Three months.
That was how long Leornars spent preparing in the shadowy confines of his estate.
Not acting.
*Preparing.*
His raven-black hair hung slightly past his collar, framing a youthful face in its twenties that was entirely devoid of warmth. Beneath sharp, dark brows, his striking crimson eyes reflected the flickering torchlight of the war room. In those ninety days, he had learned a fundamental truth about the nature of humanity.
Revenge was easy. Anyone could pick up a blade and butcher the person they hated. Anyone could scream into the dark, burn a house to cinders, or declare a mindless war out of spite.
But systematically reshaping the world?
That required a far rarer, far more dangerous trait.
*Patience.*
Leornars stood before a massive tactical map pinned to the heavy oak wall. Hundreds of colored pins littered the parchment: red for powerful nobles, black for military commanders, white for wealthy merchant guilds, and blue for high religious institutions. Each represented a vital gear in the machine of the old world.
And every single gear possessed a flaw.
His slender fingers hovered over the map, picking up a small black pin.
"Power," he whispered, his smooth voice echoing softly in the empty room. He sank the pin into a capital city.
"Wealth." He moved another into a major trade port.
"Information." Another pin pierced a religious sanctuary.
"Fear."
A faint, chilling smile touched his lips, highlighting his sharp jawline.
"And desperation."
He took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest as his crimson eyes swept across the board. The grand design was finally taking shape. The old world wasn't held together by morality, justice, or virtue. It was held together by a collective delusion—by commoners naively believing that someone above them was in control.
Leornars had no intention of shattering that delusion.
He was simply going to replace the person wielding it.
His first true target was not a king, nor a grand general.
It was money.
Money moved legions. Money fed starving capitals. Money bought absolute, unquestioning loyalty. Money raised impassable walls. And money, if manipulated with mathematical precision, could destroy all of them without drawing a single drop of blood.
Leornars spent months quietly accumulating vast wealth through trade routes, high-yield investments, shadowy political favors, and meticulously arranged proxy transactions.
Yet he did not hoard it like a greedy dragon in a cave. That would have been useless.
Instead, he poured it directly into the dirt.
State-of-the-art infirmaries suddenly appeared in the dark, forgotten slums. Starving orphanages received endless crates of food and clean clothing. Struggling farmers were granted high-grade grain without debt. Deep freshwater wells were dug in arid provinces, ruined trade roads were paved, and sturdy wooden homes replaced squalid mud huts.
The common people took notice.
At first, deep suspicion clouded their minds. Why wouldn't it? Unconditional kindness without a visible price tag was the rarest commodity in the realm.
But then the malnourished children began to smile with full bellies. The dying were given real medicine by paid physicians. The homeless slept beneath warm roofs, shielded from the biting winter winds.
And slowly, like a tide turning beneath the moon, the people began to whisper his name.
*"Leornars."*
*"The raven-haired benefactor."*
*"He saved my family when the local lord left us to starve."*
*"He paid for my daughter's medicine."*
*"He built the infirmary in our village."*
Those quiet whispers blossomed into fervent admiration. Admiration hardened into unwavering loyalty. And loyalty, as Leornars had calculated, converted directly into absolute political influence.
One evening, Leornars stood on a high marble balcony overlooking the central square of a major province. Thousands of citizens had gathered below, their faces illuminated by torchlight as they cheered his name until their throats were hoarse.
Leornars stared down at them, his brilliant crimson eyes reflecting the roaring flames. He did not smile. His young, handsome face remained a mask of detached, analytical coldness.
Beside him, an older advisor leaned in, marveling at the sight. "Look at them, my lord... They love you for your kindness."
"People don't follow kindness," Leornars murmured softly, his black hair stirring in the evening breeze.
The advisor blinked, confused. "My lord?"
"They follow results."
The second piece of the puzzle was the nobility.
Leornars understood that assassinating high lords in cold blood would only create martyrs and ignite regional rebellions. So, he chose a far more insidious method.
He made them irrelevant.
Using his vast resources, he funded sweeping trade routes that completely bypassed noble-controlled toll roads. He drafted direct economic agreements that bypassed local feudal taxes, undercutting their influence. He bought up vast swaths of fertile land, established thriving guild networks, and empowered independent merchant cartels, offering the working population an alternative to traditional serfdom.
Deprived of their economic stranglehold, the aristocracy felt their power slipping like sand through their fingers. And they hated him for it.
One night, inside a lavishly decorated estate, a prominent nobleman confronted Leornars during a high-society banquet. Cornering the young strategist in a quiet alcove, the noble glared at him with venomous rage.
