Chapter 359
Chapter 359
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 359
Chapter Title: Operation: Wintering
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In the harbor city of Escalaplancha, a minor power in the Eastern Alliance, a single merchant ship lay anchored twenty leagues offshore to the north. It was an imposing galley in the imperial style, but instead of the Levintear Empire's flag flying from the mast, a single dark crimson banner fluttered there.
Late at night, the only lights around were the sliver of crescent moon in the sky and the faint, solitary flicker from the two lighthouses near the harbor, their reflections dancing on the water. It was a fairly calm and picturesque scene.
At least, that's what Fernandez thought. All the more so because no screams pierced the silence. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the distant harbor. No Demonica inquisitor could reliably assess the harbor's state from this range, but one thing he could say for certain.
Buildings were burning in the harbor.
"By the way, Cerned. Do you even have a conscience?"
"What brought that on?"
Aeren approached him with a mischievous grin. When Fernandez turned to look at her, she murmured in her signature husky voice.
"Look at you. Just a vanguard leading northern barbarians to ravage your homeland, aren't you?"
"I've done it before. No thrill in it anymore."
"True to form—they say the man who's sold his country once sells it best."
Her words were rough, but there was no malice in them. Fernandez chuckled in response.
"Didn't you say last time that civilized folk are rude because they face no mortal peril? You're being plenty rude yourself right now."
"Hah, southerners."
Aeren giggled and stood beside him. Her pale blonde hair rippled like paint in the night breeze. Gazing at the burning harbor, she said,
"There was a legend among us... a folk tale, something like that. They said beyond that vast ocean lay warm, bountiful lands to the south. Our clans were too busy tearing into each other to do anything about it, but we all dreamed of setting foot there someday."
"Why a folk tale? Surely someone's crossed south before now."
"Launch twenty longships, and five won't make it across the open sea. Start with five heading north from the south, and not one returns. Twenty ships can carry about four hundred warriors. Too steep a gamble for any single clan, wouldn't you say?"
Fernandez nodded at Aeren's words. The north's situation was far too precarious to risk four hundred elite, battle-hardened troops on such an uncertain venture.
In their insular clan societies, population was a strategic resource—essential for farming, hunting, fishing, and intertribal warfare. No clan could afford to throw four hundred able-bodied adult males into the fray.
But things were different now. Just as Erik had unified the north in the past and launched conquests southward, Aeren now ruled the entire north as queen.
"Well, works for us. We get supplies to last the winter back home, and they handed over this sturdy ship too."
"Once the first raid wraps up, when do you figure the next wave deploys?"
"Even short estimate, three months. We'll rampage through the south for ten to twenty days, then full speed north—but they'll still need time to regroup on arrival."
"Winter, then."
"Before the year turns."
Fernandez shrugged. He already knew this operation couldn't drag on forever. Until winter. That would suffice.
Raids during the autumn harvest would inflict horrific damage on these petty kingdoms. Every economic hub near the harbors shattered, farmlands laid to waste. How many would perish from starvation and cold?
Even now, Fernandez's mind coolly ran the numbers. The Eastern Alliance comprised four great powers, fifteen minor kingdoms, and countless smaller duchies.
Duchies akin to city-states typically lacked robust domestic food production, often negligible. For a city to gain independence as a sovereign state, it usually relied on trade hubs rather than agriculture.
With eastern trade routes frozen solid—and harvest fields ablaze nearby—these small duchies and kingdoms had no means to endure.
Fernandez gave a bitter smile, staring at the burning harbor. At least half. Half the Eastern Alliance would vanish from the map. He couldn't even guess the death toll, but one thing was certain—
'Innocents will be the only ones spilling blood.'
Those who survive chaos are usually the wealthy, the highborn, or the guilty. The scriptures got it fundamentally wrong. Most trials spare the wicked.
'Figures.'
Fernandez turned from the sea. He trudged toward the cabin. What set him apart from Erik?
When Black Erik had invaded the south in his past life, half the eastern kingdoms had vanished from the map. This was no different—a mere reenactment. Intentions be damned; the outcome would match.
He felt like a cog in some intricate gear, turning of its own accord to bind him. Perhaps fate truly existed.
Erik died, and he reenacted the southern invasion.
Kill Karadskar, and his father ascends as Great Khan to launch the northern conquest.
End the Hundred Years' War fifty years early, and the emperor falls to corruption, plunging the empire into civil war with damages mirroring his past life.
He, Fernandez, moves to save the world, and Dorian—immovable by any means in his past life—suddenly betrays it all to bring ruin.
Thwart the Fairn royal family's corruption in advance, and Fairn fosters decay in an entirely new way.
'But.'
Fernandez pushed open the cabin door, halting his thoughts. The rusty hinges squealed against the sea wind. In the dim interior, his eyes gleamed an icy blue.
'Not that. Not that one.'
Even if all fates flowed as predestined. Even if celestial gods twisted the path with their full might, even if First Realm's doom proved unstoppable.
No. Not that. No. By any means, no.
This world would not crumble. An old voice echoed in his ear, a jest Feizashi often made.
[When a great mage says something is possible, it surely is. But—]
"Should that mage declare something impossible, odds are he's dead wrong."
A golden rule taught to magic novices. Magic incarnates concepts into reality, so impose no limits on thought.
In this moment, nothing comforted him more than that childhood lesson. Fernandez sighed deeply, sinking into the dark cabin and stretching out.
* * *
The first report spoke of unidentified pirates pillaging harbors indiscriminately. Two ports burned to the ground, with raiders scattering toward nearby granaries.
"Granaries...?"
"Yes, my lord. Granaries."
"Pirates raiding granaries?"
