Chapter 242
Chapter 242
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 242
Chapter Title: 70. War Clouds are Gathering (1)
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Malcoy de Marseille didn't think he was someone the staff officers at the Marshal's Office would welcome with open arms.
There were countless organizations in the world that handled information, but none of them would warmly embrace some outsider who had rolled in out of nowhere.
Especially not when that outsider was from the Imperial Army—a group the Leonbergers despised to their core.
He figured he'd face blatant bullying and exclusion as a matter of course.
But that wasn't the case.
The Marshal's Office staff didn't exactly roll out the red carpet for him, but they didn't shun him either.
Their response was so nonchalant it left him flustered, having braced for all sorts of hazing and harassment.
Malcoy learned the reason only after he'd been assigned to the office for quite some time.
A mountain of work had piled up before his eyes.
Each individual document wasn't all that important, but the sheer volume was staggering.
It was truly bizarre.
He'd spent the whole day sorting papers, yet somehow the stack in front of him was the same as it had been that morning. He couldn't wrap his head around it.
No, actually, he wasn't even curious anymore.
Right now, all he could think about was escaping this place.
After staring at documents all day, it felt like black smudges were staining his eyeballs. The back of his neck was stiff as stone, and his waist creaked with every move.
He couldn't take it anymore.
He glanced around stealthily. Fortunately, no one was paying him any mind.
Malcoy rose quietly from his seat. He crept out, sneaking glances to make sure the coast was clear.
Only after exiting the Marshal's Office building did the breath he'd been holding finally release.
"Hoo."
He let out a long sigh and stretched his creaky body. Then, on a whim, he glanced back toward the depths of the office.
It was the dead of night, with everyone except the on-duty knights and guards fast asleep, yet the Marshal's Office building blazed with light.
"No way... Do the Leonberger staff officers always work like this?"
"The kingdom suffers from chronic manpower shortages."
A crisp voice sounded from behind him then.
He turned to find the Grand Marshal standing there, hands clasped behind his back.
"During the years the kingdom lay in ruins, all the talented and capable people became hermits. That's why we're always short on hands no matter what we do."
Malcoy nodded absently at the Grand Marshal's words.
The empire had oppressed the kingdom for over a century, they said. It wasn't surprising if the well of talent had run dry in that time.
"If things weren't so dire, we never would've accepted you, no matter how much Crown Prince Raymond insisted."
"I'm just grateful you took me in."
"Save your thanks for Crown Prince Raymond."
The Grand Marshal replied indifferently, then asked if there was anything bothering him.
He shook his head, and the Grand Marshal followed up with a few more questions. Most were just checking if he'd adapted well to the Marshal's Office.
"Good. Looks like you're ready to move past the grunt work and dive into real duties."
"Won't people complain about my background?"
"Why should they? The kingdomers harbor no grudges against Marseille. If anything, they feel a shared sense of suffering."
Malcoy's throat tightened at the Grand Marshal's words.
Just recently, when he'd confessed his past to the man, he'd only mentioned his origins reluctantly as a newly turned prisoner of war.
He was truly grateful.
Unlike someone who'd tossed him into a fortress and forgotten him, the Grand Marshal was a man he could trust and rely on.
Or so he thought.
But it was a rash judgment.
When he came to, he was seated at his desk again.
"Congratulations. From today, you're a real staff officer at the Marshal's Office."
Before him, the Grand Marshal beamed generously, congratulating him on finally handling proper intelligence work.
He'd clearly been on his way back to the palace lodgings after wrapping up...
"Let's get started right away. We have to report to His Majesty by noon tomorrow at the latest."
The Grand Marshal said with a smile.
His usual affable face.
But the vibe felt entirely different. What had once seemed warm and laid-back now struck him as sly, even cunning.
"Just so you know, that noon deadline means the rough draft has to be done by morning."
With that, the Grand Marshal returned to his seat.
