The archipelago

The Monarch sat at the round table, his pristine white robes matching those of the other members present. The atmosphere was heavy, yet calm, until the sudden sound of doors flinging open shattered the stillness.

"You truly are wicked!" an old but sharp voice rang out, dripping with disdain. "My son has just died, and you're already planning to introduce your bastard?"

The council members rose immediately, bowing in unison. "Greetings, Empress," they chorused.

The woman who entered defied expectations. Though advanced in age, her vigor was palpable. Her cloud-white hair was meticulously styled in an elegant bun, and her slightly wrinkled face bore the touch of refined makeup. She carried a wooden staff, its rhythmic clicks punctuating her steps as she approached the table.

"Spare me your hypocritical greetings," she snapped, her eyes blazing. "My son's body isn't even cold, and here you are, conspiring to replace him!"

The Monarch remained silent, acknowledging his wife's fury with a slight inclination of his head. Decades of shared love and trials made her anger both expected and deeply cutting.

One of the elders spoke hesitantly. "Empress, we have no choice. The direct line cannot be without an heir. We must recognize the young master in the family registry."

"With me here? I'd like to see who dares to write his name in that registry!" she retorted sharply.

Her voice grew louder as she surveyed the council. "Which of you did my son not support in his youth? Yet you stand here, scheming against his memory!"

"You all are alive, but my son is dead. Shame on every single one of you."

She moved around the table, her words cutting through the room like a blade. The elders bore her wrath in silence until the Monarch finally intervened.

"Enough!" he roared, slamming his fist on the table with such force it reverberated throughout the chamber.

The room fell silent as his commanding presence filled the space.

"I have also lost a son," he said, his voice low but steady. "Go back and organize the funeral. I understand your concern for Sol and Kol, but I will ensure their safety."

He paused, his gaze softening slightly as it met the Empress's. "The child is innocent. I am the one to blame. I will make things right for everyone."

The Empress hesitated, but she knew when to retreat. She cast a final glare at the council before leaving the room, her staff clicking against the marble floor.

Once the doors closed behind her, the Monarch gestured for the meeting to continue.

One of the elders spoke cautiously. "Although we've agreed to recognize your child, Innanos, we have not yet decided to name him the heir to the Glev family."

"His origins are troubling," another elder added. "Having lived outside the family for so long, he's an unknown. The vassals and the younger generation will not easily accept him."

"True," another chimed in. "He must prove himself. Otherwise, it would undermine those who have dedicated their lives to the family's cause."

The Monarch's eyes narrowed, and his aura flared, pressing down on the room like an invisible weight. "Are you saying my son is not fit to lead this family?"

"No, Your Majesty," one elder stammered, visibly shaken. "We only mean... for a smooth transition, he must demonstrate his worth."

The Monarch leaned back, his aura retracting. "I said I would not be unreasonable, and I will not be." His voice turned measured, each word carrying undeniable authority. "I've already given him access to the vault. That is sufficient compensation for his suffering. Beyond that, I will not interfere."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the table. "Whatever he wants, he will take for himself—like a true Glev."

The room was silent, the weight of his words settling over the council.

"At the end of the day, he is still my son," the Monarch concluded, reminding them all why he was the Absolute Monarch, who commanded not just respect, but fear.

--

While the council chamber was embroiled in heated debate, a different kind of tension filled the landing platform. The descendants of the Glev family, along with prominent figures from the vassal families, gathered to witness the arrival of the rumored young master.

This was no ordinary gathering. They were required to attend his official naming ceremony and the proceedings for the funeral, led by both the Direct Glev bloodline and this newly introduced figure.

The mood among the crowd was conflicted when it came to the previous heir. By all accounts, he was a man of undeniable talent. Yet, in a world driven by power and conquest, his pacifist ideals had rendered him a controversial leader for a military-centric family like theirs. His death was a tragic loss to some, but for others, it was a long-awaited opportunity.

Branch family members and vassals who had spent years accumulating power now saw a chance to vie for influence. But their ambitions were dampened by the sudden emergence of an unexpected obstacle on their path to the heir position.

Whispers rippled through the crowd, their tone biting and skeptical.

"I heard they found him in a prison," one voice said, dripping with disdain.

"Someone raised in the ghetto of a backward place like Biohive 81? What could we possibly expect?"

"The Monarch too—what was he thinking? Siring children at his age only invites trouble!"

"Do we even know who the mother is?" another chimed in, their voice laced with scorn.

"The previous heir was already a disgrace. If this one is worse, I'll sever all ties with the Glevs."

Their contempt and skepticism grew louder, fueled by the uncertainty surrounding the young master's origins and potential. They had come here to see for themselves—was he a tiger cub, destined to grow into a predator? Or an herbivore, easy prey for the power-hungry?

Above them, a sleek flying ship approached, its metallic sheen glinting under the warm halo that enveloped the archipelago below.

Inside the vessel, Nioh stood by a window, watching as the island came into view. It was twice the size of Biohive 81, its landscapes vibrant and inviting, bathed in a golden aura. The air seemed richer, the light more alive—a stark contrast to the harsh, sterile environment he had left behind.

Marsai, the steward assigned to escort him, stepped forward with a polite bow. "We are approaching the archipelago—Biohive 09. It is the only island-type Biohive and serves as the principal base of the fiefdom."

Her tone was formal, but not unkind. "We will be landing shortly. Please prepare yourself, young master."