"You are destroying centuries of divine tradition!" the noble spat, his fist tightening around his jeweled goblet.
Leornars looked at the man with utter calm. The contrast between his youthful, strike-ready posture and the bloated, aging aristocrat was stark.
He took a slow, measured sip from his porcelain tea cup. "No."
Setting the cup down with a soft, quiet clink, Leornars raised his head. His dark hair shadowed his brow, but his piercing crimson eyes locked onto the noble's gaze with horrifying intensity.
"I am merely demonstrating that your traditions were never necessary to begin with."
The noble's face flushed a deep, furious purple. "You arrogant insolent brat! You truly believe a boy in his twenties can replace centuries of bloodline authority?"
Leornars didn't blink. His expression remained smooth, cold, and entirely void of doubt.
"No," Leornars replied, his voice dropping to a icy whisper that made the nobleman's breath hitch. "I think you replaced yourselves the moment you forgot how to govern."
Silence fell over the alcove. The noble opened his mouth to shout, but the sheer, unnatural weight of the young man's crimson gaze froze the words in his throat. Unable to bear the pressure, the aristocrat turned on his heel and hurried away.
Leornars watched him vanish into the crowd of decadent elites.
*Another piece off the board.*
Then came the centerpiece of the entire region: the Empress of Durmount.
Durmount was an absolute power—a kingdom backed by a terrifying military legion, a booming treasury, and an impenetrable capital. Taking it by force would mean a bloody, drawn-out siege that would burn down everything Leornars intended to rule.
So he approached the throne through a far more surgical vector.
He made himself indispensable.
Whenever the imperial court faced an economic crisis, Leornars arrived with a fully drafted financial restructuring plan. When border disputes flared up, he supplied the crown with pristine military intelligence. When diplomatic relations frayed, he stepped in to negotiate ironclad treaties.
Every problem the Empress encountered, Leornars was already standing in the shadow of her throne with a perfect solution.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the Empress began to rely on him entirely.
That was the masterstroke. A tyrant who forces someone into submission inspires hatred and rebellion. But a counselor who makes himself so vital that the sovereign believes she cannot exist without him... holds total power over the crown.
Over time, their formal political audience shifted into quiet, private dinners. Private conversations evolved into profound trust.
Trust, cultivated with calculated smiles and gentle words, eventually blossomed into affection.
And affection, precisely as Leornars had written on his parchment months ago, concluded in a royal marriage.
The entire empire celebrated the union. Banners snapped in the wind as crowds sang praises for the brilliant, young, black-haired strategist who had captured the heart of their sovereign. The high court believed that Leornars had finally found a peaceful place beside the throne.
During the lavish grand ceremony, Leornars stood beside the Empress in full imperial regalia. She turned to him, her eyes sparkling with genuine joy, and smiled softly.
Leornars smiled back—a warm, breathtakingly handsome expression that put every noble in the room at ease.
Yet behind those striking crimson eyes, there was nothing. No warmth. No joy. Only the cold, mechanical ticking of a grand clock counting down to the final act. To him, the marriage was simply another move on a board.
Late that evening, inside the grand bedchamber of the palace, the Empress rested her head against his chest.
"Are you happy, Leornars?" she asked softly, tracing a pattern over his tunic.
Leornars looked down at her.
For a single, fleeting microsecond, a phantom pain shot through his heart. His young mind flickered back to a different life—a life where he was just a husband, where he didn't carry the weight of a ruined world on his shoulders. Perhaps, in another reality, he could have loved her. Perhaps a peaceful life was possible.
*Perhaps—*
The memory of his nine-year-old daughter lying cold in the mud, surrounded by jagged, blood-stained stones, violently shattered the thought. The crowd's laughter echoed in his mind.
The phantom pain died, instantly replaced by ice.
"Yes," Leornars said smoothly, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead.
It was the easiest, most effortless lie he had ever told.
The end of the Empress was almost disappointingly simple.
There were no clashing swords, no desperate imperial guards, no dramatic standoffs in the throne room. Just a tasteless, colorless poison slipped into her evening goblet.
When the toxin took hold, the Empress collapsed onto the plush carpets.
Panicked shouts erupted through the halls. Imperial physicians rushed into the chamber with useless satchels of herbs, while heavy-armored guards sealed the palace perimeter. Chaos swept through the capital like a wildfire.
Leornars stood right beside her bed, holding her cold hand as her breathing slowed to nothing.
His performance was absolute perfection. To the weeping doctors and trembling nobles, he was the picture of a broken, grieving husband—a devastated man mourning his beloved wife, a loyal consort overwhelmed by tragedy.
The entire kingdom plunged into deep mourning.
