The Rabbit General's Delusional Pitch
Lesandorf, the mayor of Siol, sat in his chair with the calm uprightness typical of a Baika, eyes closed. It was his habit when lost in deep thought—simply put, a sign that he was troubled, so don't bother him.
The reason for his attitude was straightforward. He knew speaking first would give him a headache.
To his right at the massive round table sat nearly twenty councilors who helped run Siol alongside him. Esai, Kampoeni, Baika, and other races filled the seats, their aides standing behind them until that side looked cramped. They occasionally opposed the mayor but were ultimately his partners in politics. Their true enemies were the seven seated before them.
In stark contrast to the bustling right side, only seven occupied the mayor's left, with just one aide each standing behind—leaving their space so empty it felt cavernous. They were the seven overseers who managed Siol's Sun Temple, granted access to its deepest chambers, each representing one of the noble Esai houses as its lord.
The councilors on the right murmured among themselves, while the house lords on the left remained utterly silent, as if in some vow of quiet contemplation. The mayor wished they'd all just stay that way.
Already pissed off by the sudden arrival of Lavito warlords without warning or scouts, if they started yapping, his migraines—worsening since taking office—would flare up again.
"I heard we're sending an envoy to Jipain."
The mayor's eyelid twitched. Opening his eyes slowly, he saw it was Councilor Boltrak who'd spoken. A lowborn Esai always at the forefront of attacks on the noble houses.
"That's the decision. Any issues?"
The reply came from the lord of House Shionos—an Esai known publicly simply as Shionos. Before becoming lord, his birth name was etched into the house ledger, retrievable only upon stepping down, a fact he took immense pride in. Master of one of Siol's most ancient and noble seven names.
But Councilor Boltrak didn't flinch at the weight of that name, raising his voice instead.
"An envoy bearing Siol's name, and you house lords decided it among yourselves? Shouldn't you have consulted the council and settled on members and agenda? Siol isn't just the noble houses', Lord Shionos."
The murmuring councilors fell silent, focusing on the exchange—an implicit show of support for Boltrak.
Dozens of eyes—twenty councilors plus aides—locked onto Lord Shionos. Yet he remained unflustered, replying coolly.
"Jipain's scholars deceived our house heirs and exploited the temple acolytes' faith for their own gain. They must pay the price."
"No thought to the diplomatic fallout with Jipain? And that Muksaang House group from the start reeks of trouble. Do you even know their motives? Why not show us this lackey they've secured?"
"This is house business. No concern of a mere councilor—mind your place."
Boltrak shot to his feet at the dismissal.
"House business? You think it's that simple? Jipain's a key southern maritime trade hub! Why's a clash with them just 'house business'? Who's accountable if it tanks the southern trade our citizens depend on?"
"Those slimy Jipain scholars sullied the Sun Temple's honor. They used acolytes to strike their foes and milked our houses' goodwill for profit. Fail to make them pay, and the world will mock Siol."
"Siol isn't just the noble houses! You're members, not owners!"
Lord Shionos's expression didn't change amid Boltrak's shout.
"All Siol's light comes from the Sun Temple. Leeches living off that glow, daring to claim membership in Siol?"
"What?!"
"How dare a house lord speak like that!"
The councilors surged to their feet as one, unleashing a chorus of condemnation at Lord Shionos. In an instant, Siol's council devolved into a marketplace clamor.
Finally, Mayor Lesandorf clutched his throbbing head and spoke.
"That was uncalled for, Lord Shionos."
"...Hmph."
Lord Shionos turned to gaze into the distance.
"Indeed, a bit harsh, Lord Shionos. Not quite an apology, but how about including other Siol citizens in the envoy?"
Another house lord, Lord Samusar, lightly chided Shionos and spoke up. The councilors' fury deflated at once—they'd gotten what they wanted from the start.
House lords led by Lord Samusar then bickered with the councilors over envoy composition. Whenever things heated up, Mayor Lesandorf mediated, swiftly hashing out the details.
But the final sticking point—who'd lead the envoy—proved intractable. Neither side would budge.
Listening to the shouting, Lesandorf quietly checked his pocket watch. It was time for the Lavito talks. His secretary slipped in to whisper confirmation: the Lavitos were waiting.
As he moved to postpone, the hitherto silent Lord Antela spoke.
"If neither side can pick a leader, just fetch one from outside."
"...What do you mean, Lord Antela?"
Lord Antela was exceptionally wrinkled and stooped, even among house lords. His eyes, hooded by sagging lids, were barely visible—yet no one in the council dared ignore him.
He raised his left hand slightly, summoning his aide forward. Her name was Ishanka.
"The Baika nearly slain by those fool scholars?"
"Yes. Parm Wirson, a Baika doctor who studied in Jipain."
Lord Antela nodded in satisfaction at her reply.
"A Jipain native to face Jipain... clever ploy."
