CHAPTER 167: THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES

The title of ’Emperor’ felt... heavy. It settled on Nox’s shoulders with a weight that was more real than any physical crown. He stood in the dragon’s lair, the third Royal Flag now a part of his own banner, and felt the shift in the world’s Scripture. He was no longer just a player in the game; he was a game mechanic.

The dragon, whose name was Ignis, seemed to sense the change. "The world now recognizes your authority, little Emperor," its voice rumbled. "The other gods will feel it, a new weight on the scales of power. They will not be pleased."

"Let them be mad," Nox said. He turned to his companions. "We’re leaving. Ignis, you’re with us."

The dragon let out a sound like grinding continents. "I do not ’go’ anywhere, mortal. I am a mountain. This is my domain."

"Not anymore," Nox said. "Your domain is now wherever I tell you it is. You swore an alliance."

Ignis was silent for a moment. "You are an infuriatingly arrogant creature." It then began to move, its massive body uncoiling from its pile of treasure. "Fine. But I will require a tribute of at least ten thousand gold coins per day for my troubles."

Nox just stared at him. "I’ll give you a share of whatever we loot. That’s the deal."

"...Acceptable."

The journey back to Portentia with a mountain-sized obsidian dragon in tow was, to put it mildly, conspicuous. They didn’t march; they flew. Ignis was a storm of black scales and volcanic smoke in the sky, a terrifying and undeniable statement of power. The other players and factions on the ground didn’t just get out of the way; they fled, their own petty squabbles forgotten in the face of the new, terrifying power that now dominated the skies.

They arrived back at their capital to find the city in a state of high alert. Vexia had felt the shift in the world’s power and had prepared for the worst.

When they saw Ignis land in the plains outside the city, his massive form blotting out the sun, the entire army on the walls collectively held its breath.

Then they saw Nox, a tiny, armored figure, riding on the dragon’s head.

A cheer erupted from the city, a single, massive roar of pure, unadulterated adoration for their god-king, their Emperor, who had gone out to challenge a god and had returned with a dragon.

---

The next month was a period of consolidation and growth that the world had never seen. With Ignis as their ultimate deterrent, no other pantheon dared to directly challenge Nox’s territory. Zeus fumed on Olympus, but he could not risk a direct confrontation with an ancient dragon. The God-War settled into a tense, cold-war stalemate.

Nox used the time. His kingdom, which was now being called the ’Void Imperium’ by the other players, expanded. Refugees, both human and non-human, flocked to his banner, seeking protection from the tyrannical gods and the chaotic wilderness. Dwarven smiths, drawn by the promise of the god-forged metals from Hephaestus’s temple, set up forges in the city. Elven mages, intrigued by Vexia’s mastery of rune magic, founded a new academy.

Portentia was no longer just a fortified city; it was becoming a civilization.

And Nox was at its center. He was not a distant, silent king anymore. He was an active, driving force. He used his new Solar Flare ability, a controlled burst of void-touched holy fire, to cleanse the surrounding farmlands of lingering corruption. He used his mastery of the void to help the Dwarven smiths forge new, impossible alloys.

He was building. Creating.

But with his new title came new problems. The Administrator, the silent, observing hand of the System, began to take a more active role.

One evening, as Nox was overseeing the construction of a new outer wall, a sleek black interface appeared in his vision.

[Designation: Emperor Nox.]

[A new global scenario is being initiated: ’The Shattered Crown’.]

[Objective: The old world has left behind many artifacts of power. Heirlooms of fallen kingdoms. The crowns of forgotten kings. These artifacts are now re-surfacing. Collect them. Re-forge them. Create a crown worthy of a true Emperor.]

’So, a treasure hunt,’ Nox thought.

[Each artifact will grant a significant boost to your faction’s power,] Liona explained. [Control of these artifacts will be the deciding factor in the next phase of the God-War.]

The first artifact’s location appeared on his map. It was in a place that made his blood run cold.

The ruins of an old orphanage. His old orphanage.

"Of course," he whispered to himself. "It’s always personal."

He knew he had to go. This was not a quest he could delegate.

He found Serian in the new library that Vexia had established. She was reading a book to a group of human and elven children. She looked up and smiled as he entered.

"I have to leave for a while," he said, his voice quiet. "A mission. I have to do it alone."

The smile faded from her face, replaced by a look of quiet understanding. "Where are you going?"

"To face a ghost," he said.

He didn’t explain further. He didn’t need to. She just nodded. "Be careful, Nox."

"Always am," he lied.

He left the city that night, a lone, dark figure flying into the night sky on his void-black wings. He was not just going on a treasure hunt. He was going back to the beginning, to the place where his story had started. He was going to confront the one enemy he had never truly defeated: his own, forgotten past.

---

The orphanage was a skeleton. The fire that had claimed it years ago had been hot enough to warp the steel frame, leaving a twisted, blackened husk that clawed at the gray, perpetually overcast sky of the city’s forgotten district. Nox landed silently on the cracked asphalt of the playground, the rusted chains of the swings groaning in the wind.

This place was a graveyard of memories he had tried to bury. He remembered the cold linoleum floors, the smell of bleach and cheap stew, the constant, gnawing hunger that was more than just a lack of food.

He walked toward the main entrance, his armored boots crunching on broken glass. The front doors were gone, leaving a dark, gaping maw.

’Liona, scan the area.’

[Analysis: The objective, the ’Crown of the Nameless King’, is located in the sub-basement. The structure is permeated with a high concentration of psychic residue. Expect memory-based constructs.]

