Azrael arrived at the stone conference hall where he'd previously met with the British leadership. King George VII awaited him, his expression grim and calculating. Beside the monarch stood Apache, the brown-skinned Master from the Indo-American Federation, his face as impassive as carved stone.
Azrael wasn't surprised by their somber demeanor. Honestly, the fact that George VII hadn't already erupted in fury was somewhat remarkable. Anyone would wear such an expression upon discovering they'd suddenly acquired a powerful, permanent reminder of their own vulnerability.
As for Apache, his stony mask made perfect sense, the man had just learned his greatest rival possessed capabilities far exceeding what the Federation's intelligence had estimated.
"Lord Azrael, you're here." George VII nodded in greeting, gesturing for the young Master to sit. His movements were stiff, controlled. "It's been three days. Have you decided what you want?"
I will control all military powers. The words of history's seventh-century conqueror flashed unbidden through Azrael's mind. Of course, he wouldn't voice such a demand to King George VII. Even if he did, the King would refuse, and rightfully so.
Great Britain was still leagues away from the desperate straits the Empire of Aetherlight had faced when the World-Devouring Disaster first invaded its shores. That was assuming there was no Pillar of Light.
With the tower Artoria had manifested, all of Great Britain effectively lay at Azrael's disposal, a fact both men in this room understood perfectly.
Before Azrael could respond, King George VII continued, "Actually, please take a look at the materials we've prepared first." He handed over a detailed index, its pages thick with entries.
Azrael accepted it and began leafing through methodically. He needed materials compatible with both Naruto and the Sacred Blade Armor Sasuke wielded. The British catalog was impressively comprehensive, and he quickly identified several suitable options.
Like the Empire's and Tsarist Russia's resource libraries, Great Britain couldn't simply produce all the materials he needed immediately. Fortunately, Azrael still possessed sixty-seven percent of the Universal Materials from his previous endeavors, enough to supplement any gaps with Diamond-grade alternatives.
His selection included [Telekinetic Superman] (red), [Ω-Class Psychic] (red), [Andesos's Time Bracelet] (red), [Voice of the Corrupted] (red), [Smoke Barrier Sword] (red), and five other more common Master-level materials.
Apache, meanwhile, had already finished his own selections with practiced efficiency. He set down the index and spoke in his characteristic flat tone, "That's all. I won't trouble you further."
Without waiting for dismissal, the Master-level Lore Cardian from the Indo-American Federation vanished from the conference room in a flicker of spatial distortion.
He'd clearly intended to stay and eavesdrop on the subsequent negotiations between Azrael and George VII. Neither party would have permitted such audacity.
After Apache's departure, an oppressive silence descended upon the stone chamber. The weight of unspoken demands hung heavy in the recycled air.
Azrael continued flipping through the documents, his face revealing nothing. Every page he turned without speaking tightened the noose of tension around George VII's neck.
After several agonizing minutes, the King sighed, a sound like escaping steam. "Speak directly of what you want, Lord Azrael."
Azrael set down the documents, leaned back, and crossed his arms in a deliberate echo of a certain historical commander. "I want all of Great Britain."
The temperature in the hall plummeted.
George VII's expression transformed from resignation to stone-cold fury, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrests of his chair. The silence stretched until it became physically uncomfortable.
When the King finally spoke, his voice emerged hoarse and strained. "Lord Azrael, please don't make such jokes."
"Do you think I'm joking?"
The question hung between them like an executioner's blade.
Azrael didn't consider his demand unreasonable. Great Britain was demonstrably weaker than the Empire of Aetherlight in every metric that mattered. More importantly, Artoria's Pillar of Light remained firmly anchored to British soil, a permanent strategic liability far more threatening than any occupation force.
George VII understood this reality with painful clarity. He closed his eyes, jaw working silently. When he opened them again, they held the resigned calculation of a man preparing to amputate his own limb.
"The most Great Britain can offer you, Lord Azrael, is the title of Lord Protector."
Azrael's eyebrows rose fractionally. The position of Lord Protector combined legislative, executive, and military authority, effectively making him an uncrowned king. The previous holder of such power had been Oliver Cromwell, whose name every educated person recognized from their history lessons.
"I didn't expect Your Majesty to be so generous," Azrael said with a mixture of genuine admiration and subtle mockery.
George VII had calculated shrewdly. While the Lord Protector title sounded imposing, its actual power depended entirely on political circumstances. During Cromwell's era, with the Royalists out of power, the Lord Protector had ruled absolutely. Now, with the British royal family firmly entrenched, the position amounted to little more than an honorary title.
"Not enough," Azrael said calmly.
George VII lifted his teacup with trembling hands, moistening his parched throat. "I can agree to the terms Charlotte negotiated with you."
Azrael wasn't surprised the King knew the details of that private conversation. Unlike her brother Leon, who operated with all the subtlety of a charging bull, Charlotte possessed political acumen. She'd won support from both Azrael and Apache, but she also understood her father remained Great Britain's true power broker. Sharing intelligence with him made strategic sense.