Everyone grasped the unspoken: a puppet leader to bear Jipain's wrath for the houses.
The tense chamber relaxed instantly.
"...Hahaha! As expected of Lord Antela—always wise."
"Indeed. Noble names aren't for show!"
"No one loses, and that Baika doc'll be fired up for revenge. Ha."
The matter settled swiftly. They hadn't even asked if Dr. Parm Wirson agreed, yet they laughed as if it were done.
Mayor Lesandorf knew but said nothing—thanks to the Lavitos waiting outside. He clapped sharply.
"The Lavito guests have arrived. Time to meet them."
Nodding to his secretary at the door, the council's main entrance creaked open, revealing the waiting Lavitos.
Spotting it, they marched in. Rabbit-like, similar height to Kampoeni, not unlike mountain hares—but their uniform iron helmets, black uniforms, thudding boots exuded an eerie menace.
Unarmed for council entry, their identical outfits and synchronized steps—like drumbeats—were profoundly intimidating. A few timid councilors shrank into their seats.
The two files halted near the curved table, pivoted perfectly, and stepped back in unison, forming a corridor.
Another Lavito strode through. Unlike the helmeted troops, his cap puffed upward with a stiff black brim—authoritative yet stylishly sleek.
A hefty coat draped his shoulders, chests plastered with clinking medals of every shape. Striding boldly, he stopped at the table's center, chin high, scanning the room arrogantly—like appraising inferiors—before locking eyes with Mayor Lesandorf at the head and tipping his cap.
"Pleased to meet you. I am General Donchaba of the 'Free Salt Trade Federation'."
"...Mayor Lesandorf of Siol. Honored to meet you, General."
Pure formality. No one there—including Lesandorf—had heard of the Free Salt Trade Federation or Donchaba. Too many eastern states and generals.
But Donchaba's snout twitched, betraying glee.
"Is that so? Honored to meet me? Heh, Siol's storied mayor says so—I'm honored too. Ahem."
"..."
The councilors' gazes turned skeptical. Only house lords and veteran councilors with Lavito experience smirked faintly.
"So, General Donchaba—what brings you to Siol?"
"Straight to business? Good. Practical attitude."
Donchaba thrust his chin higher, hands on hips.
"I've come to say Siol may propose an alliance!"
"...Alliance?"
"Yes! Military, economic, tech—whatever! I believe the Free Salt Trade Federation and Siol can forge an ironclad bond!"
Councilors buzzed at the non sequitur. House lords merely shook heads or closed eyes disinterestedly. Only Lord Shionos muttered.
"Here we go again."
Mayor Lesandorf matched their apathy, eyeing Donchaba with Baika coolness.
Donchaba, unprepared for the tepid response, raised his voice, assuming poor Esai comprehension.
"My Esai must be lacking—I'll spell it out. I've come with an offer that could be your big break."
"What opportunity?"
"A chance to gain my federation's might!"
Donchaba boomed like a rally speaker.
"We annihilated Uracha Parliament's fighter wings, sank Black Sheep Plains Alliance's battleships! Feats Northier Union and Kerredi Crusaders couldn't match! No army's matched ours in fifty years!"
His short arms flailed excitedly.
"Know what that means? We're the world's purest, strongest Lavitos! Sure, minor supply woes from that devil Marx's pranks, but the power to crush foes from the center burns within! Ally with us, and none around here'll dare ignore Siol! We're invincible, embodiments of greatness and valor! You gain an unbeatable army for peanuts—us! The Free Salt Trade Federation!"
Drunk on his own rhetoric, he bellowed, culminating fist raised high.
"Free Salt Trade Federation! Rise again! For freedom and salt!"
"For freedom and salt!"
"..."
His troops echoed. By now, councilors gaped like at lunatics.
Lesandorf, ever icy, spoke as the rant ended.
"Free trade's permitted during your stay. Cause trouble, and your airship gets exiled—with you aboard. Nothing more? Leave."
Donchaba snapped alert.
"...Dare you refuse alliance?"
"Yes."
"..."
Donchaba's face twisted slowly. Snout flaring, lips curling to bare teeth—rage plain.
"...You mock my federation's power? This generous offer—"
"Your battleship docks because we allowed it."
"What?"
Lesandorf slid prepped documents forward.
"Advisor Union, Common Corn Trade Federation, Ramsram Shipwright Guild, Amteran Unified Progress State, Chuin North Continent Republic, etc. Prior Lavito warlords who've docked here. Ring any bells?"
"...Advisor Union fell fifteen years ago..."
"Oddly, every eastern warlord we boot ends up here babbling alliances and unions. Bottom line: supply us, we'll lend military might."
Fear flickered over Donchaba's face. Lesandorf ignored it.
"Siol's never accepted. Arrogant, and we gain zilch. Short on land or people? We're overcrowded as is. Any try occupying by force like you now?"
