In the hall ruled by silence, the vassals stood frozen like stone statues, terrified even by the sound of their own heartbeats. Standing before the throne, Lucian's eyes held a sharp light reminiscent of polar glaciers, coldly piercing through the very existence of his subordinates.

Why was there a one-minute delay in executing the order I presented?

There was no rage in his voice. Only an absolute rejection, like discarding a tool that no longer functioned. He looked down at the trembling vassal with a gaze stripped of all emotion.

I find this difficult to comprehend. Even the word 'incompetent' is too generous an evaluation for you.

Lucian stepped forward soundlessly. With every step, the scent of death grew thicker, and the surrounding tension became so suffocating that people forgot to breathe. The vassal offered a tearful excuse, but he cut the words down as worthless noise.

Do not make meaningless sounds. Excuses are unnecessary. Take responsibility here and now, and settle your failure.

As he spoke, Lucian's fingertips brushed the sword at his waist. The cold touch of metal lowered the temperature of the hall even further, and the strained atmosphere reached its breaking point.

...I see no reason to allow those who disturb my world to exist.

The silver blade, drawn from its sheath, shimmered with a cold, reflected light. Just as the vassals braced for death, their bodies frozen in despair, the heavy doors behind them opened—quietly, and with a gentleness that was entirely out of place.