"Resource sharing benefits everyone," Azrael replied with a slight shake of his head. "Your Majesty, how can you consider that payment? It's merely good sense."
"Not enough."
King George VII's expression darkened like storm clouds gathering. His fingers drummed an agitated rhythm against the stone armrest.
Fortunately, Azrael didn't let him stew in uncertainty for long. "How about this, Great Britain pays an annual tribute of materials to the Empire of Aetherlight as compensation for my cards being stationed here. Does that seem fair?"
The host nation should pay for the military expenses of stationed troops. Wasn't that perfectly reasonable?
Unlike certain self-proclaimed beacons of freedom, Azrael wasn't exploiting Great Britain's misfortune. Without Artoria's Pillar of Light actively anchoring reality, this nation would have transformed completely into a secret realm, expelled from Earth or worse. He was providing a genuine service.
After a long, agonizing silence, George VII nodded with visible reluctance. "Then let's proceed as you suggest."
As King of Great Britain, George VII had never imagined his nation, with its vast colonial holdings spanning three continents, would one day find itself effectively colonized by another power. Though Azrael hadn't phrased it quite so bluntly, both men understood the reality.
But as the saying went, one must bow beneath the eaves. George VII truly had no alternatives.
Having obtained his desired terms, Azrael didn't linger. He rose smoothly and exited the conference room, his footsteps echoing against ancient stone.
For him, this expedition to Great Britain had exceeded all reasonable expectations. In certain respects, it genuinely fulfilled Lucian's description of 'territorial expansion', though not in any conventional sense.
However, Azrael had barely cleared the palace gates when Leon intercepted him, materializing from a side corridor with the desperate energy of a drowning man reaching for driftwood.
Azrael regarded the British prince with barely concealed exasperation. "What's wrong?"
Leon scratched his head awkwardly, unable to meet the young Master's eyes. "Azrael, I heard His Majesty wants to make you Lord Protector of the Realm. Have you agreed?"
Azrael nodded. There was no point concealing information that would become public knowledge within days. Great Britain's entire administrative apparatus would need to process the necessary paperwork.
Seeing the confirmation, Leon's expression brightened like the sun breaking through clouds. "Then you, "
"Leon, you should learn more from your sister," Azrael interrupted with weary patience. "You absolutely shouldn't be coming to see me right now."
The prince's eagerness deflated like a punctured balloon. Azrael wondered how someone who'd demonstrated such political cunning during their first meeting at the Empire's court could now display such astonishing obliviousness. Had the prospect of inheriting the throne truly addled his wits so completely?
King George VII clearly wanted to prevent outside interference in Great Britain's internal affairs. Azrael naturally fell into that category as a foreign power. Anyone who associated too closely with him would find themselves on the King's blacklist faster than they could blink.
Charlotte had obviously recognized this reality, which explained her conspicuous absence. She hadn't attempted to contact Azrael even once since the World-Devouring Disaster's defeat.
Though in Azrael's estimation, the princess had already sabotaged any chance of becoming heir apparent through her previous cooperation with him. George VII wasn't stupid, he'd already connected those dots.
Leon's face paled as understanding finally penetrated his skull. "So you chose her too, Azrael?"
Seeing that the prince still fundamentally misunderstood the situation, Azrael's patience finally snapped. He gestured sharply, and Shadowkhans materialized from shadows to escort Leon away with firm but not unkind hands.
After watching Leon's retreating back disappear around a corner, Azrael turned to Artoria, who'd been observing silently. "What's Apache's current status?"
Thanks to the Pillar of Light granting her comprehensive surveillance across British territory, Artoria maintained perfect awareness of all Master-level threats within these borders, including Apache's movements.
"He hasn't made any significant moves since sending that message two days ago," she reported, her voice carrying the distant quality of someone monitoring multiple information streams simultaneously.
Azrael's mind worked through the implications. There was no question about who Apache had contacted, it had to be Edley, the Sovereign-level leader of the Indo-American Federation's Conservative Party. Whether the Sovereign would actually respond remained highly uncertain, especially if Azrael's previous theories about the man's true motivations held any validity.
"What a shame," Azrael muttered. "If Artoria didn't need to maintain the Pillar of Light here, I could test Edley's intentions directly."
He'd originally planned to arrange such a confrontation after resolving the British crisis, but circumstances had rendered that approach infeasible. The Lion King couldn't abandon her post without potentially catastrophic consequences.
"Let's return to the Empire and focus on improving our capabilities," Azrael decided after a moment's contemplation.
With that thought, he stroked his chin thoughtfully and regarded Artoria with calculating interest. "Would you like me to create the Knights of the Round Table for you?"
The blonde Lion King froze mid-breath, clearly not expecting such an offer from her wielder. After several seconds of processing, she responded with careful neutrality, "If it doesn't burden you excessively."
