It was not unusual for powerful individuals to possess many powerful titles. Titles, however, were dreadful things. Their nature was strange, yet their consequences were unmistakably real. To put it plainly, titles were not mere accolades or decorations. They represented something far greater.
A title was a conceptual imprint placed upon the soul through collective recognition. It aligned with action, witness, and interpretation. Without interpretation, there could be no title. Take this for example. A man could kill a thousand in silence and gain nothing, while another saves a single child before many eyes and becomes a legend. Which of the two would receive a title? The answer was obvious.
The nature of titles was special in its own right. They did not increase raw energy output. Instead, they altered how a core expressed itself and how power manifested into reality. A core could be thought of as a lens, and titles reshaped that lens, changing its focus and caliber. A strength based core bearing the title Warlord became terrifyingly efficient in battle. A light thread carrying the title Ghost of the Sun expressed an eerie, death touched radiance. It was frightening how deeply titles could shape power, and they were the primary reason disparities existed even among individuals of the same core rank.
The classification of titles mattered greatly. Most titles were earned through individual action and resonated deeply with their bearer, growing stronger as the individual grew. Some titles were granted by authority, society, or even the world itself. Titles born purely from human recognition were fragile. They relied on reputation and public belief, and many lost their power over time. As such, most elites avoided them.
There were, however, titles that stood apart. Conceptual titles. They were the rarest and most powerful of all. These formed when the idea of a person outweighed the person themselves. Conceptual titles could not be easily revoked. Even enemies reinforced them simply by speaking the name. Because of this, it was common practice for one's titles to be made known publicly.
Titles could shape power subtly or directly. A title like Warlord vastly enhanced combat ability but crippled diplomacy and finesse. Some titles contradicted one another, and such conflicts were dangerous. When too many incompatible titles accumulated, a phenomenon known as conceptual overlap occurred. The result was core instability and fractured instincts. Many promising figures were destroyed this way.
Titles were also tied to advancement. To rise from Master to Grandmaster, one needed a recognized personal title. To advance beyond Saint, one required a world witnessed title acknowledged by the Status viel itself. To reach Paragon, a conceptual title that aligned with one's personal law was mandatory. Beyond even that, Ascendants were rumored to shed their titles entirely, abandoning identity and becoming the concept itself.
Duke Draken was a man burdened with many such titles, powerful and overwhelming. One of them was Monarch.
His gaze swept across the courtyard as he spoke quietly.
"Members of House Solareth. Today, we gather because there are traitors among us. You have five seconds to step forward of your own will, or face immediate execution where you stand."
A deathly hush fell over the courtyard. The Duke's presence pressed down upon them like a collapsing sky. He was a Saint, and it was unmistakable. His world-recognised title, Dreadful Sun, bore immense weight, crushing weaker titles beneath its force. Many servants bowed lower, trembling on their knees as his power washed over them.
He began to count.
Panic erupted.
Several figures rushed forward in desperation as chaos bloomed within the span of five heartbeats.
Levi counted seven.
That was the number of men and women who had rushed forward during the Duke's countdown.
Loud chatter broke out amongst the gathered members of House Solareth. Gasps erupted from every corner of the courtyard as eyes settled upon the kneeling figures.
Levi was not surprised.
Very few people could withstand the pressure of Duke Draken Solareth. Fewer still could oppose it. Faced with certain death, most would rather confess than gamble against the wrath of the Sun of the North.
Yet Levi knew better.
Not everyone had stepped forward.
There were still rats hiding amongst the crowd. Clever rats. Patient rats. The kind that believed themselves more prudent than the system itself.
And perhaps they were.
After all, they had succeeded in his previous life.
Their meticulousness and attention to detail had earned them that confidence. They had infiltrated noble houses throughout the empire and remained hidden for years. A few expendable agents stepping forward would not be enough to expose the true ringleaders.
As for the seven who had confessed, Levi was not impressed.
They were dregs.
Expendable pieces.
Sacrifices meant to be discarded the moment things became inconvenient.
The sight before him reminded Levi of camps he had passed through during his years as a fugitive. Groups of frightened people staring at those they believed to be traitors. Most of the time they were correct.
Sometimes they were not.
And there were few things uglier than an innocent man being branded a villain.
With a quiet sigh, Levi clasped his hands behind his back and continued to observe.
A single wave of Duke Draken's hand silenced the entire courtyard.
Thousands of eyes turned toward him.
The Duke's golden gaze swept over the crowd before settling upon the seven kneeling figures.
"I am not a fool, House Solareth."
His voice was calm.
Far too calm.
"You have all served beneath my banner long enough to know that."
Nobody spoke.
Nobody dared.
"Traitors to this house shall receive no mercy. Traitors to this kingdom shall receive no mercy. Traitors to this empire shall receive no mercy."
The Duke paused.
"And neither shall their families."
Panic immediately erupted amongst the seven.
"My lord, please!" one of the men cried. "I have a son. He is only two years old. Have mercy. I beg of yo—"
His words stopped.
So did his breathing.
For a brief moment, nobody understood what had happened.
Then his head slid from his shoulders.
The body remained standing for a heartbeat before collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Thud.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The Duke did not even glance at the corpse.
"I will repeat myself," he said.
"There is no mercy for traitors."
One by one, the remaining six were executed.
Soldiers of House Solareth carried out the sentences without hesitation. Blades flashed. Bodies fell. With every dying gasp, fear took deeper root within the hearts of those gathered.
When the last traitor had fallen, Duke Draken spoke once more.
His voice carried across the courtyard like a decree from the heavens.
"There is no place for traitors within this house."
His gaze swept across every servant, guard, clerk, maid, and attendant present.
"If any amongst you should think of betraying House Solareth, remember this day."
The pressure in the air intensified.
"You shall not live to see what becomes of your children."
A shudder passed through the crowd.
"And should you have family, they shall bear the consequences of your sins long after you are gone."
Nobody dared raise their heads.
Nobody dared breathe too loudly.
As the Duke finished speaking, many believed the matter was over.
Levi knew better.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
The true traitors had yet to reveal themselves.
The real purge was only beginning.