was not a physical assault, but a profound mental intrusion, bypassing all his wards as if they were cobwebs.
In his mind's eye, a figure began to coalesce from shadow and starlight—ancient, hooded, and radiating an aura of immense, timeless power.
As the image of Akemonde sharpened, the disembodied voice was filled with a smug, revolting satisfaction. "You truly are a remarkable specimen, Regent. Such a vibrant soul."
Silence.
Before Akemonde could press his advantage, Aaron acted. Not with an explosive burst of magic, but with a silent, focused exertion of his will.
He slammed a mental door shut, a barrier forged not of spells, but of the cold, hard certainty gained from a hundred lifetimes of betrayal and death.
The mental link flickered, but did not break. Akemonde's power was far too great.
"...A futile struggle."
Akemonde's voice was laced with dark amusement. The ancient mage did not try to control Aaron's body, but instead flooded his mind with a horrifying understanding of the trap he was in. "This is what Reynolds's magic does. It hollows you out, slowly, until nothing is left but a vessel."
"A fine piece of spellcraft, this 'Imperial Rule Magic'," Akemonde continued, his tone like a connoisseur admiring a painting. "It turns the user's very soul into a perfect, self-refining power source. Reynolds dreams of using you to shatter his own limits and ascend."
"To fuel the rise of an Archmage… you should feel honored, little Regent. Your existence will have served a purpose."
As Akemonde spoke, Aaron could feel the subtle pull of the siphoning matrix, a parasitic drain that sought to erode his very consciousness. The archmage was not just talking; he was demonstrating the trap, trying to instill terror, to make Aaron feel helpless.
In that moment, Aaron achieved a perfect, chilling clarity.
"This is merely the first part of the game."
"Reynolds laid the initial trap. You, Akemonde, are now offering me a way out… for a price. You present yourself as the key to the second half of the spell."
This wasn't about a single spell. It was about layers of control.
Both of them, Reynolds and Akemonde, wanted to be the hidden master, the patient spider in the center of the web, while Aaron served as the tool that would unknowingly deliver them ultimate power.
It was called 'Imperial Rule,' but it was nothing more than a spell of absolute enslavement.
"You are both very clever," he thought, the idea forming not in words, but as a core certainty. "But this life, this empire… they are mine."
With that thought, Aaron's mind became a blade. He did not just resist; he pushed back with the full, focused weight of his will, a will that had been tempered in the fires of 99 deaths. He wasn't just calm; he was a predator who had just seen two rival carnivores walk into his hunting ground.
"You think you can trap me? I have lived through a thousand failures. I have learned from them all."
"I will remember both of you."
In the next instant, the psychic presence of Akemonde was violently ejected from his mind, the connection severed completely.
The grand throne room was silent once more. Aaron was alone, the weight of the crown on his head, the fate of an empire in his hands.
He leaned back, the plan already forming, elegant and brutal. He would not die this time. He would not be a victim. He would become the trap itself. His true strength wasn't just the Phoenix Heart; it was the library of failures it contained.
He still had 99 chances to start over.
He would draw upon a different kind of legacy this time. Not a treasure, not a skill, but the accumulated wisdom of every betrayal he had ever suffered. This would be the foundation of his counter-attack.
Aaron rose from the Eternal Throne.
His face was a perfect mask of regal composure, his eyes sweeping across the cavernous hall. He wasn't looking at a system panel, but at the stage he now commanded, his mind already choreographing the roles his enemies would play.
He weighed his assets. The Empire was his weapon. The divine power of the Throne, his shield. His knowledge, his dagger.
Direct confrontation was the path of a fool. He needed to be cleverer.
He would not simply endure the 'Imperial Rule Magic'; he would master it, twist it.
As he considered the cursed tome, he knew it was a dangerous weapon. Wielding it was like holding a venomous snake. He needed an antidote.
Then, he felt it. A deep, resonant power humming within the very structure of the throne beneath him. The divine energy he had cultivated, refined from the faith of millions in a past life, a power source utterly alien to the arcane laws of this world.
