The sun hung high above the vast square of Ross City. Flags rippled across rooftops, and hundreds of thousands of citizens filled the open ground, their faces flushed with excitement and pride.
Gavin Ward, known across the land for his calm and cautious nature, stood upon the grand marble stage. His uniform gleamed, and the golden crown atop his head reflected rays of sunlight that danced across the massive crowd.
He cleared his throat and spoke into a polished black microphone.
"My fellow citizens of the kingdom—"
His voice suddenly boomed from every direction, spilling out from huge metal boxes placed around the square. The sound startled the Grand Knight who stood beside one of those boxes under the Duke of Golden Lion's banner.
Startled, the knight whirled around, hand on his sword hilt.
"When did His Majesty move beside me?" he muttered. But when he turned, he saw only a pitch-black iron box—the source of the voice. The realization dawned on him. "Ah… a loudspeaker!" he whispered, marveling at this strange technology Gavin Ward had introduced.
"His Majesty!!"
"Long live Your Majesty!!"
The entire square erupted. Multicolored ribbons danced in the air as hundreds of thousands roared in unison. The crowd was so vast—already more than three hundred thousand—that their shouts rolled like thunder through the streets.
To maintain order, disciplined Ross soldiers formed human walls around the square. Each wore gleaming black helmets and thick earmuffs—because Gavin Ward had wisely ordered protection against the deafening cheers.
Every noble, every visiting monarch, and even the orc chieftains in attendance wore ear protection as well.
Only the Duke of Golden Lion's men, who had arrogantly refused, were unprepared.
When the cries of "Long live the King!" thundered out, their sharp ears rang violently. The Grand Knight staggered, clutching his head, as though his skull had been struck by crashing waves.
When the cheers quieted, Gavin Ward raised a hand.
"My people," he began again, voice calm yet powerful. "The Kingdom of Ross has known only two kings since its founding a hundred years ago.
We Ross folk came drifting from the sea, washed ashore upon this strange continent. We had lost our homeland and even our names. Yet from nothing, we built this land and founded the Kingdom of Ross."
He paused, letting the words sink into every heart.
"Through unity with other nations, our strength has grown. Today, we are no longer a humble kingdom but something far greater—a realm worthy of being called an Empire!"
The crowd trembled with anticipation. Some wept, some clutched their flags tighter.
"You all remember," Gavin continued, "how weak Ross once was. You lived through hunger, through despair, through wars that could have destroyed us. But in those darkest days, you—my people—never abandoned our homeland. You stood firm.
So, as your King, I thank you from the depths of my heart."
Then, in a moment that stunned everyone, Gavin Ward stepped back and bowed deeply before his people.
For a second, silence spread across the massive square. Then a roar rose like a tidal wave.
"Your Majesty, don't say that!"
"Without you, we would have nothing!"
"You saved our families from starvation!"
Men and women burst into tears. Old veterans saluted with trembling hands. Mothers lifted children onto their shoulders so they could see the man who had changed their fates.
Gavin straightened and lifted his chin, his eyes burning with conviction.
"My people! The Kingdom of Ross has endured countless hardships to reach this glorious moment.
From this day forth, I declare that the Kingdom of Ross shall rise as the Empire of Ross!
By my decree, on June 8th, Year 12056 of the Exorcism Era, the Kingdom becomes an Empire.
I, Gavin Ward III, will be the first Emperor of Ross!"
He raised his arms high. "The stars are eternal, the universe ever turns, and so shall the Ross Empire endure forever! The Empire's flag will fly beneath the heavens for all time!"
He slammed both gloved hands onto the podium, his voice echoing like rolling thunder.
"Long live the Ross Empire!"
At once, the massive crowd thundered the same cry:
"Long live the Ross Empire! Long live our Emperor!"
Even soldiers far down the boulevard—ten ranks deep—shouted so loudly the ground trembled.
From the western avenue came the rhythmic sound of marching boots.
"Cross! Cross! Cross!"
Rows upon rows of imperial troops advanced through the city gates, their 98K rifles gleaming. The bayonets, polished to a silver edge, caught the sunlight like lines of fire.
