"So this is the starry sky... It's beautiful."
The tranquil space was exceptionally beautiful. The vast Milky Way and countless stars sparkled like silver lanterns. Through the Honkai hyperdimensional Webway formed by violet-red lines, particles, and arcs of light, the stars flickered in and out of sight, revealing the immensity of the universe.
During rapid warp travel, the spiral arms of the star sea undulated like waves of grass, while the interstellar clouds of nebulae rolled like sea tides—some forming circles, others morphing into triangles... truly a magnificent sight.
Having shed her heavy silver armor, Artoria wore a blue dress as she quietly withdrew her gaze. Traveling this deep into space was an experience she had never known before.
In a bright, spacious hall, the glow of the cosmos and the brilliance of stars streamed through, illuminating the Round Table Knights gathered near the window. Some stood, some leaned, all with complex expressions as they gazed down at the massive fleet sprawling to the edge of the world. On the thick armor plating, the Imperial double-headed eagle insignia gleamed brilliantly.
Outside the porthole, a vast number of Imperial Navy vessels were on their return journey. The purple base with gold trim marked their identity clearly.
At the center of the fleet, several hundred-kilometer-long Retribution-class Type 3 battleships stood out prominently. It was obvious this was a detachment of the Astartes Third Legion Black Templars returning home.
"Merlin, thank you..."
Artoria stood up, her expression solemn as she addressed the court mage, who stood with his back to the floor-to-ceiling window, positioned in the center of the lounge listening to the Empire's broadcast.
After reviewing up-to-date military intelligence on the holographic screen and learning of the actions of various Imperial military police units, Artoria was genuinely impressed by what Merlin had done.
To be the first to surrender—even without a shred of hope for victory. If it had been her, she would have hesitated. Only Merlin, someone utterly unconcerned with others' opinions—or rather, someone so shameless and thick-skinned—could have done it.
Yet it was precisely this shameless man who may have saved billions of lives in their world.
Perhaps to show Merlin and Artoria's group just how correct their decision was—and to enhance the sense of superiority granted by their special treatment—the holographic broadcast within the private room played footage of suppressing rebels and executing resistors.
"Mom, I don't want to die!"
"Servants of Satan!"
"B*tch! You'll die a horrible death!"
"Do you know what you are? Trash! A bunch of cowards hiding in armor! Come on, one-on-one me if you dare!"
"Don't kill me... I'll do anything, please!"
"You bastard! Don't touch me!"
The modern city lay in ruins, filled with shouting and deafening roars.
In a cleared open space, thousands of Imperial soldiers stood in formation with weapons in hand.
Bang!
One of the loudest hecklers had half his face smashed by an iron fist. His eye socket split, eyeball bursting out like a colorful fabric shop exploded—red, black, purple splattered everywhere. He was tossed aside like a dead dog, gasping faintly but no longer breathing in, completely motionless, clearly dying.
"...."
Instantly, the brutal display by the Imperial army silenced the captured resistance fighters.
"What, cat got your tongues? Why not keep shouting?"
Hands behind his back, the officer with a captain's insignia on his chest wore a lightweight powered suit of the Empire's auxiliary forces. His emotionless voice rang out coldly from his helmet, "Shut them up."
"Yes, sir!"
The soldiers, wielding various weapons, walked up to the newly captured prisoners. With cruel smiles, they picked out each of those who had just been cursing, then skillfully used knife hilts, gunstocks, and fists to smash their teeth, mouths, and molars.
Behind their tactical helmets, their faces remained cold and solemn. Their eyes even showed a sick, bloodthirsty madness. They didn't see the people before them as their own kind—just livestock to be slaughtered.
"Raise weapons."
"Ready."
"Fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang bang bang!
The sobbing prisoners were kicked to the ground with their hands tied behind their backs. Before them yawned a large pit, and at the officer's command, gunfire rang out—hundreds of bloody flowers bloomed. The headless corpses, their skulls blown open, were hurled lifelessly into the pit.
In one corner of the pit, Imperial soldiers periodically dumped barrel after barrel of pale blue rapid-decomposition solvent. With a gurgling sound, the accumulated corpses at the bottom dissolved at a speed visible to the naked eye.
It was easy to imagine that if this place were turned into a forest park someday, it would grow quite well.
"Next group! Move it!"
...
"Efficient and orderly killing machines."
The red-haired, melancholy knight with handsome features offered his opinion.
