I Was Mistaken as a Great War Commander

The voice, thick with emotion, lacked strength.

It wasn’t sincere enough to be called the truth, yet it carried too much weight to be dismissed as a lie.

Because of that, Daniel understood.

Selvia was using alcohol as a crutch to express the turmoil she had been suppressing.

She wasn’t looking for answers—just for someone to acknowledge how exhausted she was. A fleeting indulgence, seeking comfort in the presence of another.

If she weren’t drunk, I’d never see her like this.

After all, Selvia was the Emperor of the Empire.

As the one who ruled over millions, she couldn’t afford to show weakness to anyone.

To be weak meant losing control.

So she had never allowed herself to falter.

Even when her own brother tried to kill her for the throne, even when the nobles turned their backs on her, she had convinced herself it was fine.

Because she had believed that once she became Emperor, all these problems would resolve themselves.

At the very least, she had assumed the opposition from the parliament and aristocracy would subside.

But the reality that awaited her as Emperor was far worse.

Rather than merely withdrawing their support, the nobles had become her enemies.

The parliament, supposedly representing the people, shot down every policy she tried to enact.

And as if that weren’t enough, her physician had told her that her father, Bertheim, wouldn’t last the month.

With all that weighing on her, breaking down wasn’t a failure—it was inevitable.

She had reached the pinnacle of power in the Empire, yet nothing was within her control.

Crushing responsibility bore down on her, and relentless criticism shackled her—who could stay sane under such circumstances?

And yet, she refused to surrender.