Alarms blared across the Imperial Capital planet.

An identical announcement repeated over the broadcast system:

“From this moment, the Imperial Capital planet, Diablosandrier of the Argrand Empire, is entering a wartime state. I repeat. We are now transitioning to a wartime state. All citizens are to evacuate immediately to designated shelters.”

The skies above the Capital, sealed under its planetary shield, turned crimson as a warning. Panic spread through the masses rushing toward the shelters, sparking accidents and outbreaks of violence.

The wealthy were provided comfortable, well-prepared shelters, while the poor were herded into cramped facilities too small to contain them all. They shoved and clawed at one another for a space inside.

No one had ever expected the Capital itself to come under attack. The shelters were little more than token facilities, mandated by law, never meant for actual use.

After all, this was a single planet crammed with tens of billions of people. Chaos in an emergency was inevitable.

And watching this pandemonium projected on the palace ceiling for his amusement—was none other than the reigning Emperor, Baghrada.

He leered as the people, driven by fear and despair, descended into riots and atrocities.

In his left hand, he sipped slowly from a glass filled with a dark, blood-red liquor.

But it wasn’t some rare, extravagant vintage even an Emperor would struggle to obtain.

It was Cursed Star Poison.

A liquor born from the screams, grief, agony, and hatred of the living. When a world brimming with life is destroyed, those emotions can sometimes condense and liquefy into this substance.

Any ordinary man would be cursed and die the moment he ingested it.

But to Baghrada, it was merely a delicacy.

“I have waited so long for this day… I never imagined that House Banfield of all people—would grant me… my dearest wish. Truly, an unexpected delight.”

Baghrada’s tone shifted, his first-person pronoun changing to boku. Black smoke coiled around his body.

Deep within the palace, seated in the chamber of the True Throne, Baghrada celebrated this long-awaited day by toasting himself with Cursed Star Poison.

Into this chamber burst Cleo, defeated at the hands of House Banfield.

His face slick with sweat, breath ragged.

“Your Majesty! Is it true? That the Chancellors have petitioned for my disinheritance!?”

Baghrada sneered at the sight of Cleo’s panic and burst into cruel laughter.

“To deliver me such diversion in this blissful hour—ah, fate! You never cease to amuse me!”

Cleo froze, eyes wide at the Emperor’s grotesque guffawing.

Baghrada set down his glass, rolled up his sleeve, and revealed his right arm.

The skin was rotting black.

“To me, this Cursed Star Poison is exquisite. Yet, no human flesh can endure it. By transplanting only my soul, I avoid the curse itself—but even so, the vessel rots.”

“C–Cursed Star Poison? Wh-What nonsense are you speaking!?”

Cleo’s denial sounded more like desperate self-deception.

“Pathetic fool! Very well. For my amusement, I shall enlighten you. Every Crown Prince before you has reacted in his own way. Baghrada-kun, the boy who once owned this body, was a gentle soul who truly fretted for the Empire. The look on his face when he learned this entire Empire exists only as a farm to harvest negative emotions—ah, priceless!”

Baghrada clutched his stomach, cackling as his corrupted flesh continued to crumble.

“He even called me a monster! Can you believe it? When I am his very ancestor!”

Cleo trembled, unable even to speak.

Smiling wickedly, Baghrada revealed his true name.

“Graham Noah Albright. I ascended the throne over two thousand one hundred years ago… and I have lived like this ever since.”

At that name, Cleo understood.

For Graham was recorded in history as the most horrific era of the Empire.

To claim the throne, he assassinated rival princes, then ruthlessly purged his enemies after ascension.

The palace had been drowned in conspiracies and assassinations. Blood spilled daily.

Cleo wet himself in terror.

Baghrada—no, Graham—licked his lips.

“Truthfully, I had my eyes on Calvin or Linus as vessels. Who could have guessed the plaything Cleo would actually be named Crown Prince?”

Step by step, Graham approached the frozen Cleo.

He gently placed a hand upon Cleo’s head, as though a father patting a child.

“Never thought my final vessel would be a woman’s body. But so be it. Now—yield that flesh to me, foolish little Crown Prince.”

“N-No! Stop! I’ll give up the throne, I swear it! There are plenty of other princes, aren’t there!?”

Graham grinned.

“That desperate impulse to throw others under the carriage—that is why I choose you.”

Cleo screamed as black smoke engulfed him. His eyes rolled white, body convulsing.

Graham’s old body finally collapsed into dust, unable to support itself any longer.

Cleo’s consciousness snapped back, only to realize—he was no longer himself.

He tore off his ceremonial garments, exposing the female form beneath, and with a snap of his fingers summoned shadowy retainers.

