Chapter 112
Chapter 112
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 112
Chapter Title: How Can Spring Come Without Winter Passing (3)
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The king looked at his eldest son.
An arrogant, spirited young prince overflowing with vigor.
He himself had been exactly like that in the past. He had believed he could protect the kingdom from the empire's exploitation and even lead it to revival. But he had been wrong.
There was nothing he could do but endure.
The kingdom, plundered over generations under the guise of treaties, was already in tatters.
Enormous tariffs were imposed on every transaction in the kingdom, but the benefits flowed not to the kingdom, but to the empire.
Due to these absurd tariffs, merchants stopped coming to the kingdom, leaving it in chronic shortage of goods.
Mines dotted the land everywhere, and expensive monster byproducts overflowed, but imperial trading companies monopolized them, preventing fair prices. The empire deliberately curtailed the royal family's authority and empowered the nobles.
As a result, the royals lost their taxation rights over the nobles, and many ventures became nominal at best.
The royal treasury spiraled into deficit, while nobles squeezed their territories' people to amass wealth.
The kingdom, once united under the mighty power of House Leonberger, existed no more.
All this had happened over the past century.
Even the twelve legions—east, west, south, north, and central—that had upheld the royal family were no longer intact.
Of the twelve legions, only four maintained their full strength of 2,000 men: the Northern Legion at Winter Castle, the Eastern Legion at Red Salt Coast Fortress, the Southern Legion at Silver Lion Citadel, and the Central Legion in the capital.
The other eight legions were such a mess that even calling them regular army was embarrassing.
Their forces fell short of half their quota—barely a fraction—and most were conscripts provided by nobles or long-term mercenaries, poorly armed and undisciplined.
Then came word of trouble in the north.
The king racked his brains to dispatch reinforcements immediately.
The Southern Legion, the kingdom's elite in arms and discipline, couldn't leave the border. The Eastern Legion, able to land in the north quickly by fleet, was barred from sailing due to imperial pressure.
The Northern Legion was already at Winter Castle, so that was out. Reserve legions made of conscripts would be useless if sent north.
Only the Central Legion remained, but dispatching them risked leaving the capital undefended, making the decision difficult.
Of the kingdom's ten thousand legion soldiers, not one legion was free to move.
In the end, the king risked the capital's vulnerability and drew from the Central Legion and part of the Iron Lion Knight Order, filling shortages with expensive mercenaries.
At the time, it seemed the best option.
He thought the northern nobles, united with the kingdom's shield, could hold the north.
But it was a delusion.
The northern lords didn't stir, and Winter Castle fell.
The Silver Lion of Winter Castle perished in battle, leaving the north defenseless against the orcs.
Recapturing the north was necessary but impossible. The royal forces alone couldn't drive out the orcs, and central nobles would never commit troops for the north.
So they formed a defensive line in the center around the bridges over the Raintes River, that narrow pass. Only then did the central nobles, with fire at their feet, provide troops.
Only after reports of nearly ten thousand gathering at the line could the king breathe.
He thought ten thousand could hold the narrow pass.
Even that judgment was flawed.
The orcs' king, a Warlord unheard of before, nearly shattered the line, nearly letting orcs ravage the entire kingdom.
Looking back now, it wasn't exaggeration to say the kingdom had teetered on the brink of destruction.
What averted that doom was his eldest son, whom he had scorned and hated so bitterly.
It was the eldest son who starved the orcs and broke their momentum, who rallied the demoralized northern lords' armies to save the crumbling line.
And now that eldest son was asking him.
Why had he abandoned the north?
Facing that steadfast scrutiny, he let out a sigh.
He had so much to say.
For excuses, the weakened forces due to imperial pressure.
For blame, the Ballerhard Margraves for failing to unite the vassal houses.
The northern lords who shirked duty and central nobles who watched the war like a fire across the river shared responsibility too.
The unknown Warlord monster, financial strain—excuses abounded.
But he couldn't voice any.
Now, they all rang hollow as excuses.
The king opened and closed his mouth several times, gazing at the prince.
That bitter face, those sharply raised eyes—he suddenly realized it wasn't unfamiliar.
It didn't take long to recall where he'd seen it.
It was his own face, looking at the late king before ascending the throne.
In that realization, the king finally understood his eldest son for the first time.
Just recalling the emotions he'd felt toward the late king was enough.
A flood of thoughts came with those past feelings.
Among them, self-loathing for foisting blame on an ignorant young prince and ignoring reality; mocking himself as a petty lord who averted eyes from successive misjudgments and failures, belittling those who earned merit.
In that endless wave of emotions, the king closed his eyes.
The answer had been set from the start.
Merit covered faults a hundredfold; the prince had more than redeemed himself.
He should have acknowledged it long ago but hadn't.
The greater the son's merits, the heavier his own blunders weighed; unable to shed old grudges, he blurred public duty and private resentment.
He had to correct it now.
The king exhaled deeply, shedding his stubbornness and pettiness with that breath.
Once wasn't enough; he emptied himself again and again.
Only then could he answer the question.
He had done his best in dire straits, but all had failed.
He had striven to meet the shifting tides, but completed nothing properly.
All were his failing as a lord to lead the nobles, the height of incompetence for lacking bold decisions.
