The War Council was chaos incarnate. Spit flew. Curses rang. Hands slammed against the polished obsidian table as commanders, nobles, and officials hurled accusations like arrows across a battlefield. The king sat at the head—young, composed, unmoved.
If this had been an old court ruled by fear, no one would have dared to raise their voice in his presence. But William had only recently taken the throne. His reign was still fresh, the scent of blood and battlefield clinging to it. He lacked the majesty that demanded reverence without words.
And that was fine.
He wasn't here to be worshipped.
He was here to survive.
The screen above him flickered softly: [Turn: 6].
January. The start of a new campaign year.
And still, no one believed in the Dawn Kingdom's victory.
Perhaps they were right to doubt. A single piece of Tier 1 Equipment couldn't win a war. Not even a sniper rifle that could shatter command ranks with a whisper of thunder. William had the weapon—but not mastery.
Until now.
A month ago, he had launched a dual-front war against the Krossars and the Secessionists. The decision had sent tremors through the region. Madness, they'd called it. Reckless beyond reason. The Treaty of the Ten Emperors clearly forbade third-party interference in active conflicts.
But it never forbade a single Kingdom from fighting multiple enemies at once.
It was a suicide clause written by those who expected no one to be foolish—or bold—enough to invoke it.
The message was clear.
If you court death, don't expect rescue.
William smirked.
He'd gone home for a time, then returned. The advisors had insisted on rest. He'd received something close to it, and with it, clarity. Perhaps it was thanks to the [Perfect Body Foundation] he had unlocked in the earliest days of his cultivation. Whatever the reason, his body had become unnaturally obedient to his will.
If he commanded his kidneys to dance, he was certain they'd at least attempt a waltz.
He forced his attention back to the present.
Gwen was already deployed, and her conquest of Planet Romainia had reached a near-frightening pace. As Supreme Commander, William had assumed direct control of the military. The nobles could bark all they wanted, but none could wrest it from his grasp.
Which meant this chamber, despite the shouting, was no more than ceremonial noise.
They all knew the truth.
Romainia and Krossar would fall. It was no longer a matter of if, but when. Fear spread faster than rebellion. Wherever the enemy tried to rally, before they could even breathe the word "counterattack," the Wolves of Skatti descended.
Precise. Unforgiving. Unstoppable.
Even the Bright Kingdom—once considered a balancing power—could do nothing to halt Dawn's rise.
Because for the first time in its bloody, fractured history, the Dawn Empire had produced something the rest of the Planets had only dreamed of:
A true Tier 1 Combat Unit.
His grandfather had tried. His father had spent decades chasing the vision. The cost had been generations of failure. The level of technology, strategic ingenuity, and sheer divine luck required made the task nearly impossible.
And yet… William had done it.
Barely a year on the throne, and the impossible was now a living force shaking the empires to their core.
It was in moments like this that he feared the very Talent he was born with. It didn't just enhance skill or intuition—it bent luck, twisted fate, and whispered to destiny itself. The way things fell into place bordered on divine orchestration.
But if that power was his to command… then so be it.
A slight curl tugged at the edge of his lips.
Typical of an Emperor.
The market-like shouting came to an abrupt halt.
A low hum filled the chamber as the War Table shimmered with ethereal blue light. A holo-link flickered to life. Gwen appeared—battle-worn, blood-soaked, and glorious—encased in the only operational High Mech in the entire Dawn Empire.
She saluted sharply.
"Your Majesty. The Secessionists have been capitulated. The rebel Vold Von Dawn has been captured. We await your orders."
The chamber froze. The silence wasn't from shock—it was from confirmation. They had all suspected as much, but to hear it formally declared by the Legion Arch herself struck like a thunderclap.
The tide had turned. And this time, it was irreversible.
"Your Majesty is wise!"
"Long live the King!"
"Long live the King!"
The cries rang hollow in William's ears, but he didn't mind. His shoulders loosened, his spine relaxed. Beneath the regal posture was a boy who had barely slept. Every moment of the war, he had been simulating, calculating, relaying commands across light-years.
And every simulation had shown countless paths where he died.
No man could remain unaffected by such knowledge.
But now?
With Romainia under control and the Secessionists dismantled, the simulations shifted in his favor. The threat of defeat had dwindled to the smallest of margins—outliers, improbable catastrophes, or the interference of a Great Power.
And even that, he suspected, was only a matter of time.
For the moment, the Dawn was rising.
And none could stop it.