Chapter 81
Chapter 81
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 25
Chapter Title: Cavalry Hunter, Cavalry Hunter, Cavalry (1)
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In truth, my time operating as a Joker in foreign sabotage missions lasted only three years—half a year as a regular operative, the rest as leader.
Truth be told, I didn't earn the leadership role through any standout merit. It was more like the higher-ups kept dying off due to the insane mortality rate, forcing it on me.
Still, the position came with its perks: plenty of access to intel on neighboring countries.
Among that was information on the Hermann Empire.
Being on the opposite side of the continent, the data we had on them was pitifully sparse and shallow compared to places like Kazan, Malta, or Astoria—our usual playgrounds.
Even so, it was enough to grasp just how massive the empire was.
Comparing sheer land area and population, it dwarfed Thracia by at least four times.
And it wasn't just big—it was wealthy.
They had vast riches from their provinces and cutting-edge tech pouring out of their magic academies.
Even now, the Landsknechts—little more than mercenaries in the pocket of the Hermion imperial family—were spreading the empire's influence across every battlefield that would have them.
Add in their eastern continent provinces and vassal duchies, and Thracia didn't even compare.
Yet up until now, Thracia had never truly feared or fretted over the Hermann Empire.
The distance was just too vast.
The empire sat at the far western edge, while Thracia straddled the boundary between the western and eastern continents.
Riding straight there on horseback would take over 160 days one way, crossing no fewer than seven countries.
At least, that's what the reports said. Coming by sea could shave off some time, but even then—factoring in hazardous waters and resupply—it was over 60 days on the fastest ships.
At that point, the Hermann Empire might as well have been another world.
The only reason we'd paid them any mind was Astoria's constant yapping about "Hermann this, Hermann that." But now that Astoria had lost its western coastal regions to Kazan, even that faint vigilance had vanished.
And yet, here they were: an imperial delegation arriving to "celebrate our victory."
Right after Astoria—the only power in the region that had cozied up to the empire—took a beating.
Leading them was none other than the head of the Ziksail, the empire's vanguard and spear tip.
Only a fool wouldn't see through it.
This guy wasn't here for friendly congratulations.
If the empire truly meant well, they wouldn't have sent their spearhead—they'd have picked someone else.
Look at him.
That arrogant mug showing zero respect for the host.
Those strides, stomping through like he already owned the place.
Step by step.
He marched right up to the dais without a hint of hesitation, then coolly eyed King Igor.
No bow, no nod of respect—just standing there stiff and haughty.
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
The nobles were buzzing at his brazen attitude.
A few hotheads were already clenching their fists, breathing hard, itching for a fight.
"The nerve of him..."
One of the more belligerent ones was about to erupt—
Then—
The Ziksail archduke swept back his black cloak's hood and offered a perfunctory bow.
Not quite a proper show of respect... but not a total snub either.
Perfect timing, perfect angle.
Infuriating, yet just ambiguous enough to dodge real criticism.
No one even felt like calling him out.
Not when his other offenses dwarfed a mere attitude problem.
"Th-that bastard!"
"Have you ever seen such insolence!"
The nobles who'd been on the verge of exploding finally let loose.
Even those with the sourest grudges against the royals glared at the archduke like they wanted to tear him apart.
It was only natural.
For the archduke had brazenly donned a diadem—a massive gem dead center—right in the heart of Thracia.
Was it the gem's size, bigger than the one in Igor's crown? No.
The diadem itself was the issue.
Crowns symbolized rule and dominion.
Custom dictated you didn't wear one when entering another's realm.
Yet here he was, wearing it to meet Thracia's sovereign on Thracia's soil—like we were some vassal state.
"..."
Igor's face, from his throne, betrayed no emotion.
Tap, tap-tap.
The uneasy rhythm of his fingers drumming the armrest spoke volumes about his mood.
The nobles' clamor died down.
All eyes waited on Igor's words.
Thud.
The tapping stopped.
"...Remove him."
His voice matched his blank face—cold and indifferent.
As if on cue, the Redcoats flung open the hall's doors.
An unmistakable order to eject the guest.
—...
The archduke had to understand, language barrier or not. Yet he didn't budge.
He just stared at Igor with an inscrutable expression.
"That insolent wretch!"
"How dare a mere envoy act like this!"
Outbursts echoed everywhere.
Nobles, royals, soldiers—everyone raged at the arrogant envoy.
I couldn't help but admire it inwardly.
This one man had achieved what no Thracian ever had: total unity among us all.
Sure, his manners sucked and his face grated on me, but you had to give him credit for that.
Clack, clack.
The Redcoats closed in around the archduke.
Even now, with humiliation staring him down—about to be dragged out like a dog—he stayed calm.
In the end, though, they didn't drag him out.
Swoosh.
The archduke reached up and grasped his diadem.
Then, without a second's hesitation, removed it.
"...!"
The nobles' jaws dropped.
Not wearing it from the start would've been one thing.
But taking it off now? Depending on how you saw it, that screamed submission.
Any other spin, and it was still a massive humiliation.
—...
Even bearing that shame, the archduke's face remained utterly composed as he offered a light nod.
