Demon King’s Law System

When we retrospectively review history, we often discover that, beneath the relentless currents of time, even the most sagacious leaders are not immune to moments of folly. — Chronicles of the Empire, Volume 35, Entry 7—Reflections on the Roland Era It was a summer afternoon, and the scorching sun above relentlessly radiated its heat. In anticipation of the upcoming triumphal ceremony, countless imperial guards clad in brilliant red armor had already surrounded Pier One at the docks, sealing it off from all access. One hundred paces from the dock, soldiers from the Imperial Capital's Public Security Bureau, their faces flushed with exhaustion, were doing everything in their power to maintain control. Many of them had their clothes torn, their gleaming epaulets ripped off, their proud hats yanked away, and even their boots trampled underfoot in the chaos. The thousand soldiers assigned to maintain order at the harbor found themselves helpless in the face of over fifty thousand enthusiastic spectators from the city. The crowd, bubbling with excitement, had prepared flowers, cheers, and applause—of course, many young women had even readied themselves to offer kisses or, perhaps, their chastity. Amid such frenzied emotions, the soldiers felt like a battered ship lost in a stormy sea, vulnerable to being overturned at any moment. At that very moment, they envied the imperial guards stationed within the dock's security line, who stood at ease in their perfectly arranged formations, showing off their newly issued, gleaming armor and weapons without the threat of being torn apart by a wild admirer. For this grand triumph, by order of His Majesty Emperor Augustine VI, the section of the Grand Canal leading to the Imperial Capital had been expanded—doubled in width! The Empire sacrificed the labor of ten thousand dockworkers over six months, and its treasury bore the cost of nearly three million gold coins. All this expense was for a single purpose: to ensure that the flagship of the Empire’s "Xth Expeditionary Fleet," the "Dandong," could smoothly pass through the canal and dock at the capital’s eastern harbor to be met by the cheers of the people, demonstrating the Empire’s military might. No one cared whether such a lavish expenditure for a display of power was truly worthwhile. For the former Imperial Finance Minister, who had vehemently opposed this project, had been sent into retirement by the wrathful Emperor himself. The new Finance Minister’s sole task was to stretch the imperial budget to make this extravagant spectacle possible—by any means necessary, to please that "glorious old man." Of course, the term "glorious old man" was only ever uttered deep within the recesses of the Finance Minister’s mind… very deep, indeed. As the sunlight bathed the wide surface of the canal, and the first glimpse of the sails on the horizon began to take shape, the crowd could no longer contain their excitement, breaking into cheers. As the massive warship, stretching over two hundred paces in length, slowly approached the harbor, the imposing silhouette of the ship struck awe into the hearts of all the spectators. The "Dandong," flagship of the Sixth Expeditionary Fleet, the pride of the Imperial Navy, was the largest warship ever constructed in the Empire’s history. For this grand welcome, the ship had been completely repainted and renovated. Its hull was coated in a fearsome black, and as waves of cheers rose from the crowd, the Dandong seemed like a giant, menacing sea monster inching toward the harbor, its enormous flag of thorned flowers flapping in the wind from the mast. When the anchor dropped, the tens of thousands of citizens in the harbor erupted in fervent applause. Hats flew into the air, shoes were discarded, and limbs were trampled in the frenzy. The poor Public Security soldiers could do nothing but shrink the security line as much as possible, again and again... Count Raymond, the commander of the Expeditionary Fleet, stood silently at the prow of the ship, his expression unreadable as he gazed at the jubilant crowd below. At thirty-nine, this first-class general of the Empire, and the noble Count of the Empire, was clad in his finest ceremonial armor, a light breastplate covering his body and a crimson cloak billowing in the wind behind him. Two medals—earned in previous expeditions—hung from his chest. Undoubtedly, this victory would earn him a third. But his gaze was unfocused, and if one observed closely, they would notice the subtle furrow in his brow, suggesting impatience. Damn, this armor is too heavy, and foolish! Count Raymond did not think it necessary for a naval officer to wear such cumbersome armor, designed for land forces. As for the medals, he considered them a ridiculous display. It was like nouveau riche flaunting their wealth—true nobles would never stoop to such things. He found the entire display