The kingdom's history might sound like verbose excuses.
The royal family's woes might seem paltry self-justification.
The king simply spoke.
And long after his tale ended, the 1st Prince rose quietly.
No words of understanding, no condemnation.
Instead of pressing for reply, the king watched the rising prince with a stoic face.
The prince, seeming about to leave, lingered oddly long.
"There are five hundred training to become full knights at Winter Castle."
He spoke abruptly after a while.
The king widened his eyes.
"Among them are some Your Majesty knows."
The prince's words were too disjointed to grasp immediately.
"Gawain Gerst."
The king, listening silently, shot up unwittingly.
Seeing that, the prince continued.
"He and three hundred comrades are at Winter Castle."
Before the king could ask, the prince added,
"They're squires for now, but soon they'll reach full knight level."
The prince left.
Clunk.
Until the door closed, the king couldn't rise.
The prince's parting whisper thundered in his mind.
'When the time comes, it wouldn't be bad for Your Majesty to knight them personally.'
The king was utterly dumbfounded.
"Gawain and the knights..."
He repeated the same words endlessly.
Then, with a hollow expression, he sank into the sofa.
"Now even the justification is gone..."
A sigh or groan—who knew what justification he meant.
Nothing was clear.
"My lord. We've left the capital."
At the coachman's words, the former court chamberlain halted the carriage.
He opened the window, taking in the capital's sight one last time.
The court chamberlain position, guarded for generations, ended in his tenure. Though long planned, the bittersweet feeling lingered inescapably.
But the melancholy didn't last.
"A man must swim in great waters."
He'd told the king he'd retire quietly to the countryside, but he'd never intended that even a speck.
He planned to defect to the empire and live out his days as a great nation's noble.
Not the original plan, of course.
His house had served House Leonberger for generations; he'd been raised by his father as the royal family's loyal servant.
His mind changed four years ago.
His family had long kept double books for the royals. In reward for centuries of devotion, they'd siphoned modestly without gutting the treasury.
That day, he reviewed the ledgers. Planning to take just a bit within loyalty's bounds.
But a unease struck.
Numbers perfect, records flawless—yet something felt off.
He pulled family ledgers and compared figures.
Official books clean, but discrepancies with family ones.
At first, he thought some insolent soul embezzled royal goods. Intent on plugging the hole, he secretly traced the ledgers.
Tracing was hard. Funds split, laundered two- or threefold, always hitting walls. Still, comparing family books, he persisted.
After a year, he found the final destination.
No joy in it.
Everyone has limits to truth they can bear. His was exactly that.
Astoundingly, the royals secretly trained over three hundred knights.
To a mere numbers man, the secret was too heavy. He feared others noticing he knew royal secrets.
Not the royals' issue—they wouldn't discard his loyal house over one secret.
The empire was the problem.
Nightmares of imperial spies kidnapping, torturing, killing him plagued him. Extreme neurosis set in; soon, dream and reality blurred.
He'd wither away.
So he confessed to the imperial ambassador.
His honeyed ties with the ambassador began then.
The sin of informing fell on the foolish 1st Prince.
Guilt kept him sleepless at first. But the deed was irreversible; the ambassador demanded endless secrets.
Repetition dulled guilt; eventually, it vanished.
Now, he even thought that choice wise.
Better to live grandly as imperial noble than slave away for the penniless Leonbergers.
Fleeing by night wasn't planned, but no big issue.
Four years ago, informing on royal secrets earned imperial noble title and fief promise. Now, just escape this backwater for a splendid life in the imperial capital.
"Hm?"
Daydreaming and chuckling, he realized the carriage had stopped.
"Anyone there?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Why has the carriage stopped?"
"The mercenaries we were to meet haven't shown... Oh, there they come."
At the coachman's words, he cracked the door and stepped out.
In the distance, cloaked riders cleaved the darkness, approaching. He wore a friendly smile.
Overly warm for mercenaries.
They weren't mere mercenaries. The Marquis of Montpellier had provided these imperial knights and soldiers as his escort. Building rapport en route to becoming an imperial noble? Why not.
The riders halted before him, kicking up dust.
Caked in dirt from their aggressive charge, he showed no displeasure, not even coughing.
"Are you Sir Arl? Or Sir Teorn? Anyway, well done riding through the dark night..."
Welcoming the imperial knights gladly, he froze.
The torchlit face was neither Arl's nor Teorn's.
"No need for such warm welcome. We're not here with good tidings."
The deeply hooded man,
"Y-Your Highness, why are you here..."
The 1st Prince threw back his hood and said,
"Those you awaited won't come."
In that instant, he realized.
The imperial ambassador had sold him out.
Judgment swift, he flung himself prostrate.
"Y-Your Highness! Please don't let a big thief escape chasing a small one!"
Ignoring dirt in his mouth, he begged desperately.
"Gahk."
A scream rang out.
He flinched, huddling, then mustered courage to squint.
"Grghhh."
A bloodied man groveled.
He gaped in disbelief.
The blood-soaked, whimpering wretch was the imperial marquis.
"Big thief, small thief."
The 1st Prince squatted to eye level, curious who was who.
And added,
"Only the small thief lives."
He'd spare the lighter sinner of the two.