The Imperial soldiers' attitude—treating killing as a stepping stone to success, even taking pleasure in it—was shocking to someone accustomed to the medieval knightly style of noble warfare.
On the constantly broadcasting holographic screens, footage flashed continuously from outside their universe—other worlds undergoing regime changes and "restructuring."
The other Round Table Knights wore equally grim expressions. They had already experienced the Empire's madness firsthand when answering the call of the Swirl of the Root—even suffering total annihilation once (referring to their departure as Heroic Spirits without class distinctions).
This comprehensive third-person view of the Empire's various warzones was an unprecedented and novel experience. At the same time, the sheer aura of violence surrounding the Imperial forces made them uneasy.
War drives people mad. Capital dehumanizes them.
The military merit nobility system Selene instituted combined both—madness and dehumanization within a controlled framework, with order.
Military achievements equated to capital gain.
Anyone who enlisted and fought bravely on the battlefield for the Empire—conquering lands and defeating enemies—would, based on specific postwar achievements, receive a matching title of nobility, along with land, wealth, indentured households, and even official status. The more enemy heads taken, the higher the title and rewards.
Even if they died in battle, the title would pass to their eldest legitimate son or a designated family heir. While the noble rank would generally decrease by generation, Selene had specially decreed that for ordinary soldiers, the second generation would not lose rank, and only the third would face reduction.
After all, in interstellar warfare, some unlucky souls might be bombed to death before ever seeing the enemy. If a soldier had just earned the most basic Tier-1 military merit title and died, should his child immediately become untitled?
Kind Selene would never allow such unsustainable exploitation.
If he died, his child would inherit the full title. Only if that child earned no new merits and died would the title begin to decrease.
This small policy favoring the grassroots was the root cause of the terrifying recklessness and fanaticism seen in the Empire's colonial auxiliary troops.
After all, it truly did benefit them.
In other words, even if one generation could only rise one tier, the father dies, the son follows—as long as new achievements are made, the title doesn't decrease. With luck and valor, the son might die after rising another tier. The grandson would then hold a Tier-2 military title. The grandson fights, earns new merits, rises to Tier-3, and so on. Great-grandson inherits...
This was truly using one's life to fight for wealth and nobility for the family and descendants. No empty promises involved.
Moreover, the heir could also be a brother, as long as a will was left beforehand.
This was a system every enlisted soldier, whether auxiliary or regular, could enjoy—tangible and real benefits.
There were many other detailed regulations, too. For instance, the decapitation criteria for official military personnel versus civilian resisters differed. Between different regimes, the criteria also varied based on territory, GDP, military strength, level of civilization, and so on. The intensity of space battles, landings, field engagements, urban warfare, and trench warfare also altered the criteria. Individual strength, official rank...
Standards are just that—standards. The actual merit value for each war is determined by the presiding military judge of the unit involved, supplemented by verification, adjustment, and submission from the AI adjutant system. The theater commander signs off, the Ministry of Military Affairs reviews, and once confirmed, it is passed to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Finally, the colonial governor's office executes the implementation.
Though it may seem cumbersome, given it's a military matter under the Empress' direct attention, the efficiency is incredibly high!
Any issue here—and losing one's rank or life is the lightest punishment. Dragging down one's family or clan is not uncommon.
Officers are judged by a separate set of criteria: rewards and punishments go hand in hand. Deeds are rewarded, failures punished—clear and absolute.
The most basic rule: to earn merit, captains and above must deduct the number of their own unit's casualties from the enemy kills before calculating battle achievements.
Officers must consider kill ratios, total enemy kills by their unit, operational efficiency, the intensity and importance of battles.
Otherwise, a powerful officer could just go on endless peacekeeping solo hunts, farming head counts like a mindless executioner.
Will it go out of control?
The Empire has no shortage of land and is never concerned about being unable to honor rewards.
With Selene's oversight as a failsafe, madness is permitted only within bounds. Step out of line? Get executed. Simple and brutal.
The Empire's advanced Honkai-based medical system also ensures that returning veterans do not suffer from post-traumatic stress or similar issues.
Mental imprints, benefit alignment, family responsibility, subconscious ideological influence, and ever-present propaganda have cultivated a unique and paradoxical mindset among enlisted Imperial soldiers.
