“Your Majesty, Lynch revealed some army equipment and related parameters at the salon—things we hadn’t yet uncovered.”

The emperor was watching an opera brought back from the Federation, being played on tape in the private screening room of the palace.

The palace had a small theater used exclusively by the emperor when he wanted to rest and unwind.

At that moment, he was fully engrossed. The Gephran cultural exchange delegation had shown open disdain for everything in the Federation. In the words of the delegation leader, The Baylor Federation’s culture is as worthless as cow dung—can’t even stand upright.

As someone with a refined cultural background, the delegation leader couldn’t stand the so-called lower-class artists of the Federation’s cultural world.

Aside from a few noteworthy artists, most of their work lacked any true artistic value—either self-indulgent nonsense or crude vulgarity.

From a selection of pieces he found utterly intolerable, he still bought the rights to a few, had them distributed, and vowed never to visit the Federation again.

To him, it was a cultural wasteland.

And yet, the very works he despised were beginning to show their influence.

For example, the emperor himself was thoroughly enjoying the opera.

He hadn’t dared outright say he wanted to watch a movie—in the past, he had taken a firm stance against Federation media, convinced it led to moral decay.

So he chose an opera instead—its script originally written by a famous Gephran playwright. It was called Hayn’s Revenge or The Count of Hayn’s Revenge. The story followed a count who was betrayed and barely escaped, later exacting his revenge.

In the Gephran version, the count’s triumph stemmed from cunning—he maneuvered among enemies using wit, sowing discord that led to their mutual destruction, eventually reclaiming power.

Many considered it a classic. The noble characters were rich in personality—cunning, devious, intelligent. Even the antagonists had undeniable charm. A rare gem. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

The Federation’s version? Far bolder.

In Hayn’s Revenge, the Federation’s Count Hayn didn’t rely on wit—he used brute strength.

From his dungeon escape onward, it was all about physical prowess. A little cleverness, perhaps—but mostly force.

No intricate schemes, no wire-walking tension—just brute-force justice, a different flavor of heroism.

Even in the Federation, some complained: If Count Hayn was this strong, how could a few unarmed villains strip him of his title?

Still, the story’s popularity surged—just like now, with the emperor completely absorbed.

Every time Count Hayn crushed another foe and took one more step toward victory, the emperor felt a surge of satisfaction.

No need to think—just enjoy. The revised script wasn’t bad. If no one interrupted, it’d be perfect.

The projector stopped smoothly. Dim lights came on—just bright enough to see without hurting the emperor’s eyes.

“Maybe he’s just bragging. Lynch is a talented businessman, and exaggeration is a merchant’s nature,” the emperor said with a hint of disdain—though mostly influenced by the opera’s content.

He quickly regained composure and asked, “Have professionals look into it. Ask the military engineers whether the data is fabricated or plausible.”

The man bowed again. “It’s been reviewed. Most of it aligns with the engineers’ estimates. They believe the data is likely real.”

A glint flashed in the emperor’s eyes as he stood and began pacing. “Send in more people. Record every word.”

“And contact the Federation moles. Have them investigate discreetly—just a few targets. I want to confirm the authenticity of this data.”

The emperor wasn’t one to blindly believe or dismiss. He wanted verification.

Mr. Truman and his strategy had succeeded. Gephra’s biggest issue wasn’t the navy—it was the army.

Every war had ended the same: the army’s unreliability forced them to abandon advantages won by the navy. The consensus now was that the army’s combat effectiveness had to be urgently improved.

If not for the fact that Amellia’s homeland was coastal, even they might’ve failed to hold ground.

Each time they crushed a region’s military resistance, the army would collapse within days, forced to retreat—making all victories meaningless.

If the army had even a bit more strength, Gephra’s territory might have expanded many times over.

There weren’t many ways to fix the army. One was to dominate through superior equipment—reducing the importance of individual skill.

The other was to enhance individual soldiers’ strength, so the army could realize its full potential.

The latter was difficult, but the former—worth considering.

Gephra had a secret plan underway for a complete army rearmament.

Now, with the Federation’s equipment specs leaked, engineers had valuable reference points. They could even reverse-engineer the Federation’s land combat capabilities based on the parameters.

This would be critical in the next potential war. At the very least, they’d have a rough understanding of the Federation’s army strength—no longer charging in blindly.

“Those fools aren’t entirely useless after all…” the emperor smirked as he sat down again. “Keep a close watch.” He raised his hand, the lights dimmed, and the opera resumed.

Word quickly spread through the nobility that Lynch had clashed with members of the Privy Council over a heated army debate. Nobles who hadn’t attended the salon came to find out more.

Nobles, often seen by the public as parasites feeding off the state, weren’t always entirely negative.

At least when it came to patriotism, they were more invested—because if the nation was weak, they suffered too.

Only when the country was strong could they continue to live in power and luxury.

Unexpectedly, the incident triggered some side effects—such as a Federation spy embedded in the imperial capital catching wind of it.

“Boss, I need to take some time off…” said an employee at a café near the palace, suddenly requesting leave.

The boss frowned slightly. “Is there a reason you absolutely have to leave?”

The young man looked a bit shy. “I’m going to pick up my girlfriend from work…” The boss’s expression turned sour—he didn’t think coaxing a girlfriend was more important than work.

But then the young man added, “I’m planning to propose to her tonight!”

The boss’s expression immediately softened. He looked at the young man, smiled with pursed lips, and nodded. “Alright. Do you need an advance on your salary?”

The young man shook his head, thanked the boss for his generosity, quickly changed clothes, and left.

From the moment he stepped out of the café, the anticipation and nervousness on his face gradually faded, replaced by a deep, hidden anger.

There’s a traitor among us!

As he was thinking this, someone suddenly bumped into him. Instinctively, he slipped a hand into his coat—pure reflex.

He stumbled forward a few steps, then turned back with a look of apology. It was another young man with unusually large pupils—his eyes seemed off.

The man clutched a briefcase labeled Pleasure Daily Editorial Department.

Pleasure Daily was a local third-rate tabloid focused on escort listings. It had some circulation but was considered very lowbrow.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” the first young man said, cautiously testing whether the other was sent to probe him.

He even stepped forward and reached out as if to touch the supposed reporter.

The man who’d been bumped backed away, hugging his briefcase tighter.

“No, it’s fine. I didn’t see you either. Are you alright?”

The exchange was perfunctory—both seemed eager to leave quickly.

The young man nodded, turned, and left swiftly, scanning his surroundings as he disappeared down the street.

Meanwhile, the reporter turned and sprinted off.

Had the young man paid closer attention, he would’ve noticed a faint metallic tang—the scent of blood—on the reporter.

The man burst breathlessly into the newsroom, drawing everyone’s attention.

“B-big news. Huge news! We’re about to blow up!” he shouted, waving his briefcase before rushing into the editor-in-chief’s office.

The editor, a bespectacled man in his forties with a neatly trimmed mustache and an air of old-fashioned intellectualism, was calmly sipping a fifteen-Sol-a-pound floral tea blend.

He didn’t look annoyed as the young man stormed in. Instead, he raised his eyes lazily. “What kind of news is so earth-shattering?”

The reporter panted a few more times, face flushed with excitement. “Evidence of fraud at Harmony Capital!”

The editor shot to his feet. His tea spilled onto his carefully maintained mustache, but he didn’t care.

All he knew was—this was the story that would make the paper famous.