The Last Hours Of Twenty-Two

“I pay my respects to His Majesty, King of the Polia Kingdom.”

“I can’t exactly say ‘welcome.’ I assume you came because your nation sank one of our merchant ships.”

“Yes. I will explain that matter. There was a mistake in the sinking of your ship.”

“A mistake? What kind of ‘mistake’ leads to shelling a ship and sending it to the bottom?”

“According to the report, they ignored our order to heave to. We therefore had to fire several warning shots, and while firing near them as they continued to flee, a round accidentally struck the hull, hit the fuel tanks, and caused an explosion that sank her.”

His explanation sounded like a plea. In short: they “rightfully” ordered the ship to heave to; when the order was ignored, they fired warnings; as the ship kept running, they fired close—and “accidentally” hit her, the shot setting off the fuel and sinking her.

“Isn’t that merely your one-sided account? We will need to verify the facts. I understand there are surviving crew. When will you send them to us?”

“For the investigation, they must remain in custody for a time. We need to question them as to why they fled.”

“You presume to imprison our subjects at will? How discourteous the Doicheun Empire is!”

Ian slammed the arm of the throne with his fist, his anger plain. The Doicheun ambassador swallowed his own rising fury; in earlier days he would have retorted, but now he had to watch Polia’s mood.

“To ascertain matters precisely, we have taken necessary measures. We beg Your Majesty’s understanding.”

“Hmph. Since you say it is an imperial matter, I will let that pass—for now. But it is absurd for you alone to investigate. We will dispatch our own commission.”

“A commission?”

“Why—may we not? Why should we leave the investigation of our sunken merchantman solely to your empire?”

He meant: why trust Doicheun alone? The ambassador hesitated, then nodded.

“Understood. We grant permission to send investigators.”

He ought to have said so at once; clearly he had anticipated this request and gotten leave beforehand. In any case, Polia would send investigators and learn the full circumstances.

“Setting this aside, I would prefer there be no more attacks on our merchantmen. From the standpoint of peaceful trade, how could we dare sell to your empire if we must fear for our ships?”

The warning was clear: keep this up and we stop selling war materiel. Once, Doicheun would have scoffed; but needing vast quantities of munitions, they could only placate.

“Yes. We will exercise far greater caution.”

“I trust you will. We have no wish to be at odds with the Doicheun Empire. Of course, if the investigation shows our ship bore no fault, we expect proper compensation from your empire. May we count on that?”

“O-of course.”

The words came hard. Ian, however, stood firm. The ambassador withdrew from the audience chamber; the chancellor and gathered ministers wore frankly delighted looks.

Before Ian’s reign, no king had spoken so directly to an imperial ambassador. Perhaps because of that, the ministers’ faces showed deepened respect for their king.

“Chancellor, assemble a team of investigators to send to the Doicheun Empire. We must learn precisely how our ship was sunk.”

“As you command.”

Even the chancellor looked somewhat elated—when else could one raise one’s voice to an empire?

Though this had erupted suddenly, Ian judged similar incidents likely from here on.

‘The worse things get, the more they’ll try to choke off supplies to the enemy.’

It might not be Doicheun next time; the Moria or Noma Empires could target Polian shipping. The chief tool, he thought, would be submarines. He would gather technical talent for sonar-like detectors and push development.

‘They say our ship “fled”? Were they hiding something? If true, that would be another problem.’

December 31.

The year’s end had come. Tomorrow he would be a year older. Time’s flow was palpable.

‘So another year passes like this.’

Next year he would be twenty-three. Still young, but since becoming king, time seemed to race. Perhaps it felt that way because his own time had grown scarce—at some point he had lived only for the work of a king.

‘Do I truly need to meet a woman?’

Such a meeting would not be casual. He was a king; the woman would be a future queen. The thought alone made the act of meeting someone feel burdensome.

“Your Majesty, what occupies your thoughts?”

He turned. Count Dimentis stood there, impeccably dressed—a reminder that they were at the year-end ball. Ian shook off his reverie.

“Just thinking of this and that.”

“On a night like this, set aside worries of state and enjoy yourself.”

“I am enjoying myself—watching people from here is rather entertaining.”

He sat in a high-backed chair on a raised platform. The Hall of Waves, ever resplendent, was packed. One change: the space reserved only for royals had been removed, opening the floor.

People laughed, chatted, and danced. From his height, it was a pleasing panorama. Even now, countless ladies sent glances his way—each hoping to become queen.

“Quite beautiful, are they not?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“The ladies nearest us. Not one is plain. I daresay every beauty in the kingdom is gathered here.”

“They are beauties, to be sure.”

