The Imperial Procession
An endless procession stretched out so far that its tail was nowhere in sight, the blood on the heads of those at the front not yet dry. The knights at the vanguard held their postures without a single flaw, their well-maintained armor gleaming under the sunlight. Behind them fluttered the grand banners symbolizing the Emperor and the former Elector Counts, billowing majestically in the wind.
The warhorses ridden by the knights were impeccably groomed, but the horses pulling the carriages at the procession's center were on another level altogether—worthy of being called horse kings. Their manes flowed like fluttering thin silk, their short, deep loins flowed into solid haunches with perfect stability, and their legs stood straight and rooted to the earth like trees. Surely, the carriage drawn by these peerless steeds carried the highest-ranking person—or the master—of this entire procession.
"What are you thinking so deeply about, Your Majesty?"
The vast carriage was so spacious it might as well have been a moving room, yet it carried only two people. The older one, who looked at least twice the age of his companion, spoke first.
"Nothing at all."
The man addressed as "Your Majesty" gazed toward the rear of the procession with a somewhat weary expression. Elite guardsmen, infantry, servants, and even imperial merchants were mixed in among the marchers. Though they varied wildly in age, status, and reasons for joining the Emperor's tour, every one of them wore a face full of happiness and hope.
These are expressions we never saw during the endless chain of wars.
A faint smile briefly touched his fatigued features before fading away. The man who had been silently watching the Emperor spoke again.
"This journey has been particularly long, and it seems fatigue has built up. I'll instruct the Court Chamberlain to ensure the next strategic capital is thoroughly prepared."
"Aren't we heading to Manrmursk right now?"
"Yes, we are."
"Then there's no need. We can't burden Lord Byeon Gyeongbaek with more than necessary."
The man swallowed whatever else he'd been about to say. The warm sunlight beat down, yet unmelted snow still piled along the roadside. This was the site of the empire's final battle in the recent war, where its borders had been drawn. The place where the world's forgotten—the prisoners sentenced to oblivion in Utopia—were confined.
"Even Manrmursk is connected by the roads you've laid down, former Elector."
"It is all thanks to the boundless benevolence of the late Emperor, who graciously permitted the road construction projects."
Benevolence, huh...
The former Elector praised the Emperor's father without a flicker in his expression. Back when the empire was still called a kingdom, aggressive expansion wars demanded the utmost cooperation from its powerful lords above all else. And among the mightiest of the noble Electors, the man before him had been the most enthusiastic collaborator.
Knights and soldiers gathered under the kingdom's banner had fought and fallen in distant lands unknown to them, for the nation, for the king, for their lords. The wars had been so successful that the kingdom was no longer a kingdom but an empire. And the survivors had received fitting rewards: land and wealth for the lords, along with the glory of victors.
But the former Elector before him had demanded no such tangible prizes. Instead, he sought an intangible right. The right to monopolize the vital roads that spread like veins across the empire's territory.
The road monopoly.
Built on the blood of others and his own gold, those roads now bore the former Elector's praise for the previous emperor.
"If you truly believe that, former Elector, how about relinquishing the road monopoly rights?"
"I must humbly beg to differ, but those monopoly rights were legally guaranteed by written statute to the victorious lords by the late Emperor himself..."
"I get it, I get it. I've heard that line so many times I could recite it myself."
The Emperor cut him off with a voice laced with irritation beyond mere fatigue. An awkward tension filled the space shared by the empire's highest powers. In the heavy silence, only the occasional whinny of horses broke through.
"One—draw your swords! Two—thrust!"
Even in May, Manrmursk's weather brought snow, but today it was uncharacteristically clear. Of course, the cloudless sky was the only pure blue; the ground was blanketed in the region's specialty, piled high from yesterday's relentless flurries.
Instead of sand and dust, snowflakes swirled across the training grounds, where sturdy men of various ages had gathered—from prime young bucks to middle-aged veterans past their peak.
"One! Two! One! Two!"
Hundreds of sword arcs sliced through the frigid northern air. The older men swung with no wasted motion, halting precisely at their marks.
"Full assembly! Fine weather today means upper-body bare run. Strip your tops!"
A silent chorus of groans rose as bare skin met razor-sharp air. Even their threadbare training undershirts suddenly felt precious.
"Left foot."
"Left foot!"
The universal cadence echoed powerfully. Squirrels gathering acorns between the pines stared blankly at the furless beasts.
"Halt in place!"
"One, two!"
The long wall patrols and grueling morning roll calls were finally over. Now, the night-shift workers awaited only hot meals, warm water, and beds.
"Upper-body bare run today, so friction rub-down with dry cloths to raise body temp before return. Execute!"
Ignoring the murderous glares from the night-shifters, the duty officer pulled out a rough hemp towel. What could they do? Army was army, even in Manrmursk. If ordered to strip, they stripped. Better to warm up quick and get inside—that thought crossed fifty minds as everyone drew their towels.
"Morning roll call was tough, Lord Byeon Gyeongbaek."
"Tough? I barely even warmed up."
"As expected of you, my lord!"
While the duty officer led the rest back, a separate group trailed the main body. A young man with his nose, ears, and entire upper body flushed beet-red strode along, shirtless in blatant display. He seemed the highest-ranked among them—no one dared dress before him. Watching them with a relaxed expression, the young man spoke up.
"What, you guys cold? The knights of mighty Manrmursk shivering in this chill? Ha!"
"No, sir!"
"No my ass—your faces look ready to turn into frostbite statues if you walk to the castle like that. Cut the bravado and get dressed."
The cold was too brutal to let pride stand in the way, so they hurriedly donned their clothes the moment he spoke. All but one, that is.
"What? Has the Knight Commander reached the age where he doesn't feel cold anymore?"
"...I cannot dress before you do, my lord."
"You're no fun..."
The guardsmen hesitated, wondering if they should strip again, but the young Border Count marched on without a care.
"The key agenda items you need to handle today are..."
"Ugh, come on. Do I have to micromanage that stuff? I've told you guys a million times to handle it yourselves."
"B-but, my lord, these are matters you should review for the territory's future...!"
The sturdy Border Count shoved his face in like a headbutt at the babbling official. Papers densely packed with writing flew into the air.
"I don't remember assigning you to worry about that crap."
"S-sorry!"
"You hate saying it, I hate hearing it—right? Just handle it."
The terrified official scooped up the scattered papers and fled. The others, who had business with the Count, watched with darkening expressions.
"Um... Lord Byeon Gyeongbaek."
"What now?"
"His Majesty the Emperor will soon visit Manrmursk on tour."
"Yeah? And?"
"Pardon?"
They stared at each other in mutual bewilderment.
"Wars are over—why's the Emperor coming here?"
"The imperial tour has many purposes. His Majesty, the heart of the empire, residing in a provincial strategic capital alone spurs trade and logistics...!"
This time, the official braced defensively without even a headbutt.
"Don't care about the details, not interested. So what do you want me to do?"
"Pardon? Ah, yes! As Border Count and local Court Chamberlain, you have a duty to provide lodging for His Majesty and his entourage."
Chewing on a chicken leg from the table, the Count made no secret of his annoyance. But unlike before, he didn't chase the man off. Seizing the moment, another official jumped in.
"Furthermore! Welcome banquets, meals during their stay, clothing, sundries—all that must be... Gah!"
A cleanly picked chicken bone whistled past the official, slamming into a pillar after fulfilling its lifelong dream of flight.
"We'll handle it perfectly!"
The other officials and servants, unwilling to catch a chicken bone first thing in the morning, hastily evacuated the office.
"What the hell is he thinking...?"
"Every day feels like trudging barefoot across the tundra!"
The headbutted, the chicken-boned, and the silenced vented their frustrations side by side. Their gloomy faces contrasted with the empty approval stack on the desk.
"If only the late Lord hadn't passed so suddenly... It's frustrating."
"How long has it been since he inherited? And he acts like this..."
"Rumors on the streets say he's not even the real son."
"Hey, watch your mouth—that's dangerous talk!"
They said so, but everyone nodded in partial agreement. The late Count had been gruff but flawlessly managed Manrmursk's vast administration. This one was worlds apart. No wonder rumors spread that the son was sculpted from every opposite trait of his father.
"Be honest—you all feel it too, right?"
"Ahem... Heh."
"No children from his late wife, after all..."
The first headbuttee vented freely.
"Who knows what the late Lord was thinking, but at this rate, the territory's a disaster waiting to happen... Gah!"
The official clamped his mouth shut mid-rant. The others, inwardly agreeing, spotted the newcomer and averted their eyes.
"S-Sir Gustav... What brings you? Ahem... We have preparations, so excuse us."
"M-me too!"
They scattered like shadows fleeing light. Gustav eyed them with a complicated look before heading to the Count's office.
Knock knock.
"Knight Commander."
"Why knock every time? Just come in. So rigid."
The words were kind, but the reply casual as ever. Gustav, looking even older than on his walk down the hall, entered. The butler was clearing plates, post-meal. The Knight Commander held the door for the relieved servant.
"...The officials' discontent is growing."
"Yeah?"
Spotting a chicken bone on the floor, the Knight Commander picked it up. The Count, slightly embarrassed, swiftly changed the subject.
"Sometimes the bosses gotta gripe among themselves to motivate the underlings. Let it be."
"It's not that simple."
"No need to overcomplicate it."
He skimmed the papers the officials had submitted—some even pelted with chicken bones—scribbled approvals, and shoved them aside. Then he pulled a pipe from under the desk and began packing it with tobacco.
Pressing the finely shredded leaves with a tamper, his movements were meticulous. Probably the most careful he'd been all day—and would be, thought the Knight Commander.
"'When you do what you love,' you resemble the late Lord—your father—perfectly."
"You picking on me now?"
The retort was sharp, but his expression and tone were like a sulky child. The Knight Commander's face grew even more troubled.
Satisfied with the pack, he set down the tamper with a pleased look, struck a match, and stared it down intently. The flame writhed like a snake, gently coiling into the pipe's bowl. Smoke billowed, revealing the Count's contented face amid the haze.
"Gotta admit, I'm a natural."
"Your magical talent is unparalleled. Even now, you could send word to the Magic Tower and..."
"Enough."
The smoke thickened slightly, then lightened to a satisfying puff.
"Forget why the late Border Count died?"
"...My apologies."
"I ain't going out like that. Gonna live diluted water in water, booze in booze—pure bliss to the end~."
The Knight Commander answered the self-directed words not meant for him with silence.