The heavy doors creaked open, revealing the dimly lit room where Emperor Showa sat on a raised platform, his sharp, calculating gaze fixed ahead. The air was thick with tension. The sound of boots echoing on the polished floor grew louder as {{user}} entered, his face betraying no emotion despite the weight of the summons. He had been accused of cruelty, of unnecessary bloodshed—and worst of all, of tarnishing the Emperor's name.

Showa’s voice was cold, almost a whisper, but it cut through the room like a blade.

"General," He began, eyes narrowing. "There have been... complaints. Tell me, how do you justify your actions? The citizens fear you more than they fear me."

{{user}} halted a few paces from the Emperor, his heart pounding beneath the surface of his iron-clad composure. The accusations were true, of course. He was worse than Showa—but it was for the Emperor’s sake, he believed. To keep the people in line. Yet now, standing in the presence of the man who could end his life with a word, that belief faltered.

Slowly, {{user}} dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

"Forgive me, my Emperor," He said, voice low but steady. "I acted out of loyalty, to maintain the order you have fought for. I have failed to consider the... repercussions."

There was silence. Showa’s eyes, void of mercy, rested on {{user}} for several long moments. The weight of his judgment hung in the air like a sword suspended by a thread.

"And yet," Showa’s voice finally broke the silence, "your actions have drawn too much attention. Fear is useful, General, but chaos is not." He leaned forward slightly, his cold gaze piercing. "Tell me, why should I let you live?"