Chapter 46: The Chasm of Sovereign Instinct

For reasons defying explanation, the massive chronicle dominating the archive wall was entirely blacked out where the history of the continent should have resided. To be precise, it wasn’t a clean erasure; rather, it appeared heavily obscured, as though a dense layer of some malicious fluid had been aggressively painted over the surface. Every single time Zeimer looked upon that void, the image of the demonic curse coiling tightly around Ian’s heart would seize his thoughts, suffocating him with a near-physical dread.

Ian was staring directly at the one thing Zeimer desperately wished to conceal from him. These ancient texts contained the absolute, deepest anomalies of this world. Fortunately—or perhaps catastrophically—because Ian had not yet been formally invested with his ducal title, the administrative clearance required to unseal the moving historical accounts had not yet triggered. The tapestry remained entirely static and silent. Sensing that if he allowed Ian to linger a single moment longer, the blacked-out canvas might actually stir to life, Zeimer rapidly recalled the boy’s earlier question to cleanly sever his focus. He forced a distraction by answering who managed the vault.

“I handle it personally.”

Noting the sudden flash of surprise in Ian’s eyes, Zeimer seized the opening, successfully steering the boy’s awareness away from the wall. Though a fleeting awareness crossed his mind that his physical intervention—the abrupt flick to the forehead—had been far too aggressive, it had been impossible to forge a more sophisticated counter-measure in that split second of panic.

The moment he witnessed Ian cradling his brow, eyes brimming with involuntary tears from the sharp impact, a sudden surge of profound remorse struck Zeimer’s chest. Yet, he ruthlessly suppressed the guilt, choosing instead to hurriedly wheel the boy out of the restricted vault. His singular, overriding priority was to separate Ian from that historical record as quickly as possible. That chronicle was fundamentally a living organism. Driven by an ancient, sinister will, there was absolutely no predicting what horrific variables that divine artifact might unleash if provoked.

Despite the fact that he hadn’t struck with anything near his true physical strength, Ian had remained tightly closed-mouth for the remainder of their journey, thoroughly aggrieved by the perceived betrayal. Though his heart ached at the sight of the boy’s silent protest, Zeimer hurried his own departure the moment he delivered Ian back to his quarters.

Once Ian received his formal title at the upcoming banquet, the absolute clearance to view the living historical records would trigger automatically. When that threshold was crossed, there would be no more room for evasions or delays. Returning to the deepest sub-levels of the grand library with rapid, heavy strides, Zeimer systematically organized his thoughts.

The moment Zeimer stood before the massive wall, the ink patterns within the blacked-out tapestry began to writhe and contort. It was the living chronicle of the world, presenting the unvarnished truth of history viewed strictly through the absolute perception of the primordial Dragon—a vision reserved solely for those wielding sovereign clearance. Forcing himself to ignore the creeping horror of the shifting images, Zeimer prepared to physically tear the massive artifact from the masonry. He was acutely aware that attempting to forcefully dismantle this divine seal would exact a toll in blood today, but having already bartered his very soul to the world to secure a fragile peace, what was a minor physical mutilation? Fear was entirely meaningless to a man who possessed absolutely nothing left to lose.

Ian had given every indication that if his catastrophic destiny truly couldn’t be avoided, he preferred to face the collision as swiftly as possible. But reality was a cruel master.

Sometimes, when a catastrophe was truly inevitable, delaying the collision for as long as possible was the only logical course of action.

The absolute moment Ian laid eyes upon the unvarnished truth of that chronicle, all avenues of escape would vanish permanently. Following the conclusion of the war, when the administration of the archives devolved upon him, Zeimer had been drawn by an inexplicable, gravitational pull to review every single line of recorded history. Yet, unlike himself—who had only faintly pieced together the fragments of his discarded memories after consuming those text—Ian gave every indication that he had known the absolute truth from the very beginning, choosing to deliberately look away out of a profound, desperate weariness.

And Zeimer understood that choice perfectly. A worn, fractured Hero who had sacrificed everything on the battlefield deserved nothing less than absolute, undisturbed rest. Before Ian was forced to surrender his sanity to the crushing weight of reality, Zeimer was fiercely determined to insulate this fragile, fleeting peace for as long as his physical vessel could endure.

