The World Is Mine For The Taking-Chapter 1186 - 181 - The Death Of The King (3)

Julius stood over the body of our father.

The hall was silent and heavy, as if the air itself refused to move. The scent of incense hung thick in the space, clinging to my lungs every time I breathed in. The stone floor beneath our feet was cold, and somehow that cold seemed to seep upward, crawling along my skin and settling deep in my chest.

Julius didn’t kneel. He didn’t bow his head. He didn’t even hesitate.

He simply stood there, looming over the body laid out before us.

His gaze dropped to the king’s face. Not with grief, not with respect, but with a look so detached it was almost cruel. It was the kind of stare you’d give to something broken and useless, and something already forgotten. His eyes were empty, stripped of warmth, and stripped of anything human.

I had never loved my father. I knew that. I never once looked at him with affection, and never felt that familiar pull people talked about when they spoke of family. Still, even I couldn’t imagine looking at him like that. There was a difference between indifference and absolute coldness, and Julius crossed that line without a second thought.

"So you finally croaked and hit it, huh, old man?" Julius said.

His voice echoed through the hall, and it was sharp and biting. It cut through the silence like a blade, making a few people flinch despite themselves.

There was no tremor in his voice. There was no hesitation as well as a hint of loss.

It was flat. Frozen.

Cold as ice.

If someone didn’t know any better, they’d never believe he was the son of a king, much less the next one in line.

The nobles and ministers gathered nearby exchanged looks almost immediately. Murmurs spread through the hall like rot, quiet at first, then slowly growing bolder.

"I don’t think he’s even fit to become the next king," one of the ministers whispered, leaning closer to another.

"Well, the royal family doesn’t have a choice at this point," someone else replied under their breath. "He’s the next in line. Blood matters more than anything here."

"But after everything he’s done?" another voice chimed in, barely hiding their disdain. "He’s lost the people’s trust. Their interest too. With his reputation, I don’t think he’s suited to rule at all."

"The royal family is already finished," someone muttered. "And let’s be honest—the Queen isn’t fit to rule either."

"So we’re really handing everything over to Prince Julius?"

"We don’t have a choice," came the response, tense and sharp. "But that doesn’t mean we can’t think of another way."

They weren’t even trying to hide it.

Their voices were low, sure, but not low enough. Every word carried through the hall, clear enough for us to hear. Clear enough for Julius to hear.

They knew exactly what they were doing.

They wanted us to hear it.

This was how they always were—cowards wrapped in silk and titles, pretending to whisper while making sure their poison reached its target. They wanted to pressure us, to remind us that the throne wasn’t just ours. That it was something they believed they could still control.

They were already plotting, already imagining how they would strip power from us piece by piece.

But they were fools if they thought it would be that easy.

The Milham Kingdom was a monarchy. Power flowed through blood, through lineage carved into history itself. Only someone from the royal family could sit on the throne. Anyone else would be nothing more than a usurper.

And if that happened—if someone outside the bloodline took the throne—then the Milham Kingdom would effectively cease to exist.

Usurpation didn’t just steal power. It shattered legitimacy. It invited chaos.

That was why none of them dared to act openly.

Instead, for generations, they played a slower and dirtier game. They clung to the reigning king, whispered into his ears, twisted his judgment, and pulled strings from behind curtains. They didn’t need the throne itself—only control over the one sitting on it.

That was what happened to my father.

And now he lay motionless before us, a victim of that very game.

"You know I can hear all of you, right?" Julius said suddenly.

A crooked smirk spread across his face as he turned his head slightly, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. "All you ever think about is the throne. Nothing else. It’s sickening."

His voice grew sharper with each word.

"Honestly, it’s impressive. You talk about me like I don’t deserve it, when you’re the ones trying to sink your teeth into me just so you can get what you want."

He lifted his arm slowly.

"Why don’t I just burn all of you right here?" he continued, almost casually. "That’d be easier, wouldn’t it?"

Fire bloomed in his palm.

It wasn’t wild or unstable. It was controlled. The heat radiated outward instantly, making the air shimmer. Several nobles stiffened, panic flashing across their faces as fear finally replaced arrogance.

"It would be best if you didn’t do something like that, Your Majesty."

The voice came from behind him.

Before anyone could react, steel pressed against the back of Julius’s throat.

Vice Commander Veronica stood there, her blade steady, her posture relaxed as if this were nothing more than a routine interruption. At the same moment her sword touched his skin, the flames in Julius’s hand vanished without a trace.

The Vice Commander wasn’t someone you challenged. Skills meant nothing to her. No matter how overwhelming, no matter how broken or monstrous it was, she could snuff it out like it never existed.

If there was anyone in this kingdom you didn’t look down on, didn’t provoke, and didn’t test—

It was Vice Commander Veronica.

"Tch..." Julius clicked his tongue. "Alright, alright. I won’t do anything."

He exhaled slowly, irritation dripping from his tone.

"Can’t I at least enjoy my father’s wake?"

Despite his temper, Julius knew better. Everyone did. He knew that pushing further would only end badly—for him.

Veronica held her blade in place for a moment longer, then finally withdrew it. Julius shot her a glare over his shoulder, his eyes sharp, but he said nothing.

After that, his gaze returned to the king’s body.

Time passed quietly after that.

Eventually, it was decided that the ceremony would continue.

The one responsible for organizing the funeral stepped forward, his movements stiff, and his expression solemn. With practiced efficiency, orders were given. The body was carefully moved, the platform rolling slowly across the floor as it was taken out of the royal hall.

Its destination was already decided.

The Hall of Kings.

A place steeped in history and weight.

It was a resting ground reserved only for those who had once ruled the Milham Kingdom. Every previous king lay there, their legacies carved into stone, and their names etched into memory.

This would be my father’s final place.

"For the final time," the announcer declared, his voice echoing through the space, "we stand here to witness our king while his body remains whole."

All eyes followed the procession.

"We shall watch as he ascends the ladder of the Greats," the voice continued, "joining the kings who came before him, as well as the founder of our great kingdom."

The words felt rehearsed.

"Our king, who was magnanimous and kind to all, will now make his ascent," the announcer concluded. "And we shall witness it with our own eyes."