In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

So intense was the focus on the two that one might have mistaken the center of the table for the head seat.

On the wall behind them, banners representing the kingdoms and empires hung in an orderly row.

Behind each royal delegate stood knights and envoys, their sharp gazes sweeping over one another in silent observation.

Though there had been a brief commotion over switching the banners of the Celeste Empire and the Kingdom of Telma, the summit had otherwise been impeccably organized.

The ceiling was adorned with golden embellishments and exquisite frescoes, and a massive chandelier sparkled overhead, casting brilliant light over the room.

The long marble table was lined with documents awaiting signatures from each sovereign—ornately trimmed with gilded carvings that added elegance to the already extravagant setting.

At the very center, Michael rested his hand on the table, exuding overwhelming presence.

His dark, polished military uniform shimmered with gold-thread embroidery and gemstones on the epaulets, a subtle but unmistakable display of accumulated wealth and influence.

From his position at the head seat, Emperor Sigmund of Celeste wore a relaxed smile, but if one looked closely, discomfort flickered beneath his calm façade.

As a natural attention-seeker, Sigmund couldn't stand the fact that all eyes were on Michael.

He tapped the table with his fingertips, creating a rhythm. His gaze was locked squarely on the young duke.

Michael, unfazed, met the stare head-on as he casually flipped through the documents before him.

By now, the day was nearing afternoon.

Sunlight poured through the massive stained-glass windows, flooding the opulent chamber with color and warmth.

Finally, Michael spoke.

"I propose that we launch a swift assault on the Holy Empire as soon as this summit concludes. There's no need for foot soldiers or heavy cavalry—strike and withdraw using only knights, mages, and beast riders."

His voice was firm and clear.

As it echoed through the chamber, several monarchs who had been lounging in their chairs quickly sat up.

The mood began to shift—the air inside the hall grew heavier.

Only now did they remember: this was not a ceremonial gathering, but a war summit.

Envoys and nobles held their breath. A few even swallowed nervously.

Sigmund, despite himself, nodded slowly.

As much as he disliked it, credit had to be given where it was due.

There was no one in this chamber who could disregard Michael's fame.

He was the man who had toppled the Emperor of the Pamir Empire—a brilliant general who had captured both the imperial crown prince and five chieftains despite being outnumbered.

He had subdued many of the continent's greatest warlords.

Michael continued.

"There's no need to trouble the common people of the Holy Empire. They too suffer under the clergy's tyranny. I propose we head straight for the Holy Capital by sea."

At first glance, it sounded like a pacifist's plea.

But in reality, it was a cold, pragmatic assessment:

Don't waste time pillaging impoverished serfs—go straight for the wealth hoarded in the capital.

It was also a strategy to avoid prolonged conflict with the Holy Empire's main forces.

The room stirred.

Everyone knew: the Holy Empire's military was unlike any other kingdom or empire.

Most armies were made up of paid mercenaries or conscripted serfs.

But not the Holy Empire's.

Their forces were driven by faith.

Zealots who believed they were serving the will of their god charged like rabid hounds into battle.

They fought with terrifying ferocity, unflinching even in the face of death.

Michael had a theory.

'There must be some artifact, similar to the cursed relic that once spread madness across the Northeastern Planet.'

The Holy Empire's soldiers always fought with an unsettling madness—completely devoid of fear.

They embraced death, obeyed the Pope without question, and felt neither hunger nor pain.

The theologians of the Holy Empire called them "martyrs, pure vessels of divine will."

To their enemies, they were simply a horde of mad dogs.

There were other units too—Combat Monks, for instance.

These were those who had failed to become full priests, but had honed their bodies through ascetic training and cultivated holy power.

Most had once been commoners with magical talent, later inducted into the temples.

And then there were the Paladins and Priests.

Paladins were no mere knights.

They were sanctified warriors blessed by divine light, chosen through sacred rites.

Children of priestly families or illegitimate offspring of clergy with magical abilities became priests.

Those without magic were instead ordained as paladins through secret rituals.

Occasionally, a gifted commoner might awaken aura on their own and be recruited as a paladin—but these cases were rare.

The rite of passage to become a paladin remained one of the Holy Empire's most closely guarded secrets.

Countless scholars and mages had tried to uncover its mysteries, but none had succeeded.

Michael suspected they were channeling some form of external divine power—in essence, no different from invoking an otherworldly being.

'They call it holy light, but it's all the same. Divine or not, it's borrowed power.'

For that reason, Michael planned to strike before the Holy Empire's full army could be mobilized.

The Holy Capital, where the Pope resided, did not allow commoners to live within its walls.

The city was enclosed by towering walls, a fortress-like structure that seemed built by the hand of a god.

Inside, the laws of man no longer applied.

Only the Pope, high clergy, and their noble families lived within.

Everyone else existed solely to serve them.

In truth, all the wealth of the Holy Empire had been funneled into this one place.

Their arrogance would be their undoing.

Among all those present, only Queen Guinevere and the whining Alphonso II in her lap failed to grasp the true weight behind Michael's words.

So greedy, yet always missing the chance to grow their wealth—how pitiful.

The King of Telma spoke up in a worried voice.

"But… the Holy Capital has never been breached."

It was true. The capital was always protected by a divine blue barrier said to be formed by the radiance of the heavens.