"Linen-kun, I don't quite understand what you mean. Mr. Traor may not be a grand minister, but he seems deeply trusted by Her Majesty the Empress. To so thoroughly make an enemy of him—are you sure it's alright?"
Milian adjusted her glasses, looking worriedly at her student, who sat there as if everything were already in his grasp.
Linen lounged elegantly on the sofa, sipping red tea as if the earlier conflict hadn't touched his mood in the slightest. Hearing her concern, he only gave a small smile, a gesture of don't worry about it at all.
Her worry wasn't without reason. Traor, having lost face, would undoubtedly do his utmost to blacken him before the Empress. Milian feared he didn't understand Traor well enough. And Linen didn't.
But he understood his mother—the Red Dragon Empress.
In the Zijinghua Empire, opinions of that dragon-blood sovereign were split in two extremes. To the commoners, she was destiny incarnate, the ruler who had propped up a collapsing state, the great monarch whose strength forced hostile neighbors to greet Zijinghua with smiles—the true emperor.
But to old nobles and defeated foreign states, her image was "warmonger," "muscle-headed barbarian." Of course, much of that was just empty spite. Among her true enemies, her name was "the Bloodstained Red Dragon."
Because Tivira had seized the throne over rivers of blood.
Her predecessor had left her a country like a brand-new RTX 4090: shiny on the outside, but inside worse than a goblin cave knight.
The nobles and ministers were fractured, the envoys of neighboring states came to her coronation smiling, but with knives hidden in their sleeves—drafts of unequal treaties tucked within. They waited only for Tivira to flinch, to frown, to give them excuse. Then war would break, and Zijinghua's downfall would be certain.
But in that hall, as the envoys came forward with their gifts and veiled demands—something no one expected happened. The Empress received their offerings calmly, thanked them… and then, as a return gift, had her attendants present the severed heads of every traitorous official.
And in that same moment, she declared war on three nations who had dared to meddle in Zijinghua's succession.
Only then did all realize—Tivira had silently rebuilt the Shadow Knights, her secret guard. And though her doddering father had left her a court in ruins, he had also left her a nation fat and rich, quietly hoarding strength.
What are traitors? Kill them.
What are enemies? Kill them again.
No money to kill enemies? Seize it from traitors' estates.
That was Tivira's kingship. An iron grip, a bloody road. She enraged the dukes and old nobles, but swiftly unified the realm, making Zijinghua rise again.
The Bloodstained Red Dragon—after winning countless "unwinnable" wars, conquering through sheer strength and will—that was the name her enemies gave her, in awe and in hatred.
A mother like that looking kindly on a son like him? Impossible.
From the memories he'd inherited, and from the novel's plot, Linen had drawn a terrifying conclusion:
His Empress Mother was more of a protagonist than the actual protagonist.
Ascending the throne with heads rolling, stabilizing the court with a shattered base, coercing haughty nobles, winning impossible wars—
This wasn't even "AoTian." This was… "Final Boss."
Princess Hysteria? Couldn't even carry her shoes. At best she could play maid to someone like his mother.
In the original novel, the Empress was like the "previous hero" in an old man's tale. In her own story, she was the protagonist.
And what happens to fat, juicy "ex-protagonists"? You pluck them.
So when he'd said it wasn't that she revoked the reward, but that he had refused it, it was only a tactic—baiting Traor into tattling.
He knew Traor would exaggerate, painting him as defiant and insolent.
And that was exactly what he wanted. To enrage, from afar, the one who was more "Dragon AoTian" than anyone:
My dear mother~ your useless, obedient son seems to be rebelling. Can you stomach that?
He didn't know how Uncle Traor would phrase it—but no doubt, his mother would be furious.
But her first reaction wouldn't be punishment, as Traor expected.
He had, after all, just scored a fresh merit. Punishing him now, for any excuse, would be baseless.
Her enemies called her "muscle-brained barbarian," but like little brats squealing "trash" after being beaten, they were just mouthing off.
Anyone who truly believed it was long crushed to death.
