Kalagar stared, his mind having achieved a state of pure, blue-screened terror.
The Emperor of the Arcane Empire. Karl-Theodore von Aethel. A Level 8 Arch-Swordsman who had just achieved a divine breakthrough... was kneeling on his lawn.
And he had just asked to abdicate his throne and become the sixth disciple.
This wasn't a "plague" or a "drought." This was a constitutional crisis. This was treason. This was Kalagar, a Level 0 fraud, accidentally toppling a millennia-old human empire.
His disciples were all looking at him, their faces glowing with profound awe, waiting for his "divine judgment."
He had to say something.
"Yes" was impossible. That meant he was now responsible for the Arcane Empire.
"No" was also impossible. A god doesn't just say no. It would be a "test." The Emperor would just keep... kneeling.
Kalagar's mind, fueled by the purest, most undiluted panic, did the only thing it knew how: It babbled nonsense, desperately trying to get out of this.
"Get... get up," Kalagar stammered.
The Emperor did not move. "Not until you accept me, Master."
"I... I refuse," Kalagar said, his voice squeaking.
His disciples flinched. Elara gasped. A refusal?
The Emperor's face hardened, his eyes filling with a profound, pained intensity. "Then... I have failed the test. I am... unworthy. I shall... end my..."
"NO!" Kalagar practically screamed, terrified this lunatic was about to commit ritual suicide on his lawn. "You're not 'unworthy'! You... you're mistaken!"
He had to give him a reason. A profound-sounding, nonsensical, academic reason.
"A... a disciple... serves," Kalagar said, his mind racing. "A king... rules. You... you cannot... serve... and rule. Can a... can a man serve two masters?"
The Emperor blinked, his kneeling form wavering. "...No, Sage. He cannot."
"Exactly!" Kalagar said, seizing the thread. "You... you have... your own Sect! It's called the... Arcane Empire! It has... millions of 'disciples'! They are your responsibility! You can't just... abandon them! That is... sloppy! That is unbalanced!"
He was, he realized, just recycling the same "scolding" he'd given Lila and Sylvie.
But the Emperor... the Emperor... understood.
A slow, profound, world-shattering revelation dawned on Karl-Theodore's face.
He wasn't being refused.
He was being re-directed.
He... he is not... 'refusing' me...
He is... giving me... a higher test.
He... he does not want me as a 'disciple'. A 'servant'. That is... beneath him. He has enough god-like servants!
He... he is offering me... something... more.
He... he wants me to be... his colleague. His representative... in the mortal world. He... he is tasking me... with ruling my Empire... in his name!
The [Flowing-Soul Art]... it wasn't a reward! It was a tool! To help me... 'rule wisely'!
This... this is the true test!
The Emperor's face, which had been pale with fervor, now flushed with a new, profound, secret understanding.
He looked at Kalagar.
He bowed his head, but it was no longer the bow of a servant. It was the bow of a vassal-king to his Emperor-God.
"I... I see, Sage," Karl-Theodore said, his voice thick with emotion. "I... understand. My... 'lesson'... is not here on the mountain. It is... out there."
"EXACTLY!" Kalagar shouted, so relieved he was almost sobbing. It worked! He's leaving! "Your 'lesson' is... out there! Far, far away from here! Go! Go 'rule wisely'! Go 'be a king'! That is... your... homework! Now... shoo!"
The Emperor rose.
He rose to his feet, a new, terrifying, calm power radiating from him. He was no longer a beggar. He was a man with a Divine Mandate.
His disciples stared, baffled. Elara was "indexing" this new, complex interaction at a furious pace.
And then... the Emperor... smiled.
A warm, friendly, conspiratorial smile.
As if they... shared a secret.
This... this was the new game. The real game.
The Sage did not want public worship. That was for the children (he glanced at Lila and Boro).
The Sage desired... subtlety.
He desired... normalcy.
He desired... a friend.
Karl-Theodore von Aethel, Arch-Swordsman and Emperor of Aethelgard, understood his role.
He played along.
He brushed the dust from his (very expensive) "simple" tunic.
"Well," the Emperor said, his voice now light, casual, and friendly, as if talking to an old, eccentric neighbor. "A... a fascinating 'chat', Sage Sully. Your... 'philosophy'... on... water... has been... illuminating."
Kalagar, who was still reeling from the emotional whiplash, just blinked. "...It... it has?"
"Immensely," Karl-TheLdore said, clapping his hands behind his back. "I... must be going. The... uh... crops... won't harvest themselves, eh?"
He winked.
He winked at Kalagar S. Sully.
Kalagar just stared, his mind a complete blank.
"A pleasure, Sage," the Emperor said. He nodded politely—not bowing—to the other disciples. "Archmage Elara. Princess Sylvie. A... pleasure. I shall... see myself out."
He turned, and with the calm, steady gait of a simple, retired soldier...
...the most powerful man on the continent...
...walked away.
Kalagar S. Sully watched him go, his mind a smoking ruin.
He had... no idea... what had just happened.
But... the Emperor... was leaving.
And he wasn't a disciple.
And he was... smiling?
This was... good?
It was the most confusing, terrifying, and... successful... interaction he had ever had.
He turned to his five disciples.
They were just staring at the path where the Emperor had vanished, their faces a mask of pure, unadulterated, religious confusion.
Elara was the first to speak, her voice a faint, shaky whisper.
"Master...?"
"Don't," Kalagar said, holding up a hand, his entire body trembling. "Just... don't. I... I need... another nap."