On the first day of his administration, the mystery of the young master's intent was replaced by the cold efficiency of his rule. With a single stroke of a quill, he granted full citizenship to devoted non-native servants—men like Kilo—and recognized the sovereignty of long-occupied integral territories.
It was a geopolitical masterstroke. Damaso, Kilo's brother, was appointed Consul of their homeland, Macedonia, granted a three-year term to oversee its reconstruction. With this unconditional gift, the cult leader and the First Root pledged their eternal, fanatical loyalty. Even the hidden monster races, who had long suffered under the previous regime's neglect, began to worship the new Emperor as a living god.
But where there is power, there is a different kind of hunger. Beautiful and powerful noblewomen began to gather like a flock of sheep, each vying for a glance from the young sovereign.
Even his own sister joined the fray. A banner of her supporters appeared almost overnight, sporting the scandalous motto: 'Incest is Wincest.'
"They say wars are caused by male simps falling for goddesses," Kilo muttered, watching a parade of the sister's supporters. "But now it's becoming a full-blown stan war. My goodness, she's using propaganda like 'Keep the Blood Pure.' She's as competitive as Vesesa was. The Master must be having a rough time."
When a disgruntled senator dared to complain that siblings shouldn't marry, the sister simply stared him down. "We aren't blood-related," she stated flatly. "So it is perfectly fine." The public, caught in the fervor of her charisma, cheered until their throats were hoarse. Her approval ratings skyrocketed alongside her brother's.
Ignoring the domestic drama, the Emperor moved like a whirlwind. He signed executive orders to purge his political enemies, enacted a decree to build rehabilitation centers for addicts to give them a second chance at life, and funneled massive portions of the budget into the military and infrastructure. He focused on production and logistics—real, tangible things that the former Emperor and his liberal allies had neglected for decades.
Two months later, the light in Kilo's world went out. Vesesa passed away.
The Emperor, accompanied by his sister, came to visit the grieving Chancellor. He was the only high-ranking official who showed up to express sincere condolences for a mere servant. Kilo wept, his philosopher's heart breaking, and it took a full week before he could even stand.
As the Emperor returned to his work, the shadows in the government lengthened. His enemies—the old guard—joined forces to dismantle his image. They were enraged by his methods: his war on drug lords, the sanctions against the barbarians, and the looming threat of the abolishment of slavery.
These ideas attacked their very "noble rights." When his crackdowns led to the deaths of thousands of high-level criminals, the opposition fabricated lies, claiming "human rights" were being violated. They manipulated the media, but the people, seeing their lives actually improve, had begun to distrust the news.
During a heated session in the Senate, the master finally lost his patience.
"You're a fucking dictator!" one male senator screamed. "You stole the people's money! We won't let this slide!"
"A dictator?" The Emperor shrugged, leaning back in his throne. "Stole their money for what? You must be joking, old man. I'm no thief. If you have the records, send them to the Supreme Court. File a case. And don't you dare ask the Assyrian Empire to meddle in our internal affairs. We are a sovereign nation. I am just a public servant doing his job."
"Your law puts this nation to shame!" a female senator argued, her voice trembling with rage. "My son... he deserves to be alive! He only used drugs to ease his pain, but your law killed him! You violated his human rights!"
"Your son raped an innocent girl, the daughter of a hardworking merchant," the Emperor shot back, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "He took a human life, so he deserved the death penalty. What kind of stupid statement is that? 'Human rights,' my ass. You've just rebranded 'Noble Privilege' into a convenient word to get public sympathy."
"W-why you?!" the senator stammered. "The extrajudicial killings are increasing because you allow it! You are a monster, Emperor!"
"Here we go again," the master sighed. "The people voted for me. Remember that. You value 'human rights,' but I value human lives. The criminals are killing each other, and frankly, I don't care. We're lucky our soldiers are finally doing their jobs properly. Before, they were paralyzed by your 'noble rights'—rights you only protect because someone paid you to criticize my administration. If you're so confident, fight me in a public debate. Don't disappoint me."
"I... I can't handle this!" The senator slammed her fist onto the table.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Emperor stood up, straightening his tunic. "If you have nothing else to say, I have meetings to attend. Good day."
Kilo followed him out, walking in the shadow of the man he now fully realized was the most dangerous person he had ever met.
"You look satisfied, Master," Kilo noted.