"This energy… it can purify."
The realization was a silent thunderclap in his mind. Reynolds's trap was designed to siphon arcane energy. It would have no defense against a power born of faith.
"Perfect." A flicker of predatory glee crossed his mind before being suppressed. He reviewed the steps of his plan, his decision hardening into absolute resolve.
Now, the performance would begin.
No one would see the change. The true battle would be fought within his own soul, its only evidence a stream of corrupted power flowing from his enemies.
He would harness the pure, divine energy of his Throne.
That power, a relic of a past conquest where he had refined an entire divine kingdom into his personal domain, was a treasure Reynolds could never conceive of.
"Incredible," he thought, his lips curling into the barest hint of a smile as he lowered his gaze.
He knew he could control this divine energy as easily as his own limbs. It was his creation. He would use it to subvert Reynolds's spell, to cleanse the tainted magic he absorbed.
"Reynolds would never expect this."
"To counter his spell, one would need a power source beyond his comprehension. My Throne is exactly that. Its magic is not of this world."
The purified, volatile energy would be a perfect tool. A ticking time bomb sent down the very conduit Reynolds had built.
He recalled Reynolds's ambition: to use Aaron's power to achieve a breakthrough. "This purified energy… it will be quite a 'boost' for him. A fatal one."
With his plan finalized, Aaron began to act.
He would resume the rituals of the 'Imperial Rule Magic', making a grand spectacle of his progress.
He would even continue his calculated interactions with Empress Isabella, using her state secrets to create the illusion of a Regent consolidating power through conventional means.
He would make a show of absorbing vast amounts of ambient magic, a beacon of power for his enemies to see. But secretly, every drop of that energy would be laundered through the divine fire of his Throne, stripped of its taint, and infused with a volatile, destructive purity.
"This is the true path of stealth. Not hiding in the shadows, but performing on a grand stage under the brightest lights."
As expected, Reynolds and Akemonde would see his power swelling. They would grow more confident, more certain of their respective traps, never suspecting the nature of the power they were so eager to claim.
Aaron waited patiently for the trap to spring.
Weeks later, he could feel the siphoning effect of the conduit to Reynolds's phylactery growing stronger, greedier. He knew his enemy was watching from afar, pleased with the progress of his 'investment.'
At the same time, he sent a carefully worded message to Akemonde, a masterwork of feigned desperation and reluctant interest in the archmage's 'help.'
Aaron continued to play his part, a man drunk on newfound power.
"Let them both believe they are the puppet master," he mused, a cold fire in his eyes. "Let them fight over the strings."
"Patience is a weapon they have forgotten how to wield."
He let a month pass, his apparent power growing with each passing day. The court whispered of his terrifying talent, his unprecedented rise.
He continued the rituals from the cursed tome, a public display of his 'submission' to its power, all for the benefit of his audience of two.
The mental messages from Akemonde became more frequent, his tone shifting from condescending to urgent. "The time to choose is near, Regent. Your soul cannot withstand the strain for much longer."
Reynolds, of course, remained silent. But the constant, greedy pull on Aaron's magical core was a demand more eloquent than any words.
Aaron dismissed them both with an internal sneer.
Being the center of their undivided attention was precisely where he needed to be.
He sat upon the Eternal Throne, looking out over the sleeping capital of his new empire.
"Reynolds… Akemonde… hmph."
He could almost picture them in their secret sanctums, smug and self-satisfied, convinced their ancient cunning had ensnared another ambitious fool.
A thin, cold smile finally touched Aaron's lips, a promise of the ruin to come, before his expression settled back into the mask of regal arrogance.
He knew his revenge was not a matter of if, but when. He was not weak; he was actively forging the very weapon of their destruction with their own unwitting help.
Revenge is a dish best served cold. And with 99 lives in reserve, he had all the time in the world.
This was a game of patience. And he was the undisputed master.