The Scum Emperor's Redemption System

"Power, huh?"

Argider reclined on the silken expanse of her bedchamber, her body languid from hours of grueling swordplay.

She stretched out her arm, scrutinizing her hand as it hovered under the moonlight. Frail fingers, thin as whispers, seemed barely tethered to the bones beneath.

Her lips twisted into a mirthless smirk before she let her hand drop against the velvet sheets.

Power.

It wasn't just the prerogative of her wife—the Empire's true sovereign—but a currency demanded of her, too. A public illusion to maintain. She had to appear powerful, commanding, worthy of reverence.

But she was none of those things. Not anymore. Not ever.

Her autonomy had been eroded, ground down by the omnipresent gaze of the Redemption System.

Every breath she drew, every step she took, was cataloged, analyzed, judged. She was both the ruler and the ruled, shackled by her own empire's machinery and sins.

And yet, beneath the weight of this surveillance, another truth gnawed at her: she was a fool.

Uneducated. Dull. A woman now—an irony that still gnawed at her, sharp as broken glass.

What did she have left but her bloodline?

And even that felt thin.

But... perhaps this wasn't entirely bad.

If she returned to being a man, the transformation would elevate her, wouldn't it? She'd emerge stronger. Wiser. Greater than the Empire's legendary first Emperor, even.

She let out a low chuckle, lips curving into something between scorn and hope.

"That would be something, wouldn't it? To come back all-powerful? A scoundrel redeemed. The greatest emperor this cursed empire has ever known," The words slipped from her mouth like a confession, soft and self-mocking, yet charged with dangerous allure.

But the fantasy crumbled quickly. She sighed, rubbing her eyes with trembling fingers.

"What am I even saying?" she murmured. "This is exactly the kind of classist garbage I've been conditioned to believe." She knew better—or, at least, she thought she did.

But what choice did she have?

If she faltered, the entire Empire would falter with her. She was its spine, fragile though it was, and without her, it would collapse into dust.

And wasn't the Empire already a mirror of herself? Weak. Vulnerable. Trapped.

Her thoughts tangled and turned inward. Who was she doing this for? Her late mother? The people? Herself? For some vague hope of reclaiming her old body?

Every purpose she conjured felt hollow, like grasping at smoke. All she knew for certain was the suffocating weight of her circumstances, the stifling ache of being stuck.

And the ghosts.

She shuddered. The faces of the dead haunted her dreams, their unblinking eyes accusing her for failing to save them

"I just don't understand myself!" she growled, sitting up abruptly and clawing at her hair. Frustration churned within her like a storm. "One moment, I want to indulge every petty desire—tear everything down, drag everyone into the muck with me, gorge myself on... on pleasure." Her voice cracked, and she pressed trembling hands to her temples. "But then… I see vulnerability, and something inside me shifts. I soften. Why?"

Her reflection in the vanity's polished glass stared back, mocking.

She could see it now: a despicable, selfish wretch, pitifully tethered to some nonsensical moral code.

She wasn't good—she'd made peace with that long ago. So why did she feel this pull? This ache for something better, even when her heart was riddled with rot?

So she questioned, why did evil taste so good?

The thought lingered, bittersweet. Evil was like a forbidden delicacy, rich and intoxicating.

She knew it corroded everything it touched, yet she couldn't help but crave it.

To devour it, savor its poison, even as it destroyed her from within.

And still, the aftermath clung to her—a thousand broken pieces of guilt, regret, and something perilously close to shame.

She exhaled shakily, slumping back against the bed. The questions wouldn't leave her alone.

"Forget about it. I'm just selfish."

Suddenly, a knock echoed through the chamber, a sharp interruption to Argider's fragile grasp on rest.

She groaned, her face buried in the lush embrace of the pillows. The day had been cruel, and night promised no reprieve.

"It's the butler, Your Majesty," the voice beyond the door announced. "Lady Fialova has arrived to visit."

Ah, yes. Fialova. The knight who had shattered vows and crossed every line of propriety just to serve her. The other problem and responsibility.

She exhaled wearily.

"Come in," she muttered, not bothering to lift her head.

The door creaked open, and the butler's candlelight stretched across the room, licking at the shadows like a timid herald. Argider remained as she was, her limbs heavy with exhaustion.

Argider barely registered the soft thud of footsteps retreating and the door clicking shut. But then—a shift in the mattress.

She blinked, her gaze sliding sideways. A figure perched beside her.

"Oh," Argider managed, her voice flat with disbelief.

There sat Fialova, no longer clad in the gleaming armor that had been her second skin but instead draped in a noblewoman's gown.

Silks and satins kissed her figure, their opulence a jarring contrast to the rugged knight Argider had known.

The Emperor chuckled, though the sound was hollow, and turned her face back to the pillow. "You've gone to great lengths, haven't you?"

Fialova's voice came softly, steady as steel but tinged with warmth. "It feels strange, doesn't it? Seeing me without the armor."

"It does," Argider admitted, peering at her once more. The transformation was unnerving yet fitting. Fialova's form, now unshielded by cold metal, seemed almost softer. Almost.

"Armor or none, I'm still ready to fight for Your Imperial Majesty."

"I know. You're likely more of a man than I am. But, honestly, Fialova—you shouldn't have done this."

"This?" Fialova tilted her head, her composure faltering.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

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"Abandoning the knightly oath. Doffing the armor. All of it."

The girl clasped her hands tightly, her knuckles whitening against her gown's intricate embroidery. "No..." she began, but her voice wavered.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor before flickering up to Argider's face. She seemed... uncertain, as if weighing truths too heavy to speak aloud.

Argider sighed, her tone tinged with exasperation. "Forget it," she said, sitting up slightly. "Why are you here anyway? To remind me of some ill-conceived promise?"

"I came to make sure you hadn't forgotten about me," Fialova replied, forcing a laugh. "You've been so occupied with the Empress lately."

"And why would I forget? How could I forget the woman who pledged herself to me after less than a day's acquaintance?"

Fialova chuckled, leaning closer. Too close. Her breath danced across Argider's cheek as she murmured, "I suppose that's rather memorable."

The Emperor stiffened, heat rising to her face. The audacity of this girl was beyond comprehension. Fialova's lips hovered close—too close.

It was impossible to ignore the proximity, the sheer nerve.

Argider's pulse quickened against her will, her traitorous cheeks burning pink.

Fialova drew back at last, her smile knowing. "I'll look forward to it," she said, her voice teasing.

With that, she rose and left the room, her skirts trailing behind her like whispers in the dark.

Argider exhaled sharply, burying her face in her hands. "That girl," she muttered. "She's far too mysterious for her own good."