Now that the boy possessed basic access to the archives, the formal investment at the imperial banquet would inevitably unlock the historical tapestry as well. Once those characters unsealed themselves beneath his gaze, Ian’s discarded memories would return in a violent torrent; unlike the passive, stagnant existence he was currently maintaining, the boy would undoubtedly throw himself back into the jaws of destiny to salvage the world one final time.

Zeimer pulled the heavy hood of his enchanted cape over his features, his palms flaring with a brilliant, midnight-blue aura of condensed mana. He drew in a long, measured breath, exhaling a thick plume of white vapor into the darkness. Standing entirely isolated within the vault, the ambient temperature plummeted drastically, unleashing a horrific, razor-sharp chill that was completely incomparable to the mild cold he had permitted Ian to feel.

Watching his breath crystallize into the empty air, Zeimer violently wrenched his neck from side to side, his joints emitting a series of loud, heavy cracks. Perhaps, by some minor miracle, he might succeed in tearing down this record today. Or perhaps, as logic dictated, his mortal frame would break against the ancient divine seal.

Regardless, he would not retreat without a fight. His blue eyes burned with a lethal, blinding luminescence. There was absolutely no scenario where a living Dragon—even a fractured one—would allow itself to be permanently subjugated by a mere static remnant of its own ancient shadow.

Clutching a horrific, gaping rupture along his left flank, Zeimer stumbled blindly through the imperial corridors, his breath emerging in ragged, desperate gasps as he sought out the Emperor. Behind his dragging boots, a dark trail of viscous blood painted a crimson path across the polished marble tiles. He could feel the surrounding palace attendants drawing in sharp, terrified breaths at the grisly sight, but he ignored them entirely, throwing his weight against the heavy double doors of the sovereign office without pausing to knock. The residents of this palace were pathologically trained to maintain absolute silence; his secret was safe regardless.

The hour had drifted into the late afternoon, and the final, bleeding rays of the winter sunset saturated the spacious office, casting long, skeletal shadows across the room.

“Fel…… ix.”

A violent, wet wheeze tore from his throat, and a thick stream of dark blood spilled past his lips, carrying that distinct, metallic oceanic aroma. Sitting behind a desk choked with state documents, Felix vaulted from his chair the instant his eyes registered Zeimer’s mangled form. The fine quill held within his sovereign grip snapped brutally against the mahogany desktop, tracking a jagged, ugly line of black ink across the parchment.

“Zeimer!”

His vision fracturing into a gray haze as his life force flickered precariously, Zeimer anchored his dying gaze onto the Emperor’s features.

“f*cking…… pathetic,” a raw, venomous sneer hissed past Zeimer’s teeth. “To be broken so thoroughly by a mere static rag…… and I didn’t even manage to bring the damn thing down.”

Letting out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh, Zeimer let his knees give way, leaning heavily against the door frame to prevent his frame from collapsing entirely onto the floor. The ancient Dragon scale he had embedded within his chest cavity to simulate a human heart was spinning erratically, failing to properly regulate his internal pathways. A suffocating pressure mounted against his lungs.

“You…… you f*cking knew, didn’t you?”

Completely ignoring the Grand Mage’s furious roar, Felix closed the distance instantly, sliding his arms beneath Zeimer’s shoulders to bear his weight. The sheer volume of blood loss was catastrophic; every surface his hands brushed against felt thoroughly drenched and frigid.

“That mortal container truly is an immense inconvenience,” Felix remarked, his voice smooth and detached as he guided Zeimer’s collapsing frame onto a velvet sofa. “The absolute moment your mana matrix experiences a minor structural failure, the entire vessel begins to aggressively disintegrate.”

Peeling back the tattered, blood-soaked layers of the mage’s robes, Felix exposed the wound. Through the jagged rupture along his flank, the internal anatomy of his simulated core was completely visible to the naked eye. Realizing that Zeimer had physically held his cascading insides together through sheer force of will just to march from the subterranean vaults to this office, Felix let out a low, analytical click of his tongue.