They don't view enemies as their own kind and can commit mass slaughter and genocide without guilt. But once a conquered territory is officially annexed into the Empire, military rule ends, civil officials arrive, and taxes begin, they adopt the new world as their own at an unbelievable pace, integrating new auxiliary corps without hesitation.
Armies that had just been at each other's throats might be fighting side by side the next moment.
For the modern Imperial citizen, true identity is no longer based on ethnicity, bloodline, or culture—but on loyalty to the Empress Selene.
Loyalty to the Empress, faith in the God-Emperor, and paying taxes: that makes you kin. Otherwise? You can be killed. Your head counts for merit.
Domestic affairs, criminal justice, civil law, and judiciary matters—that's the domain of civil officials and their own performance metrics.
Artoria remained silent, her gaze drifting to an oil painting mounted above the Imperial double-headed eagle.
"Ely..."
The portrait showed a woman with long, flowing hair in a sacred platinum gown. Her symmetrical features were perfect, her silver hair radiant like light itself, and her crimson eyes vibrant beyond anything human.
Perhaps the artist intended to highlight the Empress' mercy, motherhood, and divinity. The background featured clear blue skies, floating islands, and gardens. Selene had a faint smile, a halo above her head, and cherubic angels circled her. Far removed from the icy, oppressive figure Artoria had glimpsed in reality.
Because of this, whenever Artoria pondered things, she would inevitably recall that snow-like artificial woman. Her purity was unforgettable. As she glanced at her revived knights from the corner of her eye, she rediscovered her purpose as a knight.
Maybe, if she earned enough merit, she could submit a request to the Empress...
"A 'king' who guides the people, huh..."
Staring into the saintly blue eyes of the woman in the painting, Artoria murmured. At that moment, she couldn't help but reflect: perhaps her own act of hiding her womanhood to be king wasn't so noble after all.
"Not really, Saber... hmm, now that you've been revived, should I call you King Arthur, Your Majesty... uh, Miss Pendragon? Rather than 'guide,' I think 'ruler,' 'sovereign,' or 'dominator' might be more fitting."
From the corner, the ever-inconspicuous Waver Velvet spoke up. Realizing who the current Empress was, he hastily adjusted his phrasing.
"Why would someone like me, a third-rate magus, even receive a ticket to the Imperial Capital?" Waver muttered as he trembled, pulling a cigar case from his pocket with shaky hands. Lighting one with even shakier fingers, his smoke-holding hand quivered nonstop.
His recent experiences felt like a rollercoaster. Every time he thought he was about to die, he either fainted or was captured. When he was finally taken by the Imperial soldiers, a scan evaluated him with: "Combat Power: 0."
"Species: Human adult male. Unarmed. Physically sub-healthy. Mana response extremely low (his magic circuits were long exhausted by then). Threat level near zero. Verdict: Civilian."
Then a rifle butt knocked him out, and when he woke up, the whole world had changed.
"I'm sorry, I don't know how to offer comfort. But I'm no longer a king, just a commoner. Please, call me Artoria, Mr. Waver." She paused for a moment, scanning the room.
"Mr. Waver, has anyone else been conscripted?"
"Probably..."
Creak~
"Oh! Isn't that Saber? Long time no see!"
A cheerful male voice came from the open door. Two figures appeared—one in blue, one in violet, one behind the other. Waver choked on his words.
...
The Imperial Capital, Grand Palace, Schönbrunn Palace.
Selene withdrew her gaze from the observation of the hyperdimensional Webway.
It seemed Cú Chulainn really was Fu Hua's type. And she was tenacious too. Because she never got to fulfill her promise to fight Cú Chulainn, she had exchanged all her battle merits just to revive him. Just to fight again? Or was it the mentor syndrome?
Shaking her head, Selene tossed aside such trivial matters. She focused her attention back on the pile of documents stacked on the desk. Sigh... not entirely trivial perhaps. With the administration grown so massive, even if she only handled high-level directives and summary reports, the backlog was still considerable.
Creak~
Selene had just sat down and picked up a stack of accumulated paperwork when the gilded doors, adorned with silver and gold engravings, were pushed open by the chamberlain. Sebas, left behind to manage the Capital, entered swiftly holding a folder, his expression gleaming with joy.
"Milady... oh." Sebas keenly sensed something different in Selene's aura and promptly offered his congratulations. "Your projection has returned. It seems your trip was quite fruitful."
Selene tilted her head. "Ah, it was alright. The spoils of war still need plenty of refining."
"This is...?"
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