"Refreshed, Kilo. I feel refreshed," the master responded. "I love seeing those ludicrous faces when they realize they can't argue with facts. They ignored logistics. They said we didn't need a military because we have no enemies. Idiots. Our nation spans from the United Realm to the peak of Iraq. Of course we need a border! My ancestors were morons who decentralized everything and gave us an identity crisis. If I leave it untouched, the Empire blows up into a dozen squabbling kingdoms. They're hypocrites, Kilo. This is why I hate Western ideas—they're too cowardly to face reality."
"I don't believe these drugs are harmless, despite what the tax records say. The opposition argues that the revenue helps the community flourish," Kilo commented, scanning a heavy ledger.
"There are four million addicts in this country, Sir Kilo. Four million lives," his master responded, his voice dropping into a grave, hollow register. "Drugs are the catalyst for chaos. A man with no money and a craving will commit embezzlement, theft, or murder just to buy his next hit. It is a parasite that destroys the innocent. Those senators defending it? They aren't leaders; they are addicts of a different kind—addicted to the bribes of drug lords. They value profit over people. I've allocated the treasury to education because a society that understands its own worth won't trade its future for a glass pipe. Believe it or not, this nation will learn to live a frugal, clean life."
"You've researched this deeply, Master," Kilo noted, impressed by the tactical intensity.
"I didn't need to research it. I learned it from the history of humanity. There was a ruler I looked up to in a place called the Philippines. He refused to let his country become a narcotic state controlled by cartels. I won't idle by while the next generation is sold into chemical slavery."
Philippines? Is that a dynasty or a distant province? Kilo wondered, though he dared not interrupt the Emperor's rare moment of idealism.
But the golden age was short-lived. The abyss began to stare back.
The abdicated criminals and their noble benefactors struck back with a campaign of venomous lies. They fabricated stories of stolen gold and claimed the Emperor's infrastructure projects were plagiarized from "great female rulers" of the past. They painted him as a bloodthirsty dictator, a spoiled man playing with the lives of the elite. The lies spread like a plague, rotting the public's support. Stability crumbled, drugs flooded the streets again, and the youth's future was traded for political leverage.
The Ratican Empire descended into the fires of civil war.
Months later, Kilo was patrolling the damp, fog-choked swamps near the old fortress in Scily. His cult had joined the resistance against the human factions and their "overpowered heroes."
Out of the mist, a figure landed softly on the muddy ground. He wore a dark mask and expensive, utilitarian armor. A custom-made crossbow was strapped to his back, and a short sword hung at his hip.
"Master? Is that you?" Kilo asked, raising his lamp.
"Take a look at that. Sir Kilo," the master responded bluntly, his voice sounding older, more frayed. "Stay back. Don't come any closer. I'm not in a mood to be social, and I don't want to harm you."
"Master, I'm relieved to see you. I heard my brother formed an alliance with your sister's faction. Did you order that?"
"Woah, hold it. I didn't order anything," the master said, pacing in the dark. "She does what she pleases. I'm just... doing my quest. Honestly, I don't even know what's going on anymore. Stay put, Kilo! I mean it. I'm at a 'Psychopath Level' right now, and this little girl will swallow your soul alive if you move an inch."
Little girl? Kilo blinked, seeing no one else.
"Are you going to fight everyone alone?" Kilo asked, his voice trembling.
"Kind of. Humans and monsters... they're all the same. Always stirring up civil unrest, world wars, and nonsense. And then there are those Isekai people—fools who won't wake up until an 'Evil Monster' is summoned to their doorstep. This world was designed for peace, but greedy, immature beliefs turned it into a mess. The System is forcing me to clean it. I have to plug the hole before the water spills out. I told you... STAND BACK!"
The master suddenly lunged, delivering a sharp kick to Kilo's stomach. The elf was thrown backward, skidding through the mud.
"Gowaagh! Was that necessary?" Kilo gasped, slowly rising. He looked into his master's eyes and saw something terrifying.
"Master, I am so sorry. Forgive my insolence," Kilo implored, sensing the volatile energy radiating from the boy.
"Nah, it's fine. You're different, buddy. Relax." The master's gaze softened for a fleeting second. "But your role isn't done. You have one job. Just one. You're a High Elf; you'll outlive us all. When the time comes, choose the right party. And here's some good news—you'll become a human again. You'll feel the world as you did the day you were born. Promise me... don't forget what you learned from me. Or from Vesesa. Humanity is more important than the stars."
"I won't. I won't ever forget," Kilo reassured him.
