Utalia, capital of the Empire.

  Metallic high-rises of the commercial district rose above the residential streets, their smooth facades reflecting layers of holographic billboards. s scrolled endlessly through the air: discounted gender alterations for a limited time, the latest cybernetic augmentations, new imperial products released across the sectors.

  Hovercars drifted along the avenues at regulated heights, never too high—for safety, as imperial officials proclaimed. Below, crowds moved in constant flow. People wore high-tech garments threaded with neon accents, bodies enhanced, altered, perfected.

  Yet within the city, one place stood apart.

  The Imperial Agora rose above the surrounding districts, a vast open square enclosed by monumental structures arranged in a U-shape—residences of imperial families, ancient and modern fused together. At its center, a stone park surrounded a grand fountain, its waters flowing with ceremonial precision.

  Beyond it lay the Agoge, the training grounds for imperial youth.

  Lucius passed through it without pause.

  Ahead of him stretched a long, ascending staircase carved from dark stone. At its summit stood the Pantheon—a monumental structure of obsidian, severe and unyielding. Red banners lashed violently in the wind, each marked with black sigils representing the houses under imperial rule. At least eight flew visibly, their symbols unmistakable.

  Lucius stopped at the base of the stairs.

  The Anubian Guard awaited him.

  Eight figures stood motionless—robots shaped in the image of jackals with humanoid bodies, forged from dark blue, shimmering metal traced with gold inlays. Each held a spear of the same material, grounded but ready.

  Their eyes ignited with a cold blue glow.

  A low frequency filled the air as they scanned him—not his face, not his form, but his blood.

  Confirmation passed between them.

  The guards stepped aside in perfect unison, forming two silent lines along the staircase. Each bowed as Lucius advanced, one measured step at a time, climbing toward the Pantheon.

  With every step, the city below seemed to shrink.

  At the summit, Lucius passed through the massive doors, leaving behind the gleaming city for a torch-lit hall steeped in shadow. Murals stretched along the walls, depicting the Empire’s history—its founding, its conquests, its rise—nearly six hundred years etched into stone and pigment.

  The farther he walked, the older the murals became.

  The doors to the throne room creaked open.

  No guards awaited him. No aides. Only the flicker of torchlight and the echo of his footsteps.

  Inside, obsidian pillars lined the hall, drawing the eye toward the throne at its far end.

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  Upon it sat the Emperor.

  The Emperor wore no armor, no crown—only linen trousers and a red royal cape draped loosely over his shoulders. His beard and hair had begun to whiten with age, yet his irises glowed a steady, unnatural red.

  Lucius stopped at the base of the steps.

  He knelt.

  “Father.”

  The Emperor did not move. His gaze remained fixed forward, unreadable.

  “Emperor,” Lucius continued, rising. “I have secured another crystal. It is being delivered to your personal quarters as we speak.”

  A low grunt escaped the Emperor.

  “Good. I will attend to it later.” His gaze sharpened. “Tell me—how goes the war?”

  Lucius straightened fully. “We have gained ground in the western sectors. The northern front remains at a stalemate. Lord Francis is preparing a large-scale offensive once he secures the crystal he is tracking.”

  A brief pause.

  “In the southern sectors,” Lucius added, “we are losing ground. However, I am preparing a unit I would like to… introduce.”

  The Emperor’s expression hardened.

  “I gave you oversight of this campaign because I believed you capable,” he said calmly. “Do not disappoint me.”

  Lucius smiled.

  “Believe me, Father. This unit will change the course of the war.”

  He let the name settle.

  “The Shadowcorps.”

  He continued, almost casually, “Herr Müller himself has begun referring to them as Der Alptraum-Soldaten.”

  “Good. If that is all, you may leave,” the Emperor said, his voice devoid of inflection.

  Lucius hesitated for the briefest moment. He had expected more—recognition, perhaps, or approval. None came.

  He did not allow it to show.

  Lucius bowed, one hand placed against his left shoulder, then turned and departed through the same doors he had entered.

  Outside, he descended the long staircase. The city below lay spread out before him, distant and unmoving, almost like a painted image. For a moment, the sight stirred something heavy in his chest. His rule felt close—within reach.

  Then the feeling soured.

  He exhaled sharply, a low grunt of restrained anger escaping him. The throne was not as near as he had believed.

  Inside the Pantheon, the Emperor remained seated until Lucius was gone.

  Only then did he lift his arm and press a series of controls embedded into the throne. A projection flared to life in the air before him.

  A bald, older man appeared on the display. His glasses rested near the tip of his nose, a long scar carved across the side of his head. His left eye was mechanical, its lens retracting and adjusting with a faint whir as it focused.

  The man straightened immediately and bowed.

  “Mein Emperor!”

  He rose quickly, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Vhat can I do for you?”

  The Emperor let the silence linger—a quiet reminder of hierarchy—before answering.

  “I am told the Shadowcorps are ready.”

  “That is correct, mein Emperor,” the man replied without hesitation.

  The Emperor’s gaze sharpened.

  “And Eisenhart. Is he fully integrated, Herr Müller?”

  “Ah—yes!” Müller lifted a finger in sudden acknowledgment. “The initial results are quite promising. However, ve require additional in-field data to finalize our assessments.”

  For the first time, the Emperor’s expression shifted.

  A slow smile crept beneath his beard, his red irises burning brighter in the torchlight.

  “You shall have it soon,” he said calmly. “They will be deployed.”

  Müller’s mouth opened, the edge of excitement breaking through.

  The projection cut off.

  The Emperor rose from the throne and descended the steps before it, leaving the chamber through a side corridor that led toward his private quarters.

  The throne room fell silent once more.