Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points!

A wave of murmurs swept through the hall, rolling in thick, overlapping layers of disbelief. Some nobles clutched at the edges of their robes as though bracing against an invisible gust, while others whispered sharply into cupped hands, their expressions flickering between doubt and awe.

A few scoffed—mere skeptics, unwilling to believe in miracles even when drenched in their glow. But most, whether they wanted to or not, felt it.

The divine aura radiating from the gnarled root was unmistakable. It did not impose itself, did not roar for attention like the holy relics enshrined in the holy Cathedral.

Instead, it was insidious, threading itself into the air like creeping ivy, silent and patient. It slithered into the skin, curled around the bones, and whispered something—not words, not thoughts, but something far more primal—directly into the soul.

At the far end of the chamber, High Priestess Isolde stood rigid, a look of shock appearing on her beautiful doll like face. A single twitch of her fingers betrayed her struggle, her mind grasping for the impossible.

Still, she did not speak.

Not yet.

Arkanos, seated upon his throne, leaned forward ever so slightly. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the air around him seemed to tighten, as though the weight of his gaze alone had compressed the very atmosphere.

"Where did you obtain such a thing?"

A good question.

Abaddon laughed, a rich, indulgent sound that had no urgency, no fear—only the unmistakable delight of a man who knew he had the room's full attention.

"In the last siege," he said, tilting his head as though recalling a pleasant memory, "my opponent, a swordsman, offered it to me."

He turned the root in his hands, letting the dim light catch upon its twisted, bark-like texture. There was something almost… organic about it. The veins running along its surface pulsed faintly, too rhythmic, too alive.

"A bargaining chip," Abaddon continued. "They thought it would tempt me—make me betray the Empire in exchange for a relic of supposed divinity."

He grinned, all sharpness and teeth. "So I cut them down instead."

The murmurs started again, but softer this time. Less disbelieving. More… intrigued.

Abaddon extended the root slightly, as though offering it up for inspection. "And since I had no use for it, I thought, why not give it to the one person whose hands it should be in?"

He spread his arms, mockingly theatrical. "A token of my loyalty."

Arkanos said nothing.

He merely narrowed his gaze, his fingers tapping once against the armrest of his throne before...

〘 ⋄ Activating Appraisal… ⋄ 〙

〘 Root of Eden 〙

Class: Relic of Forgotten Divinity (SSS)

Origin: Torn from the roots of the First Tree, said to have grown in the land before the land, where the first sins were planted. No record exists of its true form, for none have seen the tree and lived to tell of it.

Effects: The divine once feared it, though none recall why. It is said to offer nourishment beyond life, to whisper of things lost to time, and to beckon those who hold it toward an inheritance meant for no mortal soul.

Arkanos frowned.

Silence.

Arkanos exhaled, a sound too measured to be a sigh but close enough. His fingers curled once against the armrest before relaxing.

"You've done well," he said. A single flick of his fingers—was all it took for Seraphine to step forward.

The Imperial Marshal moved her cloak barely stirred as her hand flexed once before reaching for the relic.

She then turned around and approached the throne, bowing as she handed the relic to Arkanos. Then, with the ease of swatting away a fly, Arkanos waved his hand.

The Root of Eden vanished.

A collective breath hitched across the chamber. Nobles, ever the predictable creatures, exchanged wide-eyed glances, whispering furiously behind jeweled sleeves. Some gawked outright, their awe poorly concealed beneath thinned lips and narrowed eyes.

To them, such an act was sorcery beyond reason. An emperor who could make relics disappear into the void with a flick of his wrist? It was unnatural. Terrifying, even.

To Arkanos, it was just another system function. He didn't bother justifying it. Let them wonder.

Seraphine, having fulfilled her duty, stepped back into line without a word.

But the matter was not yet done.

"Next," Arkanos said, barely shifting in his seat, "Sylvana and Utilia."