Steel helmets glistened darkly in perfect alignment. The precision of their movement was hypnotic—each soldier's step a mirror of his comrade's.
"Imperial Army, forward!"
A tall officer strode before the ranks, drawing his long silver sword and slicing it through the air in a shining arc. He then joined the march himself, his boots striking the ground in perfect rhythm with his men.
The viewing platform erupted with astonished murmurs.
"It's… unbelievable," gasped one foreign envoy.
"Such discipline! Such unity!"
Another king whispered to his aide, "No wonder the Ross Empire rises so quickly. That army isn't merely strong—it's flawless."
Even the seasoned generals from the orc tribes and the desert kingdoms stared wide-eyed. They had seen powerful forces before, but none as synchronized as this.
Discipline is the soul of an army. A force can be large, but without order it is weak. Yet the Ross soldiers moved like a single living machine.
Their officers shouted commands in unison:
"Ready!"
Blades sliced through the air as thousands of officers raised their swords, each stroke identical, each movement timed to the heartbeat of the Empire.
"Present arms!"
Every soldier slapped his rifle with his left hand, swung it across his chest, then leveled it forward so that the bayonet tip hovered just behind the helmet of the comrade ahead—an image of lethal precision.
The spectacle left the entire grandstand breathless.
Yet, amid the cheers, not all were pleased.
The Grand Knight of the Golden Lion Duke's legion leaned back, his face twisted with envy. "Hmph… so what if their soldiers march neatly?" he said with forced disdain. "Looks impressive, but discipline alone proves nothing."
Still, the bitterness in his tone betrayed his jealousy.
For he, too, could sense it—the power that surged from this army. The Ross Empire was no longer a mere coastal kingdom; it was becoming a titan that could shake continents.
As the grand parade rolled through the city, drums thundered, and banners bearing the new imperial sigil—a roaring lion over waves—fluttered across every building.
But behind this brilliant celebration, a hidden operation was already unfolding.
While Gavin Ward stood before his cheering citizens, another part of his grand plan moved silently in the shadows. A Ross army of one hundred thousand men was on the march.
Under the cover of the coronation ceremony, these elite troops had already slipped across the border separating the Ross Empire and the Tongsley Empire.
Their orders were clear: strike deep into the territory of the Duke of Golden Lion—the same man whose envoys now watched the parade with false smiles.
Far to the east, under a grey dawn, armored divisions crept across the borderlands. Dust clouds rose in the chill air as thousands of horses and trucks advanced.
"Move quietly!" whispered a colonel. "By the time the Duke realizes, his supply lines will already be burning."
These soldiers were not celebrating—they were the dagger hidden behind the Empire's smiling face.
The world would soon learn that Gavin Ward's Ross was not only proud but ruthless and strategic.
He had always believed that waiting for an enemy's attack was foolish. The Empire would strike first, swift and decisive.
Back in the capital, fireworks burst in the sky, painting clouds in gold and crimson. The people danced in the streets, crying, "Long live the Emperor! Long live the Ross Empire!"
Children waved small flags; merchants handed out free bread and ale. Even foreign delegates, wary as they were, could not help but clap politely at the grandeur of the moment.
On the platform, Gavin Ward stood motionless, looking out at his people. His gloved hands rested on the podium as his eyes softened.
He had spent years rebuilding the kingdom from ruin—through famine, civil war, and foreign betrayal. Now, as the Empire's anthem roared through the square, he finally allowed himself a small smile.
Beside him, ministers whispered about the economy, the roads, the weapons industry. But Gavin's gaze remained fixed on the horizon.
In his heart, he knew this was not the end—it was only the beginning of a new era.
As twilight fell, torches illuminated the city, and the imperial flag fluttered high above the central fortress.
The night wind carried a single, unstoppable chant across the continent:
"Long live the Ross Empire!"
And somewhere beyond the border, under a moonless sky, the first shots of war echoed faintly—heralding the Empire's first act of expansion.
Thus began the age of the Ross Empire—an age of ambition, unity, and conquest.
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