’More ghosts,’ he thought with a sigh. ’Great.’

He stepped inside. The interior was a maze of collapsed ceilings and debris-choked hallways. But as he walked, the ruins began to shift. The blackened walls became clean, if sterile, white. The rubble vanished, replaced by the scuffed but polished floors he remembered. The flickering fluorescent lights hummed back to life.

He was no longer in a ruin. He was in the past.

A small boy, no older than six, with his own face and big, frightened eyes, ran past him, chased by three older, larger boys.

"Gonna get you, freak!" one of them yelled.

Nox just watched them go. ’Inefficient. I should have just broken his leg.’

He continued down the hallway, the orphanage of his memory rebuilding itself around him. He passed the cramped dormitory with its rows of squeaky metal beds. He passed the dreary cafeteria where he had learned to eat fast, before someone stronger took his food.

He reached the Head Matron’s office. The door was closed. He remembered the last time he had stood here, a small, bruised boy, trying to explain why he had fought back.

The door opened. The Head Matron, a tall, severe woman with a face that seemed to have been carved from ice, stood there. Her spectral form was a perfect replica of the woman who had made his childhood a living hell.

"What is it this time, Number 87?" the ghost of the Matron asked, her voice a cold, dismissive hiss. "Have you been causing trouble again?"

"My name is Nox," he said, his voice quiet.

The ghost just scoffed. "You have no name. You are an orphan. A number. A burden on the system. You are nothing."

’She’s a construct,’ he reminded himself. ’Just data. Just a memory.’ But the words still stung, an echo of a wound he thought had long since healed.

He just walked past her, into the office. The room was exactly as he remembered it: a large, imposing desk, a single, uncomfortable wooden chair for the ’problem children’, and on the wall behind the desk, a framed needlepoint sampler with the words ’Obedience is a Virtue’.

The Crown was on the desk. It was a simple, twisted circlet of blackened, pitted iron, radiating an aura of profound loneliness and despair.

[The Crown of the Nameless King (Artifact Fragment)]

[Description: An artifact born from the collective sorrow and anonymity of forgotten children. It represents the strength found in having nothing to lose.]

He reached for it.

The moment his fingers touched the cold iron, the office dissolved. The world went white, and then reformed.

He was in a different room. A small, dark, windowless closet. The smell of dust and old cleaning supplies was thick in the air. He knew this place. This was ’The Quiet Room’. This was where they put him when he was ’being difficult’.

A small boy was huddled in the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, crying silently.

It was him. A younger, more broken version of himself.

"This is what you are," the Matron’s voice echoed from the walls. "A frightened little boy, locked in the dark. You can put on armor, you can call yourself a king, but you will never escape this room. This is your truth."

The memory-Nox looked up, his face streaked with tears. "It’s not fair," he whispered. "I didn’t do anything wrong."

Nox just looked at his younger self. He felt a surge of the old, familiar rage, the desire to smash the walls, to burn this whole place to the ground.

But then he remembered Serian’s words. ’You are building a wall around yourself, Nox.’

He walked over and knelt in front of the small, crying boy. He didn’t say ’it’s okay’. He didn’t say ’be strong’.

"No," he said, his voice quiet. "It’s not fair."

The memory-Nox looked at him, his tear-filled eyes wide with surprise.

"They’re wrong," Nox continued. "You’re not a number. You’re not nothing." He reached out and placed a hand on the small boy’s shoulder. He didn’t use the void. He didn’t use any power. He just... touched him. "You are not alone in this room."

A faint, golden light began to emanate from his hand. It was not the holy light of Serian’s power. It was something else. A small, stubborn warmth that was entirely his own.

The memory-Nox stared at him, and the tears began to slow. A flicker of something new appeared in his eyes. Hope.

The closet dissolved.

Nox was back in the Head Matron’s office. The ghost of the Matron was staring at him, her icy composure finally cracking. "What... what did you do?"

"I forgave him," Nox said.

He looked at the ghost, at the spectral embodiment of all his childhood pain. And he felt... nothing. The anger was gone. The hatred was gone. There was just a quiet, empty pity.

"You’re just a sad old woman who was afraid of a little boy," he said. "You’re the one who’s nothing."

He reached out and touched her forehead. A pulse of his own, now-tempered void energy flowed from his hand. It did not consume her. It just... released her.

The ghost of the Head Matron looked at him, her face a mask of shocked disbelief. Then, her form wavered, and she dissolved into a shower of quiet, gray motes of light.

The psychic residue that had haunted the orphanage for years was gone.

Nox turned and picked up the Crown of the Nameless King. As his fingers closed around it, the cold iron warmed, the aura of despair replaced by a quiet, resilient strength.

He had not just conquered the dungeon. He had made peace with it.

He walked out of the orphanage, back into the gray light of the city. He looked at the iron circlet in his hand. It was not a crown of power, but a crown of survival. A reminder that he was not just the sum of his pain, but the product of his will to endure it.

He put the crown on his head, and it dissolved, its power flowing into him.

[Artifact ’The Crown of the Nameless King’ assimilated.]

[Your Willpower has been permanently and significantly increased.]

[New Passive Ability Unlocked: Unbreakable. You are now highly resistant to all forms of mental and emotional manipulation.]

He stood for a long moment in the silent playground, then he spread his void-black wings and launched himself into the sky, flying back toward his kingdom, toward his companions, toward his future.

He had faced the ghosts of his past. And for the first time, he was truly free of them. He was no longer just the Void Monarch, a title born of anger and power. He was Nox. And he was finally ready to be a king.