Malcoy stared blankly at his retreating back, then scowled fiercely.
That was when it truly began.
Malcoy forgot about sleep, living amid piles of documents.
Meals were a luxury, sleep a sin.
Every day felt like hell.
He cursed his past self a thousand times—the one who'd yearned to prove his worth and earn recognition early.
He hadn't known back then.
That "earning recognition" at the Marshal's Office meant suffering until you wanted to die under the workload.
As he endured day after torturous day, the Grand Marshal made a welcome proposal.
"I'm heading to see His Highness. Care to join?"
Malcoy nodded without hesitation at the suggestion that, now he'd adapted somewhat, it was about time he paid a visit.
If it meant escaping this place, he'd go meet the Crown Prince or even the devil himself.
Thus, he finally broke free from the Marshal's Office after so long.
"Do you have specific business with His Highness?"
Malcoy asked the Grand Marshal, his mood lifted by the fresh air.
"His Highness has been awfully quiet lately, and it's making me suspicious."
The Grand Marshal continued with a distinctly uneasy expression.
"He's not the type to stay this silent."
Normally, the Crown Prince would throw tantrums and make excuses to head to the front lines, so this unusual quiet gnawed at him. He needed to see for himself to ease his mind, the Grand Marshal grumbled, frowning repeatedly.
"You'll need to remember this if you want to serve Crown Prince Raymond long-term."
"What is it?"
"When His Highness is unusually quiet, that's when you need to be most cautious."
The Grand Marshal sighed in exasperation.
"Nine times out of ten, he's either plotting something or has already set it in motion."
His tone was so grave that Malcoy nodded vigorously, promising to keep it in mind.
In the midst of their conversation, Malcoy and the Grand Marshal arrived at the Crown Prince's palace.
The Grand Marshal's face hardened at the sight of the firmly shut gates.
"Why are the gates locked at this early hour, and where are the palace knights guarding them?"
He bellowed to announce their arrival.
Kiiiek.
Moments later, the heavy palace gates creaked open. A man poked his head out from beyond.
"Ah. It's the Grand Marshal."
Malcoy recognized him—he'd seen the man a few times before.
Bernard Ilai, was it?
The Crown Prince's direct knight, bearer of the Silver Lion title awarded only to the pinnacle of Leonberger knights.
But,
"What happened to your face, young master?"
His state was utterly unworthy of that glorious title—a total mess.
Bruised black around both eyes, disheveled hair. Split lips. Dried blood crusted under his nose.
"You'll see once you're inside."
Bernard Ilai replied in a laid-back tone to the Grand Marshal.
He cracked the gate open wider.
Thud.
The Grand Marshal and Malcoy followed Bernard Ilai into the palace and froze in shock.
"What in the world..."
A groan escaped the Grand Marshal's lips.
Malcoy scanned the surroundings with a stunned expression.
Floors gouged and shattered, buildings cracked or collapsed entirely everywhere.
Wherever he looked, intact spots were nowhere to be found.
It was impossible to tell if this was a crown prince's residence or ruins swept by war.
But the real absurdity lay elsewhere.
Knights littered the grounds everywhere.
Some sprawled like laundry over cleanly severed tree trunks, others half-buried in deep craters like corpses. Still more lay sprawled indecently on cracked marble floors.
Malcoy spotted a familiar face among them and widened his eyes.
"Percival?"
He couldn't fathom why his aide, whom he'd expected at Iron Lion Castle, was here.
Buried in the dirt like he'd been half-executed.
"Perfect timing. You caught us on a break."
A haughty voice rang out then.
It was Crown Prince Idrian Leonberger.
Malcoy turned and took in the prince's appearance.
Dusty grit blanketed his radiant golden hair, his sweat-soaked clothes torn ragged in places—a hideous sight.
Compared to the ragtag others, he looked relatively intact, but hardly pristine.
"Your Highness. What on earth have you been doing in here?"
The Grand Marshal asked, and the prince replied indifferently.
