I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Chapter 1261: The Empire Envoys [part 2]

The leader of the envoys opened his mouth, and a melodic, calm voice flowed out—easily filling the entire hall without ever rising above a conversational tone.

"Greetings. King Ruger. The Empire sends its greetings."

The King suppressed the anger in his voice. He had to have had enough of people disrespecting his authority in his own throne room in a single day, but he showed no sign of it. His expression remained placid, almost bored.

’Impressive control.’ Northern noted the slight tension in the man’s shoulders, the way his fingers pressed just a fraction too hard against the armrest. ’Most men would have snapped by now.’

"And to what do we owe this... grand visit?" The King’s pause before ’grand’ was deliberate, pointed. "Hasn’t it been—what? A hundred and thirteen years since envoys last touched this land?"

The leader spoke again, his voice still carrying that calm, sweet quality that made Northern’s instincts prickle.

"Indeed. Indeed." He sighed, almost wistfully. "Ahh, so long."

He smiled. The expression was coy, carefully crafted—and deeply unsettling to those who knew how to read beyond it.

Roma stood beside her father, frowning. Prince Rieran was on the King’s right, stern-faced and rigid with barely contained hostility.

Yet all of them together didn’t even match the presence of the man speaking. He commanded the room simply by existing in it, his soft voice somehow more oppressive than any shouting could be.

"The Emperor... The Current of the Crimson Tide, has decided to bestow his grace upon you. Pushing for a diplomatic relationship."

The leader’s smile widened, as if he were about to deliver the most wonderful news in the world.

"The Emperor, in his infinite wisdom and benevolence, has outlined terms most favorable for your nation’s continued... prosperity." He produced a scroll from within his coat with a flourish that seemed almost theatrical—the practiced motion of a man who had delivered death sentences while smiling. "First, an annual tribute of 70% of all aetherium mined within your borders. This is, of course, a reasonable request given the Empire’s protection and goodwill."

The throne room went deathly quiet. Northern could hear his own heartbeat in the sudden vacuum of sound.

His eyes narrowed.

’70% of their primary resource? That’s not a tribute—that’s economic strangulation. They’d be vassals within a decade, dependent on Imperial scraps to survive.’

But the King said nothing. His jaw tightened, the only crack in his composure, but he remained seated. Controlled.

The envoy leader continued, his melodic voice never wavering from its pleasant tone.

"Second, Ryugan will provide 5,000 able-bodied men annually for service in the Imperial forces. Think of it as an... exchange program." His smile never flickered. "Your warriors will have the honor of serving the Empire directly."

He paused, as if waiting for gratitude that would never come.

"Third, all trade routes to and from Ryugan will be subject to Imperial oversight. A modest tariff of 40% on all goods, naturally. For administrative purposes, you understand."

Northern could feel the rage building in the room like pressure in a sealed container. The officials around him were trembling—not with fear, but with barely suppressed fury. One man’s hand had drifted toward his sword hilt without seeming to realize it.

’He’s not here to negotiate. He knows exactly what he’s doing.’

"Fourth," the leader said, his smile taking on a sharper edge, "Ryugan will surrender sovereignty over its airspace. All vessels entering or leaving will require Imperial authorization. For security, of course."

King Ruger’s knuckles had gone white where they gripped the throne’s armrests. But still, when he spoke, his voice remained measured.

"These terms are—"

"And finally," the envoy leader interrupted smoothly, as if the King hadn’t spoken at all, "Ryugan will host a permanent Imperial garrison of no fewer than 10,000 soldiers. To ensure stability and... protect your interests."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Northern watched the envoy’s eyes—the way they moved across the room, cataloging every reaction, every twitch of suppressed anger.

’He’s reading them. Measuring their responses. Looking for the weakest point to press.’

Northern understood immediately what this was. These weren’t terms—they were designed to be rejected. The Empire wanted Ryugan to refuse. Wanted them to react with violence, with outrage, with anything that could be spun as aggression. It would give them justification for whatever came next.

King Ruger took a slow, deliberate breath.

"These terms," he said carefully, "are worth consideration. We will need time to—"

"Consider?" The envoy leader’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "Your Majesty, surely you understand the Empire’s generosity here. Most nations would be honored to receive such attention from the Eternal Sovereign himself."

The condescension in his tone was so subtle, so perfectly calibrated, that it could almost be missed. Almost. But everyone in the room heard it—the dismissal, the contempt, the unspoken threat beneath the honeyed words.

’He’s pushing. Testing where the breaking point is. And he’s patient enough to find it.’

"The Emperor’s grace is noted," King Ruger said, his voice tight but controlled. "However, Ryugan has maintained its independence for—"

"Independence." The word rolled off the envoy leader’s tongue like honey laced with poison. "Such a quaint notion. Tell me, Your Majesty—how did that independence serve you during your recent... difficulties? The siege you so valiantly survived?"

The threat was barely veiled now. A blade wrapped in silk, but still sharp enough to cut.

"We endured," the King said flatly.

"You endured." The envoy leader’s smile was radiant. "How fortunate. Though one wonders how you might fare against a more... coordinated assault. The Empire, of course, would never wish such hardship upon its friends." He spread his hands in a gesture of benevolence. "Which is precisely why these terms are so generous—they ensure your protection."

Prince Rieran took a step forward, his voice sharp with anger.

"Protection? You call stripping our sovereignty protection?"

The envoy leader’s attention shifted to Rieran like a predator spotting movement in tall grass.

"Ah, the young prince. How passionate." His tone dripped with patronizing amusement. "Youth often mistakes prudence for cowardice. But your father understands the realities of power, don’t you, Your Majesty?"

King Ruger’s hand moved to Rieran’s shoulder—a gentle grip, but firm. A wordless warning.

But the envoy leader wasn’t finished.

"Of course, if these terms seem... burdensome, we could discuss alternatives." His smile turned almost playful, and something cold settled in Northern’s stomach. "Perhaps Princess Roma would be interested in a diplomatic marriage? The Emperor’s sixth son is still unwed. Such a union would solve so many problems."

Roma’s face went pale. Then red.

Northern saw it happen—saw Rieran’s composure shatter in real time. The prince’s hand moved toward his blade, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out like cords.

’Don’t. Don’t give him what he wants—’

Rieran moved before anyone could stop him.

"You DARE—"

"Prince Rieran!" The King’s voice cracked like a whip across the hall.

But it was too late.