There was no denying it: all natural beauties—this world knew no cosmetic surgery. And they all wanted him. Any man would envy it.

If a king favored a lady, she could well become his that very night. Ian was the odd one. By next year, it would be his fourth on the throne; yet he had taken no consort and had no child—a failing for a king. Without his firmly established royal authority, nobles would already have raised an uproar to find him a queen.

‘I know they whisper about it—but I can’t force what my heart won’t accept.’

Some even gossiped that he preferred men; more often they said he could not forget Michelle, now Empress of Magnia, his former fiancée. Both were false, yet the talk was wearying.

‘Should I just choose someone—anyone—and see?’

They were of good houses, of striking beauty. If he merely held out his hand, a page of history would be written. The impulse flared—then cooled. If he were impulsive, he would have done it long ago.

“I know what you’re suggesting, but no. I’m not ready to meet a lady.”

“As you wish.”

Because Ian stated it clearly, Dimentis withdrew. Without Mental Manipulation, the count might have persisted—times like this made such conditioning convenient. Yet he also disliked how passive it made people around him.

‘Too passive.’

This was why he did not use it on everyone. If all near him became obedient instruments, it would be frightening in another way—however intelligent and thoughtful they might be, in the end they were subjects of his power.

Shaking off the thought, Ian’s eyes caught on a scene: his younger sister, Charlotte, taking someone’s hand and moving toward the center of the Hall of Waves. He had never seen that before, and he could not help but watch.

Her partner looked like a boy her own age. Hand in hand, they began to dance to the music. Ian could only think: what is this?

He knew, of course—it was a dance. But to see the little sister he had watched since she was a baby clasp a boy’s hand and lean into a dance—his heart rebelled.

‘Hey—his hand on her waist?!’

As the music swelled, the boy’s hand rose to her waist; they turned in circles. Sparks seemed to fly from Ian’s eyes. He wanted to leap down and pry them apart—but his head prevailed.

‘Ngh. At that age, it’s normal…’

Tomorrow she would turn thirteen. In his original homeland, she’d be starting middle school; with Western stature, she already had a young lady’s poise. He should respect a girl’s feelings.

‘It’s just a dance.’

If he made a scene, he would be branded the overprotective brother. He waited for the music to end—and at last it did. They stepped apart; Ian exhaled.

Count Dimentis, evidently watching too, chuckled.

“Ah, the bloom of youth—both of them.”

“She’s still very young.”

“Her Highness turns thirteen next year. It’s an age for a betrothal.”

“I will not make my sister a pawn of politics. When she comes of age and finds someone she loves, then she will marry.”

“If that is Your Majesty’s will, understood.”

Again the count withdrew. Ian kept an eye on the boy—was he being clingy? Thankfully, after a light chat, they parted. Relieved, Ian had to laugh at himself.

‘Not quite a sister complex, but… I do care too much, don’t I?’

He had been at her side since her infancy; he could not help but mind. Just then, Charlotte brightened at the sight of someone.

Who could it be? Ian glanced—and blinked.

‘What—Armin?’

He rarely saw Armin at parties. He stepped up, smiling, and greeted Charlotte. Well, that made sense—they had dined together before.

‘What are they talking about?’

Even with Telekinesis and Mental Manipulation, at this distance he could not overhear. Were he not the king, he might drift closer and join them; as it was, he could only chafe.

‘Hm? Dancing again? With Armin this time?’

They exchanged light courtesies and faced each other to dance. For no rational reason, Ian felt peevish. Not because he hadn’t danced with his sister—he had opened the ball with her earlier.

‘Why does even Armin feel like a wolf now?’

So this was why brothers distrusted any man beside a pretty sister—even Armin. What would he feel when she brought someone she truly loved someday?

‘Ugh, enough. Still—he dances well.’

Armin, who had poured himself into carrier construction, somehow danced deftly. The height difference struck Ian—Armin was short; standing with twelve-year-old Charlotte, they were nearly the same height.

‘Same height as a twelve-year-old girl—though Charlotte is tall. If she outgrows him later, that will be a sight.’

A presence approached. Ian turned—and caught his breath at the beauty drawing near. A platinum-blonde lady, with a magnetism that pulled at the eye, in a sky-blue, splendid gown that suited her perfectly.

The Royal Guards barred her; no one approached Ian’s dais without leave.

“Your Majesty, may I speak with you?”

“And who are you?”

“I am Princess Adrina di Magnia. Would Your Majesty grant me the favor of a conversation?”

Magnia—an imperial princess of the Magnia Empire. Judging by her age, likely the current emperor’s younger sister. In any case, she struck Ian as a formidable young woman.