Donchaba's snout quivered.
Lesandorf shook his head gently.
"Tell me—how'd you get pushed here?"
"...Strategic retreat in Urata Trade Conglomerate war..."
"Strategic retreat?"
"If not for rebels...! That rat 'Pig Doctor'! We'd have won! And Esai like you fought with them! Know how many men that 'White Butcher' killed?!"
Lesandorf rubbed his temples wearily.
"No clue why rampaging Esai are our fault. Not all Esai hail from Siol. Anyway, flex muscle if you want—your ship's airborne, Sun Arrows open fire. We'll recycle the wreckage, like before."
"..."
Donchaba glared, silenced. His bravado gone, the oversized coat looked comical on him, like a child's dress-up.
Lesandorf continued.
"No full Siol backing, but spend freely—buy goods, hire mercs. Enough coin, and you can take Siol's strength."
Donchaba's eyes darted, hesitating. Lesandorf waited patiently.
"Any other questions? Unarmed, you're always Siol's guests."
"...Take bonds?"
Lesandorf chuckled dryly.
"No. We don't."
"..."
"...Real Flying Rabbit Fascists, huh? Ridiculous."
Ishanka finished, and Jin-cheol couldn't hide his incredulous laugh. He'd heard of Lavitos from Atukai's village—airship-flying, warring rabbits. Seemed to sum them up perfectly.
What an era.
As Jin-cheol shook his head, Parm, who'd listened raptly, spoke.
"I heard they fled city hall like cowards, but not the backstory. You really downed a prior Lavito ship?"
"None in the last thirty years. They're cowards—threaten 'em right, they tuck tail. Occasional trouble, but warriors infiltrate, neutralize brass, and they surrender easy."
Parm fiddled with his mask, picturing the general, then continued as if struck by thought.
"But what's that got to do with Jin-cheol?"
"Lavitos are irrelevant. What I want to tell him is..."
She trailed off. Jin-cheol crossed arms, eyeing her askance.
"You think that 'White Butcher' Esai they mentioned is your daughter?"
"..."
Ishanka stared silently at Jin-cheol. Parm wisely shut up, glancing between them.
"...After talks, Father—Lord Antela—issued orders first. Get intel on the 'White Butcher' from the docked Lavitos. And..."
Her eyes drifted to the table.
"...Their description matches: snow-white skin and hair, red eyes. I doubt another Esai like my daughter exists. Searched three years—nothing. Even the 'pale ones' who took her weren't as white."
Gazing at the table, she seemed lost in memory.
"...I rummaged your mind with yo-sul aboard ship for no grand reason. A lead after years of searching, right under my nose—how could I not grasp at it?"
Jin-cheol eyed her askance, arms still crossed. Her daughter, born far paler than typical Esai, endured lifelong torment as "winter's curse." Three years ago, a pale stranger took her, sparking Ishanka's frantic search.
Jin-cheol's mind raced. Pale skin. He'd wondered if humans. Rare, but plausible—Jindallae implied survivors lingered.
Anyway, her daughter vanished with the stranger. Now, reportedly rampaging as rebel "White Butcher" among eastern Lavitos.
Jin-cheol's gaze hit the Muksaang artifact. Was the "Opesis merc" her daughter? The rebels a Muksaang ploy? But their goal: excavate "Amerika Armory." Odd mix—rebellion and relics.
Info too thin. No firm conclusions. Opesis heirs human? How to approach? Ancestor or primitive destroyer of their civilization?
Only seeing for himself would tell.
Jin-cheol looked up, meeting Parm's eyes. Wordless, Parm nodded understanding.
"...I'd go east alone if I could. Even attending today needed Father's okay—you don't know, but warriors shadow me still—"
"What's her name?"
"What?"
"Can't call her 'White Butcher' in person. Need a name to talk."
Ishanka blinked, then eyes widened realizing.
"...Snow. Ancient tongue for 'snow'."
"Naming a 'winter curse' kid Snow?"
"To overcome it. Names hold power—snow melts, winter ends."
Jin-cheol shrugged. Their customs still alien.
"Fine. Need a ship east then."
"Y-you're really going? To find my child?"
"Wasn't that the ask? Plus curious about Muksaang's game. Armory dig—giant robots maybe..."
Ishanka bolted up. Jin-cheol startled, she lunged across the table, seizing his hand. Eyes brimming.
"Thank you... First solid lead in years—no, ever. Can't go myself... even thought of dying... Maybe Father'd fetch Snow over my corpse..."
What the—creepy.
Jin-cheol recoiled, yanking his hand. Her sudden shift from haughty to this chilled him.
Desperate to pivot: "Uh, anyway. Ships east..."
"Sailing takes over a month. Faster way—under a week."
"What's that?"
"Ride the Lavito airship."
"...Huh?"
Board the Flying Fascists' sky dreadnought?