Then, as the tears dried, the inevitable question echoed through the halls of power: *Who will lead us? Who has the mind to hold Durmount together?*
The answer had been engineered months before the poison was even brewed.
Leornars. The young, brilliant consort. The newly crowned Emperor.
The day of the coronation was cold and clear.
Leornars stood atop the high marble dais before the Grand Throne of Durmount. Thousands of eyes were locked onto him—haughty nobles, battle-hardened generals, wealthy merchants, high priests, and commoners packed into the courtyard outside. All of them waited with bated breath to see what kind of ruler this young, red-eyed man would become.
Leornars slowly lowered his slender hand, resting his fingers against the cold, carved stone of the imperial throne.
In his mind's eye, he saw the lonely room from three months ago. He saw the flickering candle, the blood-stained floorboards, the detailed maps, the wooden die, and the face of his daughter.
He turned and sat down.
As one, the massive crowd beneath the dais bowed their heads, the heavy sound of armor and silk rustling through the cathedral-like hall.
Leornars looked out over the sea of bowed heads, his voice carrying clearly across the silent expanse.
"You will have peace," he declared calmly.
The power-hungry nobles listened, lowering their gazes.
"You will have food."
The wealthy merchants nodded in silent relief.
"You will have protection."
The stern generals stood taller, their hands resting on their pommels.
"And you will have justice."
A deafening cheer erupted from the commoners outside the palace gates, shaking the very glass in the stained windows.
Leornars sat entirely motionless, his young, handsome face unreadable.
Because he knew a truth that none of them could fathom. The first roll of the die had already landed... and not a single soul in the empire had noticed it leave his hand.
Later that midnight, in a secluded chamber deep within the noble quarter, four high-ranking lords gathered in the dim light of an oil lamp.
"We cannot allow a common-born strategist to sit upon the High Throne," one old lord hissed, pounding his fist on a mahogany table. "He is far too dangerous!"
"He's restructuring the tax laws as we speak," another agreed, sweat glistening on his forehead. "If we do not strike now, before he consolidates the military, we will be stripped of everything. We must remove him."
Suddenly, the heavy iron doors creaked open. A young palace servant stepped into the room.
The nobles snapped their heads around, pulling daggers from their cloaks. "Insolent fool! Who told you to enter?"
"Your lordships," the servant said smoothly, bowing low. "The Emperor has requested your presence."
The nobles exchanged tense, panicked glances. The oldest lord narrowed his eyes, a cruel sneer touching his lips. "Ha. The boy is terrified. He knows we hold the regional guards. He likely wishes to negotiate terms."
The servant raised his head, his eyes calm. "Yes. Precisely."
The heavy double doors swept fully open.
Standing in the hallway outside was Leornars. He wore a dark, tailor-made imperial coat that contrasted sharply with his pale skin. His raven-black hair fell over his brow, but his crimson eyes glowed with a terrifying, predator-like brilliance in the dark.
Flanking him were twenty royal executioners, their halberds gleaming under the moonlight.
The four nobles froze, the color draining from their faces until they looked like corpses.
Leornars took a slow step into the room, a faint, polite smile gracing his young face.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, his smooth voice dripping with quiet malice. "I believe we have much to discuss regarding the future of the empire."
The doors slammed shut behind him.
By the time the sun crested the horizon, there were significantly fewer voices left in the capital to oppose the throne.
Leornars stood alone on the highest balcony of the imperial palace, the cold morning wind whipping at his black coat.
Far below him, the massive capital city began to wake. The common people went about their morning routines, genuinely believing that their new, brilliant Emperor would protect them from the harsh horrors of the world.
And the truest, most tragic paradox of it all?
He actually intended to.
He genuinely meant to eradicate slavery. He meant to wipe out systemic corruption, end senseless border wars, and break the cycle of tyranny that treated human lives like cheap copper coins.
But somewhere along the bloody path he had chosen, Leornars had stopped asking whether he had the moral right to play god with humanity's destiny.
He had already decided that he was the only one capable of doing so.
His crimson eyes traced the far horizon where the sun was rising.
"The old world will fall," he whispered into the empty air, his voice carried away by the wind. "And when it crumbles to dust..."
He closed his eyes, the image of his daughter briefly passing through his mind one last time before fading into the dark.
"...I will build something better from the ashes."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, carved wooden box. Sliding the lid open, he withdrew the single wooden die he had kept since that fateful night.
He rolled it across his palm, feeling the smooth edges, before closing his hand around it tight.
"One roll at a time."
A faint, chilling smile appeared on his face.
The throne of Durmount was finally his. Now... the rest of the world would have to fall in line.