The Incompetent Emperor Who Changes the World from the Shadows: Iron, Gunpowder, and the Young Maidens of Favor

Chapter 5: Brunhilde Palace + Interlude: The Scent of Gunpowder and Gold

The night has fully descended over Brunhilde Palace, and it’s surprisingly quiet.

The sound of my footsteps echoing through the stone corridors feels unnervingly loud.

I didn’t order the place cleared, yet it’s as if the palace itself is considerate of my solitude.

No one is around. No voices can be heard.

Only the faint flicker of the fireplace provides any movement.

I push open the door to the study.

Lighting a candle, I glance at the haphazard pile of documents on the desk and sink into a chair by the window.

Below, the nightscape of the imperial capital sprawls out.

In the distance, I think I can see the faint glow of high-class clubs where nobles and politicians gather.

Those people are probably toasting tonight, mocking the absence of the incompetent emperor while discussing their schemes and profits.

What a ridiculous world.

…No, perhaps I’m the ridiculous one.

I remember it clearly.

The atmosphere when I spoke in parliament.

No one listened to the content of my words.

Between my remarks, I heard only whispers and stifled laughter from those seated nearby.

They were laughing at me, the “parliament’s ornament,” without even bothering to hide it.

The military is even worse—they completely ignore me.

When I request an inspection, the chancellor’s secretary brushes me off with “Your schedule doesn’t permit it.”

Even when invited to war councils, I’m given a seat at the far end of the table, with no chance to speak.

To the generals, I might as well not exist.

The head maid, Gerda, smiled and bowed, saying, “Your Majesty should rest quietly,” but her eyes told a different story: “Stay quiet and play your part as a puppet.”

The title of emperor is just that—a title.

Staring at the flickering flames, I suddenly recall that day.

A blood-soaked battlefield, ordered to charge as a soldier, then enveloped in that white light—and before I knew it, I was the “emperor” of this world.

I was confused, resistant, and above all, terrified.

But what overwhelmed me more than anything was the sense of powerlessness.

You have a certain degree of freedom… as long as you know your place and no one realizes you’re a false emperor.

The voice of the fairy—Sopina—still lingers in my ears.

She’s testing me, isn’t she? Testing how I’ll live in this world. Testing whether I’m truly someone she can use.

When she told me that energy equivalent to a nuclear weapon was the condition for “her return,” I was dumbfounded.

I had some reservations, but to live comfortably in this reincarnated life, I need Sopina’s cooperation.

It’s something that’ll take decades to develop anyway, so we might as well use each other.

Besides, playing the role of an incompetent emperor isn’t half bad, I’ve come to realize.

Since no one expects anything of me, I can move freely.

Reforms, revenge—I can pursue them without anyone noticing.

…But.

“What can I actually change?”

The words slip from my mouth, and I frown at myself.

Am I not just like a confined government figurehead in this state?

A slow-burning anxiety begins to well up inside me.

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Interlude: The Scent of Gunpowder and Gold

From the perspective of Viscount Lapis-Danes

In the imperial capital’s high-class club, The Chamber of Zeldarm, a special reception room is reserved for only the wealthiest nobles and military officers.

Four figures are present.

One is an elderly politician, Gregor Falkan.

A former soldier, he now holds a seat in the Empire’s upper house.

Deep wrinkles mark his face, but his eyes remain sharp.

“Unemployment is rampant? The streets are overflowing with the poor? That’s just how war works. No matter how many fools starve, all the country needs is guns and bullets. Anyone who complains too much can be silenced by standing them in front of a rifle barrel.”

The man in a military uniform next to him laughs.

Colonel Alfred MacDall, a staff officer in the army, rarely visits the front lines but sees soldiers and civilians as mere “numbers.”

“Of course, we’re short on bullets, but we’re also short on people to clean up the bodies. Lately, the frontline disposal teams are busier than ever. Piles of corpses don’t bother anyone. If anything, they could be fed to pigs—at least they’d be useful then.”

A vulgar laugh spreads among them.

“Frontline soldiers? They’re better off dead for the country’s sake. The same goes for those useless poor. Their value lies in being disposable.”

Viscount Arthur von Lapis-Danes, dressed in finely tailored clothes with gleaming silver cufflinks, twirls his glass with a cold smirk.

“The Marizlant factories are running at full capacity. Using confiscated goods from the slums as raw materials keeps costs down and profits high. War is lucrative. The more fools suffer, the fatter a merchant’s wallet gets.”

Beside him is Sabine von Lapis-Danes, with long, vertically rolled blonde hair and a youthful, doll-like face, dressed in an elegant noble gown.

Holding a glass, she smiles with a saccharine voice.

“Fufu, Father, you’re too much… The other day, I bought up a bunch of kids from the slums.

Oh, yes, for the slave traders, of course! Their pitiful expressions, begging for their lives—oh, the moment they’re put up for auction is just divine!”

Sabine twirls her glass, her tongue rolling with a playful lilt.

“War is so much fun, isn’t it? I can’t wait to see what new toys I’ll get next!”

Colonel MacDall raises his glass, sneering.

“So war’s useful for the young lady’s games too, huh? Honestly, those peaceful times were far too boring. Now, when lives are cheap, is the best era.”

Falkan laughs.

“The emperor’s just a puppet, isn’t he? The ones truly running this country are chosen ones like us.”

At his words, the sound of clinking glasses echoes without prompt.

It’s not a toast but a sharp, singular note, as if announcing their presence.

Beyond a curtain in the back, where the candlelight doesn’t reach, a shadow stands in the darkness.

A man clad in black, his face hidden by a silver mask, neither sits nor speaks.

Yet his mere presence tightens the room’s atmosphere.

—Yusuf Var-Delia.

A silent apostle of the Daroisia faith, representing “God’s Silence” on earth.

A figure who delivers judgment to the “unchosen emperor.”

Even without speaking, his intent is already shared.

Even without raising a glass, the contract is already sealed.