Sylvana, draped in her robes of deep gree embroidered with nature patterns, moved like a woman who belonged wherever she stood.

She had the air of someone who could discuss astral phenomena while stirring her tea, and perhaps she had—many times.

Beside her, Utilia—carrying the natural aura of someone who regularly punched steel to test its durability—grinned. The contrast between them was almost comical.

Arkanos did not miss the way the nobles braced themselves. Magic and combat were respectable pursuits, yes, but one never knew what an Archmage and a Berserker might find 'worthy' of a reward.

Sylvana was the first to speak. "I'd like funding and access to certain rare ingredients. I have a few... culinary experiments in mind."

That made a few brows furrow. No demands for power, no requests for ancient tomes, just—food?

Utilia laughed, loud and unapologetic. "As for me, let me fight the Imperial Knights. Regularly. I've been dying to see how much they've improved after you gave them a little boost in strength and all."

There was no embellishment, no false humility in her tone. Just pure, unfiltered honesty.

Arkanos considered them both for a moment, then nodded. "Granted."

The nobles had no choice but to accept it, though judging by their muttering, they were unsure which request disturbed them more—the Archmage playing with food or the Berserker seeking violence for fun.

.....

.....

The afternoon sun hung in the sky with the weight of expectation, a sullen gray that stretched across the heavens like an unspoken verdict. The grand execution plaza, built from centuries-old stone and steeped in the blood of countless traitors, was once again called upon to serve its purpose.

The accused stood in a long, kneeling row, heads bowed beneath the weight of their final moments.

A procession of nobles, once draped in the silks of wealth and power, now found themselves clad in the rags of the condemned. Their wrists were bound in iron, their dignity stripped as thoroughly as their titles.

Some trembled. Others muttered prayers under their breath, voices hoarse with desperation. A few still clung to pride, their backs ramrod straight even as the executioner's blade loomed in the near distance.

And then, there was Head Priestess Isolde.

She stood at the forefront, her ceremonial robes untouched by the dust and filth of the proceedings. The fabric, woven in the purest white, reflected none of the sin that surrounded her. But her chest… that was another matter.

On her face there was no anger. No sorrow.

Just the quiet acceptance of a woman who had performed these rites far too many times... In the past.

She raised her silver staff, its tip glinting beneath the weak sunlight. The divine sigils carved into its length pulsed faintly, as if stirring at the weight of judgment about to be delivered.

"May the Great Balance weigh your souls," she said, her voice neither cruel nor kind. "May your sins be known and your fates be sealed."

Her words rolled over the condemned, final and absolute.

One noble, a former lord whose name had once carried weight in the imperial courts, lifted his head with a sneer. His once-golden hair was now matted, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights in the dungeons.

"This is tyranny," he spat. "A farce masquerading as justice. Do you truly believe the gods will favor a butcher like him?"

There was no need to specify who 'him' was.

Arkanos, seated upon a raised obsidian throne at the head of the plaza, did not immediately respond. He did not need to. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing against the skin like a phantom weight.

Finally, he exhaled—not with impatience, not with amusement, but with something far colder.

"And yet," he said, voice even, "here you kneel."

The noble flinched.

A soft chuckle rippled through the air—Abaddon, standing at Arkanos' side, his arms lazily crossed over his chest. The fallen angel tilted his head, studying the condemned with an expression that was almost excited.

"Strange, isn't it?" he mused. "How traitors always think themselves revolutionaries, even when they're moments away from losing their heads."

No one answered.

No one dared.

Isolde lowered her staff.

"It is time."

The executioner stepped forward, clad in a crimson hood, his greatsword gleaming like polished gold.

One by one, the condemned nobles were forced into position. Some struggled, some screamed, but in the end, the result was always the same.

One clean strike.

A dull thud.

Then silence.

The first head rolled across the stone, its final expression locked in eternal horror.

By the time the second fell, the plaza was already drowning in the scent of blood.