"The archduke says: 'It has been so long since I visited a foreign land as a friendly envoy rather than a warrior that I committed a grave discourtesy. I beseech Thracia's sovereign to forgive me with magnanimity.'"
The interpreter—overlooked amid his master's overwhelming presence—relayed the words at length.
"The archduke says: 'Having caused such a scene, I lack the face to remain at the banquet. Thus, with apologies and gratitude, I shall present a modest gift and take my leave.'"
At the archduke's glance, attendants stepped forward from behind and knelt.
They bore an ornate little chest.
The protocol officer below the dais checked its contents, confirmed no issues, and nodded subtly to Igor.
"Accept it."
The archduke bowed lightly once more, then turned and exited the hall.
He showed his back to the king—an affront in itself—but this time, no one minded.
Maybe because he'd already removed the diadem and apologized. Or perhaps curiosity about the chest's contents won out. Who knew?
Creeeak. Thud.
His dramatic entrance ended in an anticlimactic exit.
"The envoy dispatched by the spiritual leader and sole secular ruler of Kazan, Sultan Nasser bin Mustafa Kahzan, to celebrate and honor our friendship—Pasha Rahim bin Matar Ahal—enters...!"
After that, the banquet dragged on, somehow robbed of its spark, feeling flat and dull.
I didn't even get to enjoy it.
"They think they're the empire, so they come here throwing their weight around!"
"One word from His Majesty, and he panics, yanking off his crown. Guess he thought the empire's name still carried weight here!"
"Exactly! Judge the head, and you know the body—the Ziksail Archduchy must be just as pathetic."
Overhearing the nobles' chatter—
"A moment..."
A page approached and whispered in my ear.
"We're the true hegemons of this region, aren't we? If Hermann looms in the west, Thracia stands in the east!"
"Why bother with some backwater empire on the other side of the world?"
I slipped quietly from the banquet amid their boisterous laughter dismissing the incident.
It wasn't long after I reached the glass garden that Igor appeared.
"What did you make of him?"
He cut straight to it.
"Rude. Reckless scum."
I answered without pause.
"And?"
Not the response he wanted—he pressed.
"...Cunning and terrifying beyond that."
Only then did satisfaction flicker across his face.
"Why do you say so?"
"One calculated slight netted him three gains—proof of his cunning. And willing to swallow shame for it? How could he not be fearsome?"
Strutting in with the diadem had been no mistake.
It was a deliberate probe—a test.
First gain: intel on Thracia's leadership temperament from their reaction.
Second: gauging our unity and the royals' control.
Third: by "humbling" himself to remove it, he'd disarmed their wariness and invited underestimation.
A subtlety that didn't match his fierce, wolfish arrogance at all.
"I agree. I never imagined a man blending wolf and serpent in one."
"Another two-faced schemer like that in the world?"
"..."
"...?"
That piercing gaze irked me for some reason.
"Looks like the giant is stirring."
Igor cleared his throat once and got to the point.
"Thracia's southern ports are the target."
"That's how I see it too."
The region's lone empire lackey, Astoria, had lost its swagger. Its western ports—wide open to the empire—had fallen to Kazan, who would never grant them access.
Kazan, devoted to their own god in a theocratic mold, viewed the Hermann Empire's monotheism as heresy.
And the empire had a long history of persecuting heretics.
No way Kazan would let an imperial fleet dock—not when it was obvious persecution would follow.
It meant permanently losing one of the three sea routes to their eastern continent cash cow.
"A fresh report just arrived."
Igor handed me a letter.
"The southern seas are sealed."
I scanned it quickly.
The Moors ruling the northern tip of the southern continent had banned imperial ships, sinking any that passed nearby.
"Two of the three routes to the east are now closed."
Astoria's loss blocked the northern route; the Moors shut the southern one.
Only the central route through the narrow strait remained.
"And that's Saracen territory. Their roots are close to Kazan's—they won't open ports to the empire either."
"Without Saracen ports..."
"They'll use Thracia's to dash straight through the strait to their provinces."
In short: turn us into a forward base.
"Will you open them?"
"What would you do?"
"Never. No one tangles with them and comes out unscathed."
At first, they'd pay up, play nice.
Then slowly seize the ports until they swallowed them whole.
Pour in troops and supplies from the homeland, subjugating the area completely.
That was the Hermann playbook.
They saw everywhere their feet touched as imperial soil—madmen, every one.
"Hm."
My head throbbed.
I'd planned to spend my final days drilling Stalnoi Grom recruits.
Just rid ourselves of greedy neighbors, and now this: a bigger, greedier bandit sniffing around.
Graver than I'd thought.
"They haven't formally requested cooperation yet. Just keep their motives and this long journey's purpose in mind."
A sudden curiosity struck me.
Was Igor addressing Yannick, Stalnoi Grom's commander? Or Crownslayer, the Jokers' old chief?
"More importantly—this."
As I stared, Igor changed the subject.
"The Ziksail archduke's gift..."
He handed over the ornate chest.
Heavier than expected.
Click.
I glanced for permission, then flipped open the lid.