Chapter 246
Chapter 246
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 246
Chapter Title: The Emperor's Eyes (5)
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The heart of the Empire lay in Paltennoia. The most fertile granary region in the imperial heartlands. This land belonged to no elector’s domain—it answered solely to the imperial house.
Paltennoia was an independent territory, a tangled web of rivalries and conflicting interests among the electors. The emperor was not a hereditary ruler but an elected position, chosen by the domain lords of each province, which gave the Empire’s capital its peculiar traits.
Shifting the capital every time a new elector ascended the throne would cause catastrophic administrative losses. Thus, the first emperor had designated a completely neutral zone, untouched by any elector’s influence, as the seat of power.
Long ago, in ancient times, Paltennoia had served as the council grounds for the Empire’s predecessor, a tribal confederation. From the tribal assemblies emerged the electoral council, and the great chieftain came to be called emperor as the nation took shape. Over a thousand years had passed since then.
In all that vast span, Paltennoia had never once been exposed to enmity. A holy city. The city of light, cradle of civilization. The final bastion....
—A hollow legend.
Feizashi sneered amid the drizzling plains. The northwestern farmlands of Paltennoia were shrouded in a misty haze from the early summer rain.
‘Yeah. A hollow legend.’
During Empress Rene Philippa’s reign, Paltennoia had burned three times. Cross the northern border of the province, and you hit Guir, the blessed trade port, right away. In peacetime, its rich maritime networks promised bountiful commerce....
—But it was the perfect staging ground for northern invaders.
When the black-clad Erik began his southern conquests, the Tremule court withdrew defensive support from nearly every region except Guir itself. Guir might have held, but the surrounding seas ran red with blood.
Some northerners, ignoring Guir entirely, pressed on and succeeded in sacking Paltennoia.
‘And then, Karadskär.’
During Karadskär’s great offensive, Rene Philippa’s house, the Grand Duchy of Karbelier, poured massive reinforcements into the grand battle on the steppes. Losing there would have locked Karadskär’s advance route straight to Reuby.
Rene Philippa couldn’t ignore her family’s pleas. Nearly the Empire’s entire army marched west. And that was when....
—Duke Vurang....
In that moment of imperial administration and authority hitting rock bottom, Antoine de Sephor, Grand Duke of Vurang, declared independence. The situation now was eerily similar. A good fifty years early, perhaps. But the Grand Duke of Vurang still hungered for the throne.
—Shoooo....
The rain grew heavier. Fernandez felt the downpour beneath his helmet, breathing in the humid summer air.
Wet iron mingled with the fishy reek of the rain, creating a bizarre stench. The troops, soaked in sweat and battle-lust, their blood boiling, felt no chill even in the downpour.
—Dong! Dong!
War drums echoed across the field. Beyond the mist, Duke Vurang’s host slowly emerged. Vast numbers. No empty space anywhere in sight across the plain.
—Skirmish formation.
‘They know our forces are thin.’
A battlefield’s view differed starkly from a map. What commanders and soldiers saw created extremes between flat schematics and vivid three dimensions.
Commanders would assess coolly: a winnable fight. The enemy had numbers, sure, but defenders held massive inherent advantages over attackers.
But to the soldiers? The foe seemed endless. Beyond the mist-shrouded horizon, flags emblazoned with Vurang’s crow sigil filled the sky.
—They’re trying to break our morale.
A tight phalanx was solid. But a spread-out force could masquerade as larger than it was. Even visible numbers alone could shatter troops’ spirits with enough intimidation.
Yet....
“Spears up! Spears up! Don’t falter!”
Officers bellowed, stirring the ranks. Fernandez smirked. Duke Vurang wasn’t a fool. A grand schemer with a track record—in his past life, he’d faced Rene Philippa and torched Paltennoia once.
In a thousand years, Paltennoia had burned just three times. Once by northern invaders. Next by this very commander advancing now. And the third....
—Time to set an example.
The power of Feizashi Wildcast. Back then, dubbed the ‘Crimson Duke’s Spear,’ it was his handiwork. Fernandez smiled at the thought and headed for command.
* * *
“Sephor’s host numbers sixteen thousand total. Fifteen hundred cavalry among them.”
Bernard spoke gravely. As cavalry commander, he sensed defeat looming.
“We’ve got seven thousand. Less than half. Damn it all. Never dreamed every request for aid would get rejected.”
“Really?”
“......”
Bernard had no reply for Erbe’s jab. Imperial authority had cratered. With Dane’s advance scorching the eastern provinces, the Tremule counts were severing the emperor’s limbs—sometimes politically, sometimes in open battle. No pro-imperial electors remained to send aid. They were hunkering down, secretly rooting for Vurang’s victory.
The pro-imperial electors untouched by Dane or Tremule stayed silent, distinctions blurred. Guir’s betrayal had buried imperial prestige.
“And through all this, His Majesty won’t spare a single soldier.”
“The emperor is quite occupied at present.”
Pierre of the Imperial Court’s Inner Secretariat spoke softly. He had that warm, gentle air typical of wealthy administrative nobles.
Pierre spoke for the emperor. Yet no one here saw him as mere mouthpiece. An odd aura clung to him—icy cold, somehow twisted.
“What could possibly keep him so busy? Scouting escape routes?”
“Haha... Grand Duke of Karbelier, His Majesty will never abandon the capital.”