So, no—punishment would not, could not, happen. At worst, she'd look down on him.
But one thing was hers alone to decide—reward.
Favor or no favor—"thunder and dew, both the Emperor's grace."
If she gives, she can withhold. But if she gives, he cannot refuse.
For him to reject her face? Unthinkable.
So what would she do? As he'd calculated—slam him with reward, to remind him who was above whom.
Yes—he had gambled. And he had won.
The system prompt proved it.
[Dragonification Skill Tree Unlocked]
A hidden heroine's reward—now that was powerful.
Most Arcana Mages in this world were still "glass cannons." Traditions of the noble mage: "if you dare get close, I dare die in style."
But [Dragonification] bolstered the body. The Norton royals, Empress included, had all gone the path of flesh-made-sacred.
Quinn, blessed with Silver Dragon bloodline and Arcana talent, was a jackpot card pull. Her illusions may lack raw attack power, but her combat style was to blind senses with illusions, then [Dragonify] and pummel foes with fists. Gandalf, but make it girly.
Linen was different.
He already had wind and fire attributes. He could already wield [Fusion Arcana].
With [Dragonification] patching his fragile body, while other mages remained glass cannons, he would become a walking Gundam—invincible and explosive.
Real men pilot Gundams?
Linen becomes one.
Shame it was so hard to trigger his mother's "refusal." He couldn't exactly skip classes every day just to run to the palace and grovel at her black-stockinged legs. He'd need new methods.
"Linen-kun?"
Milian's voice broke his thoughts.
"Even if, as you say, you won't be punished and will still get your reward… offending Mr. Traor doesn't seem wise in the long term, does it?"
Her concern wasn't unfounded. But Linen only smiled.
"Don't worry, Milian-sensei. Unless something unexpected happens, Uncle Traor won't trouble us again."
"Why is that?"
Unwittingly, even she had shifted—from discussing, to asking for instruction.
And Linen, regarding this potential ally, didn't bother with mystery.
He smiled, the excitement in his eyes freezing into coldness and mockery.
"Because…"
He set his teacup down gently.
"My dear Uncle Traor made two fatal mistakes."
...
At the same time, in the imperial palace.
"This time, it seems we must let the boy have his way."
Seated on the high throne, clad in crimson, Empress Tivira crossed her long, perfect legs, resting her head on one hand, face serene as a still pond.
But Quinn, standing at her side, couldn't help tilting her head slightly—because in her mother's tone, she heard something rare: satisfaction.
Below the steps, Traor knelt on one knee, utterly baffled.
He truly couldn't comprehend. After hearing of Linen's outrageous rejection, not only had the Empress not unleashed wrath, she had ordered the reward doubled and sent to him at once.
He had come to sabotage Linen—how had he ended up helping instead?
"Your Majesty, surely this is a mistake! His Highness Linen defied you!"
He dared to speak, though the oppressive weight of her presence nearly choked him.
Tivira finally lifted her eyes. Golden slits glowed as she asked, with seeming irrelevance:
"Lord Traor—I recall your son is a merchant. How fares his business?"
He didn't know why she asked. But hurriedly:
"All thanks to Your Majesty, trade in the capital flourishes. My son's ventures also prosper."
"Thanks to me?"
Her brow creased faintly. She shook her head.
At her side, Quinn smiled.
"Your son is greedy and foolish. He has no gift for trade. The guilds of the capital are slippery devils—it's hard to curry favor with them. He already failed long ago. You've had to bail him out again and again."
"If he thrives now, are you mocking Her Majesty's governance?"
"N-no, never!"
Traor went white.
"Your Majesty knows—though my son is a fool—thanks to you, three days ago he rose again…"
And then he realized. He had said too much.
Too late.
"Yes—your foolish son 'rose again.' But was it truly thanks to me?"
Quinn tapped her lips, mock-pensive.
"From what we know, three days ago he suddenly received a massive investment. Paid his debts, even enough to revel nightly in Diamond's succubus dens. That doesn't sound like mere 'thanks to Her Majesty.' That sounds like thanks to you, his father. After all, many seeking your favor as the Empress's confidant would bankroll your useless son. Shall I name them?"