Utterly bizarre. What pirates in the world targeted freshly harvested grain? Harbors brimmed with gold and valuables, yet after seizing them, these unknowns dispersed immediately in search of food.
The second report followed: every village along the coast suffered simultaneous raids, sparing no farms, trade routes, or hamlets.
"What are the soldiers doing? How can mere bandits still rampage across this land!"
"Uh... well... They slip away every time troops arrive, with a day's gap."
Impossible without full access to enemy intelligence. No matter the loot left behind, these mystery bandits vanished just before reinforcements hit.
Like a locust swarm, every farm near the North Sea coast collapsed. The Duke of Luminnon clutched his head, lamenting. With winter looming, they crumbled to this untimely banditry.
Until recently, he'd eyed opportunity in the Dane-Fairn standoff, poised to claim territory. A clash between those giants could swallow surrounding minors—if played right. But now, he suspected traitors colluding with bandits while bracing for winter.
"Request aid! Hurry...!"
"To whom, sire? Where do we send the riders?"
"Anywhere! Everyone! Fairn, Dane, Baras, Mardun! Dispatch envoys everywhere—troops if possible, relief grain if not! Pay any price!"
The duke bellowed. The chamberlain bowed deeply and withdrew; soon, several riders galloped from the castle in all directions.
Days later, a courier burst into the duke's court. A Mardun envoy. Expecting a reply to his aid plea, the duke heard something unforeseen.
"Your Grace, our realm suffers assaults from unknown brigands. Per eastern tradition, should Your Grace lend your fine troops, our king shall..."
The duke burst into mad laughter at the envoy's words. Staring blankly at the envoy, he said,
"We've stumbled into the fattened prey at some grand hunt...!"
* * *
-Bang!
"Fernandez!!"
The cabin door flew open as Abel stormed in. Breathing hard, she strode forward and glared fiercely. She'd figured it out. Fernandez smiled wryly and turned.
"Freya. Withdraw Group 3 to Sector 4-B, then rest."
"The goddess is dying..."
Freya, seated in lotus position before the map in meditation, finally slumped and grumbled. She wriggled like a worm toward the sofa beside the table.
Fernandez turned back, and fury-filled Abel closed in fast, shouting,
"What in the hells is this?! Weren't you helping Dane strike Fairn?!"
"This is me doing exactly that."
"What do you...! How does pillaging this land blindly help anyone?! How many will die, how many starve?!"
Abel trembled with betrayal. It was inevitable someday, but facing her rage still stung his heart. Fernandez sat at the table, pouring warm tea into a cup.
"Care for one?"
"Answer first!"
"And if I don't?"
"...What?"
"What changes if we don't raid? Aid Dane? Their main force has already crossed into Fairn territory, while Fairn troops scatter to Dane's ports and coasts. Think we beat them there?"
What mattered most in war? Fernandez knew without doubt: distance. From blade's reach to cavalry charge, arrow's impact, or—
Marching troops. Distance to catch a marching army. And in units, distance meant time. Having lost initiative to Fairn, Fernandez—sailing from imperial northern ports to the east's edge—lacked that distance.
Chase them, and he'd find only ruins. But from his seat, he could grasp the battlefield and orchestrate scattered forces with precision.
With Freya and Piel's powers, his command transcended mere field generalship, granting panoramic vision.
"Protect Dane, and by the time our main force reaches their outskirts, Altbert falls. Strike Fairn, and when our main force hits their border, Round Table Knights already hold all Fairn."
"Even so, isn't this raiding pointless? Both kingdoms lost and crumbling already!"
"This war doesn't end with those two realms' fall. Fairn and Dane—both kings plan around their kingdoms' demise."
"...What?"
Fairn's king, Sigismund, abandoned his homeland to attack Dane. His scheme: with Altbert's fall, rally minor kingdoms to isolate and crush Dane's main force.
Dane's king, Vicente, stripped his defenses bare for expedition. He too hoped for winter's end to the war, then redeploy minors to redraw borders post-Fairn surrender.
Intentions aside, their strikes pierced each other's hearts. From Fairn's first move, both dooms were irrevocable.
Thus, Fernandez's belated best: thwart the kings' next phase. Block minor kingdoms' involvement, disrupt Eastern Alliance reorganization.
"Until our intervention, secular monarchs toed the line. Dane or Fairn—one falls in their war. What profit there? But now? Our raids leave one goal in their heads."
Surviving winter.
"Secular crowns lose war capacity for at least three months now."
"Isn't that disastrous?! Dane falls, Fairn too. Minors starve, folk die of famine... With hellfire spreading and demon cultists lurking, collapsed states mean no recovery!"
"Fairn and Dane collapse, minors dip into the scraps—that's Sigismund's plan, right?"
"...So?"
"Then what's the next move?"
Fernandez eyed the flustered Abel steadily.
"The empire's granaries supply the realm with surplus for export."
"What...?"
The empire's strength lay not in short wars. True power: near-perfect logistics and boundless capital.
Typically, scorched earth shattered national foundations—worst strategy. Yet Buran rebuilt minimal administration in under half a year post-thorough devastation.
Seonje Horyeong spanned kingdom-scale lands. Even razed, Buran rebuilt now.
That was imperial might. Power to form last defenses at world's end. Vast population, production to feed it all, flawless bureaucracy.
"Abel, fewer will starve than you think. Fewer still will perish. Half as much as I trust you."
Fernandez grinned playfully, meeting her eyes.
"Too many? Then half again. Will you trust me with even that much?"
Abel's face flushed crimson.
"Urk!!"
Freya, watching from the sofa, dry-heaved. Fernandez walked over silently and smacked the back of her head.