The North's Reckoning
The dawn air was cold.
Today the northern wind blew with unusual ferocity, and the square had been packed with people since early morning.
Imperial regular troops. A detachment from the Imperial Guard Knights. Part of the direct legion. Even the veterans long stationed in the north.
A constant murmur filled the square.
Three lords died overnight, they said. Count Brünel died too, they said. The crown prince gave his permission, they said. No, that was just an excuse—General Berhardt had gone mad, they said.
The rumors were many, but certainty was scarce. Still, every man present had answered Arsens's summons and gathered here.
No matter how chaotic the situation, to the soldiers of the north, Arsens Berhardt was a legendary figure.
Before long, Arsens emerged from the rear of the square. The murmuring died down in an instant.
He wore a blood-red coat and carried a scabbard caked with dried blood. A large sack dragged behind him across the ground.
No one blocked his path. No one even thought to try.
Arsens climbed onto the platform and wordlessly hurled the sack into the center of the square.
Thud.
The heavy sound echoed as the sack struck the stone. The cloth loosened, and its contents rolled out across the pavement.
Count Brünel. Count Retian. And Marquis Malof.
The severed heads came to rest on the cold stone. The murmuring ceased. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a man swallowing dryly.
Arsens looked down over the square and spoke.
"Listen well."
His voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly to every corner of the square.
"The reason these men died is simple."
A brief silence.
"They blocked reports bound for the capital. They sowed chaos in our troops and supplies. And they tried to seize command of the imperial army with their own hands."
Arsens's gaze swept slowly over the soldiers.
"In the middle of a battlefield, they tampered with the chain of command and drove the entire north to the brink of civil war."
The air in the square grew heavy. No one breathed easily. Arsens continued.
"I know the north has suffered. Equipment is old, supplies are short, and even the dead receive their due too late."
Every soldier who had endured the north knew this truth. Men had frozen to death because supplies arrived late. Others had lost limbs to shoddy gear. Compensation often came only on paper. Arsens did not pretend otherwise.
"Every winter, it is the northern soldiers who die first. When the monsters swarm, it is the north that bleeds first. Yet support always came late, supply wagons were always lacking, and the price of your blood remained nothing but ink on parchment."
His voice dropped lower.
"I understand the resentment. Why must the north always endure? Why must the north always die first? I know those questions too."
The expressions of the veterans in the front rows shifted almost imperceptibly.
"But the moment you use that as an excuse to split the imperial army and shake the front lines, it ceases to be a fight for the north."
He spat the words out like venom.
"It is holding the north hostage."
The lords' heads rolled across the square in the wind. Arsens slowly raised his sword and pointed at them.
"These men did not protect the north. They used the north's anger as their shield and the north's blood as their justification."
The hem of his blood-red coat snapped in the wind.
"That is why I cut them down myself—to punish those who turned the battlefield into a political arena."
The square grew even quieter. Arsens paused for a moment, then spoke again.
"From this day forward, I will take responsibility for the north."
A short, clear declaration.
"Supplies will be restored. Equipment will be replaced. Compensation for the fallen and their families will be settled. The frontier villages and the wall will be rebuilt."
Arsens stood in the center of the square and looked down at the soldiers.
"I will not ask you merely to endure. I will not ask you merely to hold the line. I will not ask you merely to die first."
His gaze swept slowly over the sea of soldiers filling the square.
"Instead, I ask you this: do you intend to hand the north you have protected over to traitors?"
No one answered. Arsens continued in a calm voice.
"If not, then we end it here. I will remove every last traitor and restore order to the north. The imperial army will be one again, and the north will no longer be bait for political games."
Then he drove the final point home.
"Therefore, those who will remain as imperial soldiers under my command—swear your loyalty now."
The silence stretched long. There was no cheering. Instead, Arsens's eyes found an old sergeant standing in the front row. A long scar across his left cheek, worn plate armor, a right hand twisted from years gripping a sword hilt.
The face was familiar—not from his own memories, but from Arsens's. The old sergeant remained still for a long moment, then slowly dropped to one knee. That single act was enough.
Soon the soldier beside him knelt. The officer next to him followed, and one by one the others drove their swords point-down into the ground.
At first it was only a few. But those few movements spread across the entire square.
Regular troops dropped to one knee and drove their swords into the earth. The Imperial Guard Knights followed. So did the direct legion. Even the northern veterans did not hesitate. Rough, callused hands drew blades from scabbards and planted them point-down in the ground.
The sound of soldiers kneeling and driving swords into the earth was strangely heavy. The ring of steel striking stone, knees meeting dirt, and sword hilts trembling faintly merged into one sound that echoed throughout the square.
Arsens slowly stepped down from the platform. He watched the scene for a long time, then dropped to one knee before the soldiers and drove his own sword into the ground, bowing his head to them.
"I will not abandon you again. The north will rise once more, and I will end this rebellion with my own hands."
The soldiers watched in breathless silence.
"I, Arsens Berhardt, swear it."
#
No further words were needed. I slowly rose to my feet.
When I pulled the sword from the ground, dirt and blood clung to the blade before falling away. I looked down once more.
Countless soldiers remained kneeling, swords driven point-down before them. Regular troops, Imperial Guard Knights, the direct legion, northern veterans—all of them filled the square.
"…"
Truthfully, I could have gone straight to the Northern Archduke and taken his head instead of giving this speech. But the problem lay in what came after.
Soldiers long stationed in the north harbored deep grievances against the capital, and those grievances had not yet faded. If I had struck the archducal castle immediately, the Northern Archduke might have died, but the northern army would have fractured again.
Some would see it as a traitor's just end, while others would claim I had ignored the north's suffering and purged their archduke. So I had to show them first.
Why I had beheaded the lords. Who the real traitors were. Who had tried to divide the soldiers.
"Hah…"
Without looking back, I turned and walked away. As I descended from the platform, the soldiers parted to clear a path.
Then, from behind, I heard Raylin and Reina's voices.
"Marshal."
I did not stop.
"Please be careful."
I gave a brief nod.
"I will."
With those words, no further sound reached me. I could only feel the soldiers watching my back in utter silence.
When I stepped through the headquarters gate, the black walls of the archducal castle came into view in the distance. The Northern Archduke would already know I was coming. There was nothing left to hide or hesitate over now. I did not slow my pace.
Only the steady rhythm of military boots striking stone echoed through the air. As the castle drew nearer, the gatehouse grew busy. Some pointed in my direction; others rushed inside. The tall outer gate, the black walls that had long withstood the northern winds, and the archducal banner fluttering above them. Even at dawn the torches remained lit, and the shadows on the walls stood out clearly.
They had prepared, then.
As I reached the outer gate, soldiers quickly formed ranks inside. The archduke's personal knights stood at the front, soldiers behind them, and conscripted troops awkwardly mixed among them. Their numbers were not small, but every face was rigid with tension.
When I stopped directly before the gate, the lead knight forced his voice out.
"General Berhardt."
Still calling me general, I noted. He had drawn his sword, but the tip trembled faintly.
"The archducal castle is sealed. If you advance any further—"
I cut him off.
"If you stand there with a sword in hand, I will consider it participation in treason."
The wind swept past the gate. I raised my blade at an angle and slowly swept my gaze over them.
"If you do not wish to die, drop your swords."