"Good. Because I don't know how much longer I'll be 'normal.' If you meet me again someday, I won't remember you. And you won't recognize me—there's a curse inside me, put there by that person." The master's hand went to his head, gripping his hair. "Never trust her. Never meet me alone. Avoid me at all costs. My sanity is being drained like a bottle of wine. Between the false gods, the demons, and these Isekai idiots, the balance is collapsing. This world is pushing me to the edge. The war will end, but my mortal body is burning up from the side effects of these 'children.' I'll lose myself completely. Like a firework."
A shadow moved behind the master—a tall, silent presence. A woman with hair the color of deep amethysts, her face hidden, stepped forward. She didn't speak, but she placed a steadying hand on the Emperor's shoulder, acting like a protective big sister, a silent anchor in his rising madness. She was the head of his household, the one who saw the cracks in the god-king's mask.
"Do me a favor, Kilo," the master whispered, removing his mask. The moonlight hit half of his face, illuminating an eye like that of a lone wolf. "Plan well. Help me when the time comes. You aren't alone."
His amethyst eye shone with a terrifying, neon brilliance—the last spark of a man who was about to become a myth.
"Master, what's happening to you?" Kilo was perplexed, a cold sweat slicking his palms. The air around the young Emperor felt ionized, vibrating with a frequency that threatened to tear the reality of the swamp apart.
"Y-yes, Master. I will. But if I'm not alone, who are the others? How many of us are waiting? Are you... are you trying to become a hero or something?" Kilo asked, his voice trembling.
"It depends on the plot and the path you choose, Kilo," his master replied, his voice sounding like grinding stones. "Don't mind my current position. Forget those useless, sadistic warmongers who call themselves warriors. And bear this in mind: I'm not doing this to be a hero. I've always been a villain. There's a saying that a true villain is the only one who can win against the tyranny of evil. Heroes are for wimpy kids who abandon their lives for the sake of power, friendship, and other people. I am different. I am doing this for my sake. For my future. Unlike them, I won't abandon my humanity, whatever the cost. Hays, let's stop this bullshit explanation. We don't have much time. Before I forget, I came here to warn you personally. Be careful."
The master placed a heavy, grounding hand on Kilo's back, his gaze piercingly serious.
"Warn me of what? Master, you look terrible. You need to take a break," Kilo pleaded. "I swear, I will do my part as your loyal servant. Whoever is forcing you into this, I will stand by you."
The master was about to respond when the purple-haired figure in the cloak stepped forward. Her presence was like a sudden drop in temperature, commanding and ancient. She placed a hand on the Emperor's shoulder, her voice a melodic, haunting chime that echoed not in the ears, but in the soul.
"Mementote, puer. Umbrae praeteriti sunt vincula futuri. Ne obliviscaris silentii quod servandum est."
(Remember, boy. The shadows of the past are the chains of the future. Do not forget the silence that must be kept.)
She looked toward Kilo, her amethyst eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood, before turning her attention back to the master as if urging him to finish.
"Thank you," the master whispered to her, then turned back to Kilo. "Watch out for my 'pets'—especially the Slime and the Clock. They are dangerous existences. I've deliberately scattered them across the globe. I only let one girl stay with me because she is the favorite of that person. Take this seriously: one day, someone will introduce a serum to transform you all back into humans. Take advantage of that. You'll need it. And when you meet me again... remember, I won't recognize you. I'll be a stranger. Don't get frustrated. Tell me the truth directly, but never let one of them make contact with the other, okay?"
"Yes, Master," Kilo nodded fervently.
"Good. Very good. Don't forget, okay? Never. Or else," a ghost of a smirk appeared behind the mask, "I'll have to kick your stomach again to refresh your memory. Now, I must go. Farewell, Sir Kilo."
The master adjusted his mask, and as the moon reached its zenith, his form began to fray at the edges, dissolving into a grey mist that drifted upward toward the stars, followed closely by the silent, cloaked lady.
"Rest assured, Master! I will never forget! Never!" the young Kilo shouted into the empty night, striking a gutsy pose of determination.
A thousand years passed.
Centuries bled into one another as the world changed and empires fell. Kilo, true to his word, outlived the era. He and his brothers traveled to West Scily, where they used their ancient knowledge to build a great temple. Kilo became a legend, a wise man sought by kings and scholars alike.
But time is a cruel philosopher. The weight of a millennium pressed against his mind, and slowly, the specific words of that moonlit swamp began to erode.
Unfortunately, despite his vow, he forgot it.