Azrael waved off her concern with casual confidence. A collection of Emerald-level cards, perhaps a few Diamond-tier at most, represented minimal effort for someone of his current capabilities. The Knights would serve as useful support units regardless.
Three days elapsed with surprising tranquility.
Many developments unfolded across Great Britain during this period. First, the lingering effects of the World-Devouring Disaster had largely dissipated. The common people who'd survived the apocalyptic near-miss returned to their previous routines with the remarkable adaptability humans displayed when confronted with normalized catastrophe.
Second, every British citizen learned that a Master-level figure from the East had assumed the position of Lord Protector, an unprecedented development in their nation's long history. This revelation sparked widespread debate in taverns, drawing rooms, and worker's guilds alike.
Initial criticism and xenophobic outrage evaporated almost instantly once people connected the Lord Protector with the Tower of Glory. The man who'd prevented their homeland's complete destruction deserved some latitude in political arrangements.
However, British officials carefully avoided revealing that the tower's guardian was the legendary King Arthur herself. They were attempting every conceivable strategy to diminish Azrael's influence without triggering an international incident.
But as long as the Pillar of Light endured, Azrael's power within Great Britain would only grow stronger with time. The tower served as both shield and shackle, protection they couldn't refuse and leverage they couldn't escape.
At the port, King George VII stood surrounded by an assemblage of princes, princesses, and high-ranking officials, all arranged in proper protocol to bid farewell to their foreign "guests."
A strained smile plastered across his face, the King addressed Apache with hollow courtesy. "I wish you safe travels, Lord Apache."
After the Indo-American Master departed via his massive carrier, George VII turned his attention to Azrael. His smile didn't falter, but tension coiled in his shoulders.
"How are you planning to return to the Empire?"
Just as he'd arrived, Azrael intended to have Shiraori transport him back via spatial magic. While the comfort level couldn't match Apache's mechanical marvel, convenience and speed mattered more than luxury for this particular journey.
Watching Azrael summon the white, humanoid spider-girl, King George VII released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The King had genuinely worried the young Master might simply refuse to leave, establishing permanent residence in his new "protectorate."
Great Britain couldn't compare to the Empire of Aetherlight in any meaningful category, resources, territory, culture, or cuisine. If Azrael truly wanted to remain, George VII would have faced an impossible dilemma.
Though privately relieved, the King maintained diplomatic decorum. "Have a safe journey, Lord Azrael. If the Empire of Aetherlight requires any assistance, please don't hesitate to contact Great Britain."
Azrael nodded slightly, then glanced toward Leon and Charlotte standing among the assembled dignitaries. "I'm departing now. If you need anything, contact me through Artoria."
George VII's face darkened perceptibly at this casual reminder. Even absent physically, Azrael would maintain permanent communication channels into the heart of British power. The tower ensured Great Britain could never truly be the same nation it had been before the World-Devouring Disaster.
Azrael paid no attention to what George VII thought. After scanning the assembled crowd one final time, he vanished in a ripple of spatial distortion, Shiraori's magic whisking him away.
The gathered officials visibly relaxed, collective tension draining from their shoulders like water from a punctured barrel. Several actually sagged against nearby posts.
Finally, we've sent that Lord Protector away, they thought in unison. Frankly, Azrael had exerted far more psychological pressure on them than their own monarch ever could.
Meanwhile, Charlotte stood among the crowd, sighing silently to herself. If the invader hadn't appeared, she would have been tantalizingly close to securing the succession. Now her position had become precarious at best.
His Majesty has definitely begun viewing me with suspicion, she analyzed with cold pragmatism. Since her father's favor was no longer achievable, she might as well commit fully to aligning with the Lord Protector. Of course, that depended on maintaining absolute secrecy from her father's intelligence network.
Unaware that she'd just become the focal point of Great Britain's political maelstrom, or perhaps simply unconcerned, Azrael sat comfortably atop Shiraori's back, allowing her to continuously cast spatial translocation magic.
However, the moment Shiraori's feet touched European soil, a gray-haired figure materialized directly in their path with the casual inevitability of gravity.
Seeing the newcomer, Azrael released a resigned sigh. "Your Majesty Louis XXIV."
Indeed, the barrier was none other than the Emperor of France himself, the Near-God who'd intervened during the final confrontation with the World-Devouring Disaster.
Having successfully blocked Azrael's route, the Sovereign-level Lore Cardian smiled with practiced gentility. "What have you decided, Lord Azrael? Would you be willing to speak with me?"
Azrael resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With a Near-God physically obstructing his path, did he really have any choice in the matter? The question was purely rhetorical courtesy.
"Lead the way, Your Majesty," Azrael replied with diplomatic resignation. "I've always wanted to see the legendary Palace of Versailles."
"Excellent! I guarantee you won't be disappointed, Lord Azrael."
Louis XXIV finished speaking, and reality twisted. Both figures vanished from the coastline, leaving only the rhythmic crash of waves against ancient stone.