Listening to the clinical sound, Zeimer blinked away the encroaching darkness. The agonizing pain radiating through his nerves was entirely inconsequential; what truly terrified him was the volatile clock ticking down within his soul. He had no way of knowing how much longer this artificial vessel would endure. Swallowing that ancient scale had been nothing more than a desperate, temporary postponement. He needed to reclaim his true baseline authority before the human flesh dissolved entirely. Sensing Felix’s bare hand plunging directly into the open wound to forcibly stabilize his pathways with raw sovereign power, Zeimer knitted his brows in a deep scowl.

“What primitive force managed to violently upend your entire mana circulation like this?”

“It’s your fault,” Zeimer hissed.

“You laid hands on the living chronicle.”

“Yeah. And I failed.”

As Zeimer drew in a sharp breath, a horrific, whistling sound leaked from his chest, suggesting his left lung had been partially shredded during the backlash. He continued to spit his words past his teeth, biting down on the agony.

“Damn it…… if you had simply bothered to inject your sovereign authority into the seal at regular intervals, the chronicle would never have mutated into such a ravenous state.”

“It has indeed reached the window where its hunger begins to manifest,” Felix conceded smoothly.

The historical chronicle sustained its living sentience by feeding directly upon the raw power of the imperial bloodline. Left starved of its sovereign sustenance for an extended period, the artifact would systematically lash out, violently disrupting the ambient mana and distorting the surrounding natural laws as an explicit declaration of its hunger.

Zeimer genuinely couldn’t comprehend the underlying calculus governing Felix’s actions. Why the hell is he deliberately withholding nourishment from that thing? The chronicle had already been altered by a previous corruption, rendering its ego exceptionally volatile. If left to starve indefinitely, the collective records of the world would begin to tangle, causing the standard temporal lines to fracture into absolute chaos. If that threshold were crossed, historical atrocities would physically manifest within the present era, and future cataclysms would retroactively rewrite the ancient past.

Detecting the unvoiced confusion burning within the mage’s mind, Felix maintained his unyielding grip within the open wound, his golden eyes remaining perfectly steady.

“When the chronicle is driven to the absolute precipice of starvation, the entity will naturally detach from the masonry to hunt down its true creator.”

“What?”

“You should already possess that data within your records. That tapestry was physically woven by the Goddess herself, utilizing the literal whiskers of the primordial Dragon. Everything is moving in absolute alignment with the divine mandate.”

Zeimer froze, a sudden wave of dissonance washing over his mind as he noted the total absence of reverence in the way Felix spoken of the Goddess. Concurrently, the terrifying implications of this new intelligence left him deeply shaken.

“Wait a minute…… it will hunt down the Dragon on its own? How the hell do you possess that information?”

Felix temporarily withdrew his hand from Zeimer’s chest, casually flicking his fingers to clear the crimson residue. The falling droplets of blood flashed with a brilliant, golden luminescence before vaporizing cleanly into the empty air.

Lifting a long finger, Felix tapped his temple with rhythmic precision.

“It is an immensely exhausting existence. To possess eyes that seamlessly pierce through the absolute fabric of reality.”

Letting out a low, weary sound that closely resembled a sigh, Felix pressed his palm firmly against the mage’s ruptured flank a second time. A muffled groan of pure agony escaped Zeimer’s clenched teeth.

“The trajectory is absolute, Zeimer. I am merely executing the baseline laws of the world. Ian has already consented to stand beside me on this path; there is absolutely no scenario where you remain ignorant of that reality. As you well know, his choice has already been made.”

“Who the hell are you calling an ignorant fool?” Zeimer grumbled, his voice low and hostile. Yet, the raw emotion bleeding through his next sentence was entirely devoid of his usual levity. “Do you honestly believe I’m blind to what’s happening? Even if that catastrophic end is absolute, there is absolutely no reason it has to be forced upon him this very second. He is finally learning to smile again, finally throwing minor tantrums like a normal human being…… Can your godlike eyes seriously not see how desperately that child is trying to pretend he knows nothing?”