Fernandez stood quietly behind Kirhas, eyeing Pierre.
—Vampire?
‘It’s daytime.’
—Could be a daywalker.
‘No vampire of Richter’s caliber would settle for a mere imperial lackey.’
Overcoming the solar curse required a bloodline lord’s power. Like Richter of the Franzrit lineage.
“His Majesty desires a peaceful resolution to this crisis. Even now, he dispatches envoys of peace to Duke Sephor. With no blood yet spilled, wouldn’t it be best if we could avoid any at all?”
“You think Antoine will just nod and withdraw now?”
“Of course not. But how can we not even try?”
Pierre had a point. No blood at all would be ideal. Yet neither Erbe nor Kirhas—nor anyone here—believed it possible.
As if the emperor shrank from bloodshed. From the start, no imperial troops were present.
“And if we fight, what are our odds?”
“Eight in ten.”
Kirhas replied coolly to Pierre. She cocked her head, predatory turquoise eyes—languid with authority—flashing like a beast’s.
“That’s docking two in ten assuming you lot don’t fuck it up.”
“......Impressive confidence. A field commander must always possess it.”
“Slippery as an eel. I don’t care for fish, imperial noble.”
Kirhas shook her head briskly, reaching back. Fernandez handed her pipe and lit it. She inhaled deeply.
The nobles’ faces hardened. Smoking in the command tent—and no one stopping or scolding her—spoke volumes of her influence here.
“The enemy’s spread thin like idiots. Loose infantry are just fodder for cavalry. They don’t get it.”
“You think we can win a cavalry clash, Great Chieftain? Sir Bernard—your thoughts?”
“......Our cavalry’s outnumbered. Even with high morale, our chances at best......”
“Ten in ten.”
Kirhas cut him off, jutting her chin.
“My warriors were born sucking milk from teats atop saddles. They hunted instead of playing games as kids. In your terms? Knight-class, easy. Their fifteen hundred horse—how many actual knights?”
“If you mean just the title......”
“Right—knights who’ve spilled blood on their own spears in battle.”
“At most, three hundred.”
Not every knight had lands, but the title devoured coin. No sense filling a cavalry wing with them entirely.
Squires rode with knights, attendants with squires—all masters of the mount. Arm them, and they became cavalry. So in Sephor’s fifteen hundred, true combat-trained threats numbered far fewer.
Beastkin cavalry? Their count equaled elite riders. Kirhas’s mere five hundred outmatched any ‘knight order’ numerically in quality.
“The rest? Sit tight. Don’t yield ground. Chasing and fighting—that’s for me and my beasts.”
Kirhas spoke arrogantly, folding arms and sprawling back. Fernandez glimpsed her tail swishing behind. It coiled lightly round his calf.
Her excited voice seemed to echo: Did I do good? Cool, right? Yeah. Good girl. He kneaded her tail in approval.
“Hngk?”
“......?”
“Ahem. Damn smoke’s harsh, Fernin.”
The meeting ended without firm decisions. Battle plans were set during the march, so Pierre left none the wiser and departed the tent.
* * *
The armies drew close enough to eye each other, yet no war horns sounded. Vurang’s host marched on the nominal pretext of ‘defending the empty capital,’ so they couldn’t declare war on the defenders first.
Initiative lay with Erbe. And Erbe had no intent of wrapping this up quickly.
Fernandez’s counsel.
“His supply lines won’t hold long.”
“I know.”
On the march, Fernandez had urged delay. A pitched clash before the capital would prompt the emperor to demand a swift decisive battle. But if he wanted that, no need to oblige.
Bind Sephor’s feet as long as possible. Vurang lay north of the western frontier, near Reuby.
Similar start points meant Sephor could easily strike their supplies anytime. Thus, they relied on capital stocks, not the Reuby route.
But imperial logistics were shaky. With Guir—prime nearby ally—having betrayed them, the emperor’s coffers ran dry.
“Ours won’t either.”
Fernandez grinned. A million-strong army starved became no army. Supplies needn’t abound. One thing mattered.
‘More than the enemy’s.’
Until battle joined. As long as sustainment outpaced the foe’s, total volume didn’t signify.
And Fernandez held the perfect play to freeze the enemy’s lines without moving his own.
—Whoosh.
At his gesture, the campfire flared emerald. Beneath it, an aged beastkin’s chuckle rose.
[All prepared, my lord. Shall we begin?]
“Yes. As promised.”
For Partak’s demanded beastkin ‘gains,’ Fernandez ordered: ‘Plunder the electors’ rich domains.’
Beastkin gleamed at loot; Erbe rejoiced at superior rations for war.
From that day, beastkin hordes from the great steppe raided every nearby province.
Sephor raged, accusing Erbe of ‘colluding with outsiders to sell out the Empire.’
Erbe countered publicly: ‘My lands suffered too.’
Kirhas told Sephor’s envoy with feigned grief.
“My failing. Traitors exploited my absence—such shame. I’ll punish them myself.”
Her declaration unleashed more beastkin toward Vurang lands. Sephor ground his teeth and ordered retreat.
“Withdrawal’s always harder than advance.”
“And wars between electors are about legitimacy. He’s sure we won’t strike first.”
“Certainty in war? Foolish if he thinks so.”
Fernandez and Erbe shared grins. Three days since Sephor crossed the capital’s borders. No blows exchanged, yet offense and defense had flipped.