distasteful. The cacophony of cheers from below was maddening. The sound of the crowd was like the crashing waves of a tsunami, incessantly eroding the little patience Raymond had left. He glanced down at the deck beneath his feet. The Dandong had been freshly painted three days ago in preparation for this ceremony. There was no trace of blood on the deck, and the damaged sections from the previous campaign had been replaced. Even the ram at the ship’s prow had been replaced... damn it, those sycophants had turned the ram into a statue of the Emperor himself. And supposedly, this statue had been carved by a famous sculptor just days ago. The Empire’s navy had paid an additional ten thousand gold coins for this. Imposing, yes. But did those idiots not realize that in a naval battle, the first thing to break during a collision is the ram? In Raymond’s view, spending ten thousand gold coins on that statue was a foolish waste. A sharp wooden stake would have served just as well, if not better. Deeper still, Count Raymond privately believed that organizing yet another “expedition” to the South Sea was a farcical and absurd decision. For decades, the Empire had launched successive “expeditions” to the South Seas. The region was rich with countless islands, like scattered pearls across the vast ocean, inhabited by primitive tribes, and abundant in gold, jewels, spices, and seafood. Yet, Raymond did not see these missions as “expeditions” at all. They were nothing but raids, massacres, plunder, and invasion—brutal robbery! Raymond had no qualms about this. The weak had always been preyed upon by the strong, and the weak must submit to the strong. But he believed the Empire’s repeated forays into the South Sea were misguided—these expeditions had grown too frequent, and their returns ever more meager. In the first few campaigns, the mighty Imperial Navy had swept through the region, bringing back cargoes of gold, gems, spices, and seafood, and the Empire had been awash in glory. But even the richest granary could not withstand such frequent harvesting. The repeated plundering had decimated the nearby indigenous tribes, forcing the Empire’s fleet to sail farther and farther, where replenishing supplies became a monumental challenge. The South Seas offered more than just docile natives and treasure—it also harbored oppressive heat, unpredictable weather, monstrous waves, and countless reefs, whirlpools, and storms... Over-exploitation had rapidly turned this once-prosperous region into a wasteland. Subsequent expeditions yielded fewer and fewer spoils, but the triumphal ceremonies became ever grander... Count Raymond, having commanded the last three expeditions, had earned a notorious reputation in the South Sea. Among the natives, he was known by a host of gruesome epithets: The Pirate! The Butcher! The Executioner!... His hands were stained with the blood of countless natives. To the tribes, he was a reviled invader, a demon who burned their homes and enslaved their people. Raymond didn’t care about the insults, but what troubled him was that excessive warfare had, in some ways, stimulated the development of these natives—especially their military capabilities. He had even heard rumors that, in the farthest southern reaches, some island nations had united to form a coalition to oppose the Empire’s relentless plundering. Thankfully, such concerns were no longer his to bear. He knew this was his last campaign. Afterward, he would stay in the capital, where he hoped to secure a high-ranking position in the Imperial General Staff. From there, he would bide his time until the current Minister of Military Affairs retired, at which point, with the influence of his noble family, he would ascend to that position himself. If luck favored him, perhaps he might even ascend to the office of Prime Minister in his later years. As for further expeditions? Let the next commander worry about them. Even if the natives had developed magical cannons by now, it was no longer his concern. Amid the scorching cheers, Count Raymond descended the flagship’s deck, his boots finally touching the soil of the Imperial Capital! He waved at the jubilant crowd... though his gesture resembled more the swatting of a fly. The first official, a court servant in ceremonial garb, boarded the ship to read the Emperor’s commendation and announce that the Count would be granted an audience with the Emperor tomorrow, where he would be awarded another medal. A long-desired political future lay ahead. But soon, a servant in gray approached and whispered a message into the Count’s ear—one that cast a shadow over his spirits. It was news from home. Having been at sea for over three years, Raymond had not received word of his family. The most pressing concern was his wife, who had been near childbirth when he departed. He had no idea whether she had borne him a son or a daughter. The news was: