The Emperor's End
Ian ascended to the throne at the age of a boy.
And before reaching adulthood, he was beheaded.
The life of Emperor Ian Verocion would be remembered by those two sentences.
A young emperor who came like the wind during an age of upheaval, and vanished just as swiftly—who would even remember him now?
A man entered the underground prison and grabbed Ian by the hair.
His body was a mess, drenched in blood, yet his eyes still burned with fierce light.
"Ian, my uncle."
The man's name was Kroni—Ian's nephew, though twenty years his senior thanks to a twisted family line.
Each time Kroni shook Ian's head by the hair, blood-mixed saliva dripped from Ian's mouth.
"How did it come to this? I told you, didn't I? You were unfit to be emperor. You should've refused the throne. Had you listened, none of this would have happened."
Ian glared silently at Kroni.
Perhaps disliking the look in his eyes, Kroni struck Ian hard across the face.
Smack!
"No matter how thoughtless a brat you are, you should at least know where to lie down before stretching your legs! Magic? What's so great about that damned magic?"
Ian sighed inwardly.
Magic—a sacred and noble power, said to be the trace left behind by the gods themselves.
And that was precisely the reason he had been able to ascend to the imperial throne.
"Uncle, look! That precious magic of yours can't even stop my kick!"
Thud! Thud!
It was true.
Bound by the mana-sealing shackles, Ian was nothing more than a powerless nineteen-year-old human.
Even if the shackles were removed, death was already waiting for him; the ending was decided.
"One in ten thousand, the first noble-born mage—what nonsense. All of it's meaningless before this blade."
Shrrk.
Kroni finally drew his sword.
Though Ian was a fallen emperor accused of treason, dying in such a dungeon was beyond absurd.
A laugh escaped his lips.
"…Ha."
"You're laughing?"
"…Yes. It's funny, Kroni. You haven't changed a bit. Still jealous that I was born a mage?"
Kroni's face stiffened.
The rarer something was, the more precious it became—so it was with mages.
Across the entire Bariel Empire, there were scarcely a hundred of them.
And Ian had been the first mage ever born to a noble house in the empire's history.
"I remember… back when I was still just a mana handler. You told me: 'Mages are rare, but most come from common birth. If they find out, you'll be cast out—so hide it.'"
"…Ian, must you bring up things from so long ago?"
"Isn't it funny? Of course most mages are commoners. There are far more of them than nobles."
"Shut up!"
"Why, does it shame you?"
"I said shut up!"
Thud!
Ian's vision went dark.
Kroni's punch had landed squarely on his eye.
Ian collapsed, and Kroni stomped on the back of his head.
"What does it matter? I'm standing, and you're on the floor. That's all that counts."
Kroni pointed his sword at Ian's neck.
Without hesitation, he was about to finish him—when a voice called from outside.
"Lord Kroni! A letter has arrived from Duke Hylon."
"…Is it urgent?"
"Yes, my lord. I'm sorry."
Kroni clicked his tongue and stepped off Ian's head.
Glancing once more at the motionless emperor, he left the cell.
How much time passed after that?
Clack… chrrk.
"My lord Ian…"
A familiar voice, trembling through the cold iron sound.
Ian slowly regained consciousness and opened his eyes.
He couldn't even turn his head; his gaze barely shifted.
Naum, the Minister of Magic, was there, crying as he struggled to unlock the shackles.
"My lord, please, please wake up."
"Naum… why are you here…?"
"This is no time to talk. We must get you out of here. You must live, my lord. Please—find your strength…"
But the mana-sealing shackles would not come off easily.
Moonlight streamed through a tiny window, glinting off Naum's hands—raw and bleeding from rusted metal.
"…Enough."
"My lord?"
"…I'm tired, Naum. I want to stop."
"Wh–what are you saying?"
Ian smiled faintly and closed his eyes again.
A vivid memory returned—the day he first entered the Ministry of Magic.
"I'm grateful. It's thanks to you all that a mere mana handler like me became a mage, and even an emperor. Though I was lacking, please… survive and protect the Bariel Empire."
"No. Without you, the Ministry of Magic has no meaning. Please, take my mana. If you die, everything ends!"
If you die, everything ends.
How he wished that were true.
He was exhausted—worn to the bone.
Three years of imperial life had destroyed everything within him.
"My lord, please listen carefully."
Naum refused to give up.
He gently lifted Ian's chin and made him look into his eyes.
"Next to the central main hall of the Second Palace, there's a detached annex under the Ministry's control. You remember it, don't you? The place you used to go when you wanted to cry."
"…I only cried once."
"Yes, once. Still counts."
Why had he cried then?
Ian furrowed his brow, trying to recall through the fog of his fading mind.
Then Naum's eyes darted toward the prison entrance—someone was coming.
Kroni, no doubt, returning.
"…Undo the barrier and hide yourself, Naum."
"I can't. You must go. If you reach that place, you'll find a way out."
"What do you mean?"
Naum said nothing.
Ian could tell that the darkness clouding his face wasn't from the dungeon's shadows, but from worry and resolve.
Ian clung to his sleeve, forcing his mind to stay awake.
"Naum, I asked you a question."
"I mixed my blood into the spell."
"…Naum!"
"It responded—it said it would open a path if you went there. I don't know why. Maybe it's my lack of skill… but please, you must hurry."
The power of magic itself defied the laws of nature.
A small imbalance could send one plunging into the abyss.
The Church called it Hell, and mages called it the Curse of Eternity.
"You twisted time and space?"
"I had no choice, my lord. So please—"
"Why… why would you—!"
Creak.
"I knew it. No matter how many of you from the Ministry I purge, it's useless if even the minister himself is like this."
It was Kroni.
Behind him stood another man—the one nominated to succeed Naum as the next Minister of Magic.
Naum clenched his teeth and began chanting.
Waves of mana flickered at his fingertips, the sigils unstable and dim.
The sealing stone around Ian's wrists was too strong, suppressing everything.
"Naum! Stop! Don't do it!"
"My lord Ian. It's all right. There's always a chance—always. God never gives us a problem without an answer."
Woooooom!
Naum's magic circle began to blaze crimson.
But strangely, the flames weren't directed toward Kroni—they were burning Naum's own hands.
"Uaaaagh!"
"…No! Naum, wait—stop!"
Ian, lying prone on the floor, lifted his head and shouted.
He had no attachment to his own life, but watching those precious to him die because of him—that, he could never bear.
It was only after becoming emperor that Ian finally understood:
The weight of the crown was not gold and jewels, but the faith and loyalty of those who followed him.
And the ones truly enduring that weight had never been Ian himself—it had been them.
Fwoooosh!
"Guh!"
Kroni shielded himself with his left arm as the surging flames roared toward him.
If not for the mage behind him who cast a protective barrier in time, his face would've been scorched.
'Ah… damn it.'
Meanwhile, Ian felt the heat swallow his senses once again.
Everything became light—pain and sound fading into distance.
And amidst that haze, he suddenly heard the sharp ring of steel near his ear.
Chaaang!
Kroni's sword touched Ian's neck.
So this was how the three-year reign of an emperor would end.
He'd believed he had done his best for Bariel, yet his loyal followers were devoured one by one, and now he would be beheaded like them.
"Ian. Don't be born again in the next life."
With Kroni's cruel words, everything vanished.
Death—so quiet, so absolute.
And then, in the next instant—
'A fork… and a knife?'
In his hands.
Held backwards.
Ian slowly lifted his head.
His body felt as heavy as lead, but compared to the pain of the past days, it was almost light enough to fly.
"Ian."
A strange woman was looking down at him from across the table.
A vast garden stretched around them, flowerbeds neatly tended, and before him—an opulent meal.
As his senses cleared, Ian realized everyone seated around the table was staring at him.
"Ah."
So this wasn't hell, apparently.
Heaven, then?
Yet the scenery didn't look that different from the world he knew.
In fact, compared to the imperial palace, it seemed rather shabby.
"What's gotten into you? Ian, don't be rude to our guest."
"Uneducated habits always show themselves sooner or later."
"Chel, mind your tongue."
"Ian. Pull yourself together."
The plump boy beside the woman spoke harshly, but Ian hardly paid attention.
His stomach twisted painfully at the rich scent of food.
He couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten in that dungeon.
'…Whatever this is, it's driving me mad.'
Instinct took over.
Ian elegantly adjusted the fork and knife in his hands, straightened his posture, and began to eat.
With refined grace—and astonishing speed—he sliced the steak and brought it to his lips.
"Mmm."
His movements, elegant and precise, were unthinkable for someone who moments ago had been clutching the fork like a club.
Even his quiet murmur of appreciation was poised and noble, utterly devoid of vulgarity.
Across from him, the frontier count, his stepmother the countess, and his half-brother all stared at him in stunned silence.