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Chapter 422: Navin's Persuasion
Hearing this, Otis let out a cold, mocking laugh, his flawless hand slamming down hard onto the armrest of the Golden Throne.
Boom!
“Is Anzeta’s so-called ‘Emperor’ joking?”
“How dare he supply weapons to the Thrace Kingdom! Doesn’t he know that Thrace is, by geography, an inevitable enemy?”
“And more importantly—how dare he refuse my friendship? What a priceless opportunity! I, a noble descendant of the divine, have already granted him the utmost honor—and yet he dared to reject me!”
His voice grew increasingly furious, the imposing, oppressive aura of his presence echoing through the vast, empty hall.
“Foolish Red Dragon!”
With every word, fire blazed fiercely within his golden eyes. Dark clouds gathered in the sky above, thunder rumbled in the distance—like the heavens themselves were preparing to unleash a torrential downpour.
This was the manifestation of Supreme Heaven Strength. As a child of Arrogance, the emotions of such divine beings could alter the very environment around them—shaping weather, summoning unnatural phenomena, and bringing suffering upon mortal beings in their vicinity.
Feeling the king’s wrath, the ministers of Cassander grew anxious, urgently pleading.
“Your Majesty, calm yourself!”
“He’s but a dragon from a remote, forgotten region—hardly worth your ire.”
“Indeed, you, the future Emperor of Fadalan, shall one day lead all of Feiansuo. There is no need to dwell on such trivial matters.”
Otis was arrogance incarnate—unyielding, supreme. This was common knowledge across the entire Cassander Kingdom, and indeed, throughout the entire Feiansuo Continent.
As a divine offspring and the eldest son of Aragon I, Otis had been adored and worshipped since birth. He saw himself as the natural leader of the Fadalan Empire, and held all mortal beings in utter contempt.
For his entire life, no one had ever dared to refuse him.
And now, this so-called “Red Emperor” had not only rejected him—but had done so with cold indifference, leaving an indelible mark on Otis’s pride.
For days, his rage had had no outlet, and a perpetual gloom had hung over the Holy City.
Among the three kings, Otis was widely acknowledged as the most powerful. Yet he lacked Wilhelm’s sharp intellect, or Iloti’s rational clarity.
Navin Bessalious watched with growing dread. He knew—to let diplomacy be driven purely by emotion would inevitably lead to failure. And now, the Cassander Kingdom was veering dangerously toward that path.
Driven by the legend that “whoever claims the Holy City shall inherit the throne,” Otis had poured every ounce of strength into seizing it—willingly plunging the kingdom into war with both Thrace and Seleucus.
And now, the once-dominant Cassander Kingdom was being drained of its power. Its advantage over the other two nations was fading, bit by bit.
In Navin’s mind, a bold, almost heretical idea took root.
The Holy City was no longer a legacy.
It was a wound.
A wound that kept bleeding, endlessly.
And Otis, above all, cared not for Cassander’s well-being—only for his own pride.
It was absurd.
Perhaps… I should guide the king onto the right path through another means.
“Your Majesty,” Navin stepped forward, bowing deeply.
“As the eldest son of the great ‘Sun Emperor,’ you are universally recognized as the most exalted being upon this land. There is no doubt about it.”
“But that so-called ‘Emperor of the Ashen Flame’ is merely a crude, brutish Red Dragon—mindless and unrefined. He does not understand your status. He does not grasp how precious your friendship truly is.”
Otis’s glare softened slightly. The fire in his eyes dimmed. The oppressive clouds above began to part.
Navin continued, voice respectful, almost reverent:
“The Red Dragon lacks your vision. In his greedy, short-sighted eyes, there is only one thing—gold coins.”
“And Wilhelm must have paid him heavily with gold coins to win the dragon’s loyalty.”
Otis scowled. “Did I not bring him treasures?”
Navin replied swiftly: “You know well—Wilhelm is known as the ‘Cunning One,’ a master of sowing discord in secret.”
“He must have bribed the dragon with even more gold, shamelessly and without restraint, to make him reject you.”
Otis nodded slowly, a smirk forming. “Hah… crafty villain. A short-sighted, foolish Red Dragon.”
Navin eagerly echoed, “Indeed! Together, they are not even a fraction of your worth.”
“But…”
“But what?” Navin raised his head, his tone earnest.
“Your Majesty, I beg you—grant me one more chance to be sent as envoy to the Empire of Ashen.”
Otis’s face darkened instantly. “Why? That so-called ‘Empire’ has already humiliated me. Do you wish me to send myself to be mocked again?”
“Please, Your Majesty, hear me out.”
“That Red Dragon abandoned Thrace—his natural enemy—just for gold coins. He can do the same for us, if offered more.”
“Let me try once more—not for myself, but for the future of Cassander Kingdom. And above all… for you to reclaim Sacred Fedran, and become an Emperor worthy of your father’s legacy.”
At these words, Otis’s pupils narrowed.
A flicker of doubt crossed his face.
Compared to becoming Emperor, what were a few moments of anger, a touch of humiliation?
With the strength of past Aragon I behind him, any power on this earth would be as fragile as straw and clay. The so-called “Empire of Ashen”? It could be crushed with a single hand.
Otis’s voice finally softened. He leaned back heavily into the Golden Throne.
“Navin Bessalious… you have one last chance.”
“My minimum requirement: bring me the weapons capable of empowering mortals. That is my final hope. Do not disappoint me.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Navin bowed deeply, exhaling in relief.
Having witnessed the Coronation Ceremony firsthand, he understood—the Empire of Ashen was no mere backwater power. It could shape the fate of the entire continent. Its allegiance could determine Cassander’s future.
And he would do everything in his power to secure a military alliance with the Empire of Ashen—ensuring it would not fall into Thrace’s hands.
The council concluded. The ministers withdrew.
Under Otis’s harsh commands—“Get out! All of you—die!”—even the palace guards and maids were driven out.
The vast palace now stood silent and empty, save for Otis Aragon alone.
He sat upon the Golden Throne, hands covering his face, his expression a storm of fury and horror. His flawless body trembled.
“No… no…”
“I can feel it—my strength… my life… they’re fleeing… they’re disappearing!”
He muttered over and over, desperate.
Through the cracks between his pale fingers, the once-perfect face began to show a faint, hairline crack along the side of his cheek.
Otis feared no Deep Abyss Demon. He trembled not before the devils of Hell.
But he feared a crack—no matter how small.
That was his greatest fear:
To lose his current status.
To become mortal once more.
“It means I will age… I will die…”
“Damn it! I am a Divine Offspring!”
Then, like a man grasping at a lifeline, he whispered to himself:
“Right… if I perform the Ritual… everything will be restored. I will remain immortal.”
He stared down at his smooth, unblemished hand—half in dread, half in hope—as if he already saw the crack beginning to form.
“It’s too late… I must unify Sacred Fedran quickly. I must become the true Emperor of Fadalan—only then can I reclaim the Blessing of Amanatara.”
“Just… if I can become the true Emperor…”
Clutching the Golden Scepter—the sacred symbol of supreme imperial authority—Otis clenched it tightly, his voice a whisper of desperate resolve.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
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