They washed and dressed him in Graham’s favored style: shirt, mini-skirt, and a cloak draped dramatically over his shoulders.

“…Yes. This will do. For a wretch with no redeeming qualities, at least the flesh is… charming. Don’t you think so, my shadows?”

The masked assassins in black applauded.

“You are splendid, Our Emperor.”

“Thank you. And to think—even you have become entangled in this fate. Your ancestors betrayed your kin to aid young Liam… how amusing.”

The leader of the shadows knelt.

“We shall not lose to mere ancients awakened from a two-thousand-year slumber. Please, Your Majesty, await the joyous tidings.”

Graham—now in Cleo’s body—smiled.

“I leave it to you, Kukri-kun of this era.”

The assassin leader, bearing the inherited name of Kukri, raised his masked face.

“As you command, Our Emperor.”

◇

On the bridge of the Argos, I received an unexpected report from Klaus.

“A million warships have gathered at the Capital!?”

“Yes, sir. Our reconnaissance confirms this without doubt.”

Klaus projected a live feed of the Capital before me as I sat with chin in hand.

“These ships appear to be prepared by the Empire’s own Armories.”

“…The Imperial Armories.”

Ordinary nobles purchased their weapons from private arms manufacturers. But the Empire hoarded its own Armories, monopolizing all the best technology.

Whenever private factories developed something new, the Empire seized it without question, adding to their vaults. But they never leaked their own advancements.

Even Nias of the Seventh Factory admitted the Imperial Armories were unmatched.

Beside us, Eulisia Morishil paled at the sight of the million warships, pulling up additional data.

“Wait! The Empire doesn’t have the capacity for this. Their forces are spread thin along the borders and suppressing rebellious nobles elsewhere!”

I shrugged.

“They could just throw a bunch of recruits into training capsules and churn out crews.”

“If it were that simple, there’d be no need for military academies!”

“Then it’s as I said—advanced weapons, manned by amateurs.”

Klaus shook his head.

“No, Master Liam. Their maneuvers show no sign of amateurs. These are the finest of the fine.”

He showed a video: Imperial warships seamlessly parting to give passage to a transport. Their coordination was flawless, like my own men at their best.

“New weapons and elite soldiers, eh.”

Eulisia still protested.

“But what about command? All the top commanders are away from the Capital!”

“Possibility of an unmarked genius?” I asked.

“There may be one or two… but commanding a million ships requires more than talent. No sane military would gamble on such a risk at this stage.”

I folded my arms. She had a point.

Klaus spoke again.

“We’re far from our homeworld, straining supply lines. They, meanwhile, fight with full logistics at hand.”

I asked: “What if we destroy the Gate relays and starve the Capital?”

“They would suffer, yes. But alternate relays exist, and for the Capital, emergency replacements are always ready.”

“True. If it were viable, Tia would already have proposed it.”

Klaus added gravely:

“Even if we won that way, our reputation would be ruined. The Gates are humanity’s treasures. To destroy them would be a taboo.”

Indeed. While a defender may smash their own Gate in desperation, for an attacker to do so would mark us as pariahs.

If we broke that unspoken law, the surrounding nations would unite against us, branding us dangerous.

“…Perhaps they’ll dismiss this as an internal civil war?” I muttered without hope.

“Impossible,” Klaus cut me off immediately.

“As I thought.” I smirked. “Well then, our opponent is stronger than us in quality. Tell me, do any of our men shrink back?”

My question wasn’t just to Klaus. Every commander among the tens of thousands of ships was listening in.

Tia and Marie, both unwilling to yield to Klaus, stepped forward.

“No matter how mighty the foe, this Christiana shall not falter. For Lord Liam’s sake, I claim the honor of the vanguard!”

“Hmph! That honor belongs to me! Marie shall lead the charge!”

The others too brimmed with determination.

I smiled faintly.

“Good. That’s the spirit. But since I’m the one who picked this fight with the Empire, it falls to me to bear responsibility. Sorry, everyone—the vanguard will be me.”

I rose to my feet, hand on my hip, voice resounding across the fleet.

“No matter who commands them, it makes no difference. Here and now, we shall crush the Empire—and I shall settle things with my true enemy! Follow me, and seize the glory of victory!”

The colossal Argrand Empire. If I topple it through betrayal and war, surely I will be the greatest villain of all.

A deed most fitting for an Evil Lord.

“And rest assured… the shame of betrayal—I alone shall bear it.”

Brian (´・ω・`;) : “Ehh… I thought that whole ‘true enemy’ business was Master Liam’s delusion—ah, no, no! This Brian has always believed in you!”

Wakagi-chan ヽ(・∀・)メ : “I’m the Evil Lord of an Intergalactic Empire! Volume 11 goes on sale July 25th!”