Traor shook, knocking his forehead against the floor.
"I was wrong! I'll make him return it!"
The Empress's eyes held no mercy. She only shook her head.
"No need, Lord Traor. Everyone has weaknesses."
Quinn giggled.
"And for your son, in his position, with his spending, 'returning' that money would be death. You may call him trash, but could you truly bear to let him die?"
Traor's face drained of all blood.
Quinn, at the Empress's signal, moved with light steps away from her mother's side and came to stand before Traor. She raised an arm pale as carved jade and pressed it lightly to his forehead.
"Lord Traor, using your position to secure benefits for your son—that in itself is nothing. Your two greatest mistakes are these."
"First: you mistook Her Majesty's radiance for your own, and accepted money you should never have touched. Seven times that sum was laundered—our Shadow Knights nearly broke themselves tracing it, only to find it came from the Withering faction of the Tower of Chronomancy."
"Second: if even someone like you instinctively shields the 'useless fool' you call your son—what makes you think Her Majesty is some divine cold being, incapable of sparing even a shred of compassion for my dear little brother?"
Her silver eyes glimmered with amusement.
"Whatever you said, whatever passed between you and him—we heard it all~"
Traor's whole body shook violently. His eyes rolled back, the whites showing—and then he collapsed to the ground. His breathing faltered, then ceased.
Quinn brushed her hands together with a dainty clap.
For an Illusion Arcana mage, inducing brain death through terror was no challenge.
And to send off this "Right Hand of the Empress," this traitor to the empire, by such a near-painless means—this, in its way, was mercy from her mother.
Even so, Quinn herself was a little shocked—by how quickly both sides had moved.
On the one hand, the Tower of Chronomancy's response had been swift indeed, already trying to sow discord between Empress and son. On the other, her mother had seized the ploy, turning it back—purging a would-be traitor, ruining the Tower's scheme.
And all without even Quinn—who lived practically inside the Shadow Knights' division—knowing. Her mother had already seen through the Tower's counter, and had her answer ready.
It wasn't that she lacked cunning—it was that her overwhelming strength made people forget she had cunning at all.
Those who underestimated her mother's stratagem… would surely end badly.
Have you prepared yourself, little brother?
Thinking of her brother's grand boast about one day "toppling Mother," Quinn couldn't help squirming, thighs rubbing together in faint excitement.
Whichever of them laughed last—it would be delightful to watch.
"Quinn."
Her mother's voice called gently.
"Yes, Mother."
Quinn bowed over her chest.
"You should already know the Tower's next move."
"Yes. I'll have the Shadow Knights strengthen defenses at Eden Academy. The headmaster and Master Gust will be glad to cooperate."
Quinn spoke confidently.
But the Empress only shook her head.
"No. Do the opposite. Order the Shadow Knights to leave Eden be. First, rip out the worms here in the capital. I want to know who leaked word of this secret roundup."
"Eh?"
Quinn blinked, silver eyes wide.
"But… the Spring Cup and the academy events are about to begin. Even Novy will be participating…"
"No buts."
Her mother cut her off.
"Let them come. Sorgana and Gust are hardly fragile. And Eden's graduates of late have been far too mediocre. A true trial is needed, to sift out the talents our empire requires."
Here the Empress paused. The face that shone like a god's, cold and majestic—suddenly arched a brow, revealing a trace of human mischief.
"Besides… my clever son, who prides himself on accounting for everything, actually schemed to use me as part of his plan. Somehow, that leaves me feeling… rather displeased."
She turned back to Quinn.
"From now on, you will, in my name, refuse every request from Linen. Until he wins the Spring Cup, or bows his head first, he is to receive no aid—save that doubled reward I already decreed."
A death sentence wrapped as a meal.
Hearing such pitiless words, Quinn couldn't help but feel a flicker of pity for her brother.
But if Linen himself had been there, listening in—he would have swooned from joy on the spot, then leapt up to sing: "In all the world, only Mother is good!"