Chapter 54: The Royal Court of Rust and Gold

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The grand doors to the Royal Palace were forged from solid gold and polished steel.

They stood as a towering monument to excess in a city choking on its own soot.

I stood before those doors, my new six-foot-five frame completely still.

My dark olive skin had hardened, and the black, razor-thin circuit lines of my new tattoo peeked out from the collar of my tailored black coat.

Prime Minister Hardsteel stood beside me.

’This quite a grand palace.

There is no doubt that this meeting will be a headache.

I can smell the corruption!’

The giant cyborg had paused the moment I arrived at his estate, his glowing blue eye whirring as it scanned my drastically altered biology.

He had not asked questions.

In the Forge, results mattered more than methods.

"Keep your temper in check, Grik," Hardsteel warned softly, his mechanical arm hissing. "My brother is not a man of logic. He is a man of vanity."

I glanced back at my squad.

Rolf was practically vibrating with suppressed rage, his amber eyes locked on the palace guards.

Kaelith was a shadow of lethal calm, her daggers hidden but ready.

Nyssa stood tall, her emerald eyes sharp and calculating.

They felt the heavy, suffocating pressure of my new C-Grade core, and they were ready to follow me into the abyss.

’I can see that.

But looking at the Prime Minister, he wouldn’t be that bad, I guess.’

I kept the thought to myself.

"I am always calm, Prime Minister," I replied. "Open the doors."

The heavy gates swung inward with a resonant groan.

We stepped into the throne room.

It was a sickening display of hoarded wealth.

Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, decadent glow over floors of polished white marble.

Nobles draped in exotic silks and heavy jewelry lounged on velvet cushions.

They were drinking wine that cost more than a factory worker’s lifetime wages.

’Such useless Luxury!

There is no art.

This is just shimmering gold Everywhere!’

At the far end of the hall sat King Alaric Hardsteel.

The resemblance to the Prime Minister was purely genetic, as everything else was a twisted parody.

King Alaric was bloated, his face flushed with wine and indulgence.

He wore a crown of jagged iron and rubies that looked too heavy for his head.

He was currently feeding pieces of roasted meat to a pampered, exotic lap-beast, completely ignoring the petitioners kneeling before his throne.

’Oh my Gosh!

How can someone be that fat!

Never in my Life have I fat-shamed anyone, but if the King himself is Fat, then there are no excuses!

You are literally the King!

You have enough wealth to take care of your own Hygiene and Health.

Thank God!

I am surrounded by Good People.’

Standing to the right of the King was a High Elf in pristine, silver-etched plate armor.

He bore the falcon crest of House Vane on his breastplate.

"Ah, my dear, depressing brother!" King Alaric bellowed, his voice thick with unearned arrogance. He waved a greasy hand dismissively. "And you brought guests. How wonderfully dreadful. I thought I smelled the sewers."

The surrounding nobles erupted into forced, sycophantic laughter.

Hardsteel did not flinch.

He marched to the center of the room and threw the purple crystal staff onto the marble floor.

It clattered loudly, breaking the laughter.

"I bring evidence of high treason, Alaric," the Prime Minister declared, his metallic voice ringing with absolute authority. "House Vane is funding the Cult of the Ashen Maw. They are breeding mutated Slag-Crawlers in the lower sewers using forbidden blood-magic. This staff was recovered from their high priest."

The room went dead silent.

’This atmosphere...

I don’t like it!

Every noble present here looks like a vulture waiting for the prey to die.

They are waiting for the chance to pounce on us!’

King Alaric stared at the staff.

He did not look shocked.

He did not look angry.

He simply looked annoyed that his meal had been interrupted.

Alaric leaned back in his throne, picking his teeth with a golden toothpick.

"Treason? A very heavy word, Marquee. And who exactly recovered this supposed evidence?"

Hardsteel gestured to me.

"Grik the Verdant. The Architect of the New Breath. He and his squad cleared the nest and secured the asset." 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

The King shifted his lazy, bloodshot eyes toward me.

He looked at my green skin, my tall frame, and finally locked onto the heavy, brass-plated Vanguard Arm bolted to my left shoulder.

A cruel, highly punchable grin slowly spread across Alaric’s face.

"A goblin," the King sneered, spitting the word out like a curse. "My genius brother is taking the word of a filthy, mutated trench-rat. Tell me, creature, did you forge that staff yourself in a mud hut? Or did you steal it from a merchant to play hero?"

Rolf let out a low, feral growl.

I instantly pulsed a wave of commanding energy through the Sovereign’s Chain, forcing the werewolf to hold his ground.