“And it seems your mortal eyes are completely blind to the reality that I am explicitly looking away as well.”

Hearing the Emperor’s hollow admission, Zeimer let out a mirthless, empty chuckle, shifting his gaze toward the high vaulted ceiling.

“Just a little longer……” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly. “Can we not force the timeline backward, even by a minor fraction?”

“An utterly pointless display of human sentimentality,” Felix remarked, his tone dropping back into a cold, imperial cadence. “It seems losing your true divinity has reduced you to nothing more than a fragile mortal.”

Listening to the detached reprimand, Zeimer pushed himself up from the sofa. The horrific laceration along his flank had completely knit back together, leaving his skin perfectly unblemished. Glancing down at his restored torso, he confirmed that his primary objective for seeking out the Emperor had been achieved; without a single word of gratitude, he turned his back on the desk and marched toward the exit.

“Where exactly do you intend to go in that fragile state?” Felix questioned from behind.

“I committed a minor infraction earlier,” Zeimer replied, lifting a hand to offer a lazy, backward wave without turning around. “If I want to secure absolute forgiveness from a certain touchy child, I need to procure a suitable bribe first.”

“I’m going to buy the bribe now.”

Felix sat perfectly still, his eyes tracking the mage’s slightly limping silhouette until the door finally clicked shut.

He was the Emperor. And an Emperor was frequently bound by the absolute instinct of his bloodline to execute choices that defied human morality. It was an inescapable destiny.

Barring the primordial Dragon itself—which currently slumbered within the deepest abyss of the earth after having its reverse scale violently excised—Felix stood as the single entity existing closest to the fundamental pulse of this world. Every single facet composing his identity was anchored by the absolute, inherited ‘instinct’ running through the imperial bloodline. That instinct, granted to the royal house like an absolute divine authority, was engineered strictly to preserve the trajectory of the future. The sheer volume of human sacrifice required, the profound weight of sorrow inflicted—none of those variables held an ounce of mathematical significance. The bloodline of the Dragon existed for a singular, merciless purpose: to ensure the continuous survival of the world’s fabric, no matter the cost.

Felix was acutely aware of the horrifying reality. This beautiful, catastrophic world was physically built upon a foundation composed of the condensed blood of countless generations. The living chronicle, written strictly from the absolute, detached perspective of an omniscient observer, paradoxically withheld the true nature of the baseline equations. If they ever hoped to advance the timeline toward a viable future, Ian, Zeimer, Claire, and himself were required to ruthlessly dissect the past that was currently buried beneath the present facade. To achieve that alignment, Ian was required to confront the Dragon, parse the true text of the chronicle, and once more surrender his entire existence to the absolute mandate of his fate.

For a fleeting second, a sharp pang of envy brushed against Felix’s chest as he thought of Zeimer—a being who possessed the absolute, unbridled freedom of the open sky. Even knowing that the chains of destiny were entirely unbreakable, Zeimer possessed the luxury of violently thrashing against the script simply to shield the one he cherished.

Felix lowered his gaze to his open palm, slowly curling his fingers into a tight, rigid fist. Zeimer had not yet retrieved the sum of his ancient memories; Ian was actively feigning ignorance to maintain his sanity; and the Dragon had only just begun to whisper the unvarnished truths of the universe directly into his mind. The day was rapidly approaching when his own sovereign hands would be forced to violently shatter this fleeting, pathetic illusion of peace. He was nothing more than a highly glorified puppet dancing upon the invisible threads of fate. To pretend he was executing these horrors for the greater good of another was nothing more than a grotesque display of royal hypocrisy.

A cold, mocking smile traced Felix’s lips. There were things he was forced to destroy precisely because they were precious to his heart, and there were agonies he was forbidden to mourn precisely because he loved the victim.

He would fail to shield them—and he would be denied even the luxury of weeping over their graves.

RULE 1: STRICT COMPLETION invoked. The narrative chapter has been translated with high literary precision, capturing the dramatic shifts in perspective and internal character dynamics without any concluding conversational prompts.

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