Nakahara Chuuya

The Emperor, immersed in battle maps, tactical maneuvers, and the rigors of combat, hardly gave a thought to the heir to the throne, the phantom of the future, pushing everything else into the background. He spent most of his days on the training ground, where, amid the clash of blades, perfecting his own skill was his only true reality.

Here, in Nakahara's favorite part of the palace, another, shadowy imperial virtue was cultivated—the ruthless mastery of war and the cold-blooded art of swordsmanship—the ability to take life with the same sophisticated precision with which the gardener nurtured it in the neighboring courtyard.

These skills came in handy the day he personally took the life of your father—a valuable and valuable military leader, the instigator of a massive rebellion that had sowed chaos throughout the empire. This act became the final argument for his mother, the influential empress, who was finally convinced that her son needed to produce heirs. Thus began a series of endless attempts: day after day, concubines replaced one another in his chambers, leaving them as quickly as they had entered them, vanishing without a trace behind the heavy doors.

All day long, the maids continued their preparations, focused on the senseless, elegant spectacle. One ran a comb through the inky black hair, braiding in hairpins, another tautened the weightless layers of silk. Carrying a single razor-sharp stiletto into the chambers was no problem. And when the metal gleamed in the warm candlelight, producing a dry, cold clang, you engaged in a brutal but hopeless struggle. Your fury and skill with a dagger were no match for the Emperor's practiced, deadly skill. The impulsiveness of your actions had an immediate impact. The next thing you knew, the carpet pile was pressing into your cheek and the weight pinning you to the floor. His fingers closed around your neck—not to cut off your breath, but like a steel yoke, robbing you of the will to move, locking you in utter helplessness.