"The runes on the staff match the necrotic signatures of the beasts in the sewers," I said, keeping my voice dangerously polite. "The evidence is undeniable, Your Majesty."

"Undeniable?"

The High Elf knight stepped forward.

His armor gleamed, completely free of any battle scars.

He looked at me with pure, unadulterated disgust.

"I am Sir Vaelen of House Vane. You dare bring a cheap forgery into this sacred hall and accuse my family of sewer-magic? You are a mongrel wearing scrap metal. Look at you. A one-armed freak playing dress-up in stolen coats."

Sir Vaelen turned to the King, bowing gracefully.

"Your Majesty, this is an insult to the Crown. The Prime Minister has clearly lost his mind if he is allowing half-breeds and crippled goblins to dictate state security."

"I agree, Sir Vaelen," King Alaric chuckled, kicking the purple staff away with his boot. "It is truly pathetic. Marquee, you bring me a rusty stick and a squad of circus freaks. A damaged elf, a rabid dog, a stuck-up scholar, and a goblin who looks like he fell into a gear-press."

The King laughed loudly, and the court joined in.

It was a suffocating chorus of mockery.

They were openly laughing at the blood we had spilled to protect their city.

They were laughing at the cauterized stump beneath my brass arm.

The sheer, arrogant injustice of it made the blood pound in my ears.

’Alright!

My tolerance limit is broken.

These people do not deserve my words, but my people deserve honor.’

System, I commanded mentally.

Purchase the skill.

[Transaction Complete. -800 LP. Current Balance: 200 LP.]

[New Skill Acquired: Lord’s Mandate (Lvl 1)]

[Description: A mental pressure skill directly linked to your biological evolution. When you speak, targets with lower Willpower or Core Grades feel a crushing, physical compulsion to submit. This skill will evolve as your Species Stage increases.]

I took a single, heavy step forward.

The brass pistons in my left arm hissed sharply, releasing a jet of white steam.

I activated [Lord’s Mandate].

"I did not come here to be judged by parasites," I stated.

My voice was not a shout, but it hit the throne room like a physical shockwave.

The laughter died instantly.

Several of the weaker nobles actually gasped, clutching their chests as a terrifying, predatory gravity washed over the room.

The King’s lap-beast whimpered and scrambled under the throne.

"You people are not worth my time and breath. Every breath I waste in this place, the Cultist move on with their plans to Conquer this Kingdom."

I pointed to the King, "YOU! Your Majesty, you pathetic, inbred relic, which is your crown’s just a shiny participation trophy for being born on the right toilet, and the only thing "royal" about you is how royally you’ve fucked up every decision as the puppet you are."

The Prime Minister was shocked.

This was treason, but he knew I was right.

"Your kingdom’s becoming a crumbling tourist trap, your bloodline’s thinner than your legacy, and the only reason anyone still bows is because they’re too polite to laugh in your dusty, wig-wearing face. Sit on that throne and rot, you overrated fat figurehead PIG!"

King Alaric gripped the armrests of his throne, his face paling as he physically felt the weight of my C-Grade core bearing down on him.

"You dare speak to a King in that tone?" Sir Vaelen shouted, drawing his ornate, silver longsword.

His hands were trembling slightly under the pressure of my aura, which only enraged him further.

"You are nothing but dirt, Goblin! You are a mistake of nature!"

"Then prove it," I challenged.

My glowing eyes locked entirely onto the Elven knight.

"You talk of honor and bloodlines, Sir Vaelen. You call my evidence a forgery. I say you are a coward hiding behind a corrupt crown. Settle it with steel."

Sir Vaelen’s face flushed a furious, vibrant red.

His pride could not allow him to back down in front of the entire court.

"I will gladly rid this city of your stench," Vaelen hissed, pointing his blade directly at my chest. "A formal duel of honor. Tomorrow at high noon in the Royal Colosseum. When I take your head, House Vane will be cleared of these pathetic lies."

King Alaric, eager to see me slaughtered and to undermine his brother, slammed his fist onto his armrest.

"Granted! Let the city watch the mongrel bleed. And if you lose, Goblin, your entire squad hangs for treason."

I looked at the King, then at the arrogant Elven knight.

A cold, merciless smile curved my lips.

The ragebait had worked perfectly.

They thought they had trapped me, but they had just handed me a public execution block.

"Tomorrow at noon," I agreed, my baritone voice echoing in the silent hall. "Bring a mop, Sir Vaelen. You are going to leave a terrible mess."