"Can't you tell? Training."
"Then why are they...?"
"They're resting."
"To me, they look gravely wounded and unconscious."
The Grand Marshal pressed in an incredulous tone at the prince's brazen answer.
The prince scowled.
"If anyone's passed out, speak up."
No response came, naturally.
"See? No one's unconscious."
The Grand Marshal choked on the absurd claim, letting out dry chuckles.
"So, what brings you all the way here?"
At the prince's question, the Grand Marshal belatedly stated his business.
"I was worried since Your Highness hasn't shown yourself outside the palace at all."
The prince smirked at the tactful phrasing.
"You sure took the long way to say you're here to check if I've caused any trouble."
"Ahem."
The Grand Marshal cleared his throat awkwardly.
"As you see, I haven't snuck out, and I haven't stirred up any special incidents. Nothing different from usual."
The Grand Marshal's gaze swept the surroundings at the prince's words.
"Strange. To me, the palace looks drastically different from usual."
"It got a bit wrecked from intense training."
"I'm already worried what His Majesty will say about this mess. I'll call people now to repair the palace."
The prince shook his head.
"Later. It'll get wrecked again anyway."
"What do you...?"
"Time's up."
Before the Grand Marshal could finish, the prince glanced around and murmured softly.
"Everyone up. Break's over."
No one stirred.
"Fine. Stay down then."
With that, the prince raised his sword.
Suddenly,
The knights scattered like corpses leaped to their feet, assuming positions.
Malcoy examined their faces.
The black-haired female knight with a swollen red cheek, the tawny-haired one limping into stance—they were the kingdom's Silver Lions under the prince.
The handsome man and the stern-faced one amid the wreckage were the prince's palace knights.
The shadowy, sinister-looking men were undoubtedly knights following the prince as well.
Plus Bernard Ilai who'd opened the gate, and aide Percival.
Malcoy, who'd dismissed it as resuming sparring, now bulged his eyes.
The knights had drawn swords in unison, all aimed at the prince.
Blade tips shimmering with gathered light.
"Coming in? Or should I come to you?"
The prince said arrogantly, chin raised.
The knights kicked off instead of answering.
Malcoy's jaw dropped.
The knights, beaten by the prince's sword, crumpled to the ground in seconds. Even Paladin-grade ones fared no better.
They just lasted a tad longer before rolling in the dirt like the rest.
Swish.
The air rippled right behind the prince.
Shadows in grass-green cloaks burst forth from it.
The prince mercilessly shoved Percival aside and lifted his foot.
Thud!
Dull thumps echoed as the shadows flew back in succession.
One rolled across the ground for ages before springing up.
They were the half-elf swordsmen following the prince.
In the blink of an eye, the spar—or whatever it was—continued unabated.
The prince overwhelmed the knights utterly one-sidedly.
The fallen knights staggered up, charging at him again.
Again and again. Over and over.
Finally, when they lay defeated and stayed down, the prince lowered his sword.
He scanned the surroundings.
"Not enough. Not me, not you all—none of us."
To Malcoy, his expression looked no different from a starving man's.
"Marquis."
The prince abruptly turned toward the Grand Marshal.
"I need a favor."
The Grand Marshal, who'd been dazed until then, startled and looked at him.
"Gather the Iron Lions and the kingdom's Silver Lions."
"Why all of a sudden?"
The prince replied as if it were obvious.
"What do you mean? We've got to prepare for war."
His voice was resolute, brooking no compromise—one must sharpen every blade before battle.
Malcoy was awed, just as the Grand Marshal had said.
'When His Highness is unusually quiet, that's when you need to be most cautious.'
'Nine times out of ten, he's either plotting something or has already set it in motion.'
This was undoubtedly that moment.
"This is just the beginning. After the Iron Lions and Silver Lions, it's every knight in the kingdom."
The Grand Marshal hadn't anticipated the prince going this far either.