Chapter 643 — Gifts and Choices

Morning came on the eighth day.

At the king's command, the forces within Saint-Sunil that still retained some fighting capacity were swiftly organized to carry out the first counterattack since the siege began.

The troops dispatched under orders were divided into two bodies: one was the Royal Knights, loyal to the king; the other a mixed company of knights formed from the sons of the capital's nobles and their private retainers. The two bodies passed through the city gate one after the other at the hour when the dawn sky was ablaze, yet their styles could not have been more different—

The Royal Knights were few. Those who had survived with fighting strength left numbered only four-tenths of their original force. They wore armor already scarred and battered, the blood on their weapons not yet wiped away. They were like a band of rust-colored war statues, crossing the gate in silence, their killing intent held in check yet their order immaculate.

Beside them, the other company seemed noisy and flamboyant. A riot of colorful banners fluttered above it. The young noble knights, in bright armor, their faces ruddy and full, rode tall warhorses; it was like a theater troupe setting out in full costume, piping and drumming the whole way, boisterous beyond measure. And among the various contingents, each under a different flag, one could see armorial banners bordered with colored lace flying high—the favored display by which nobles advertised that they were marching to war in person.

Of course they had to show off, for the "battle" to come would be a performance with almost no risk at all—just like the autumn and winter hunts each year, when men of illustrious lineage took up enchanted bows and, under the close guard of knights, hunted down a herd of beasts already driven to the end of their rope. Whatever happened in between, so long as the arrow finally lodged in the beast, the man who drew the bow won himself the name of "valiant." And now they were going to collect that name.

The opportunists knew their own stains, after all—especially those who had once made ready to move their wealth elsewhere and only swore allegiance when the king's coronation came around. They were desperate for some "exploit" to dress up their facade.

That exploit was not for the king to see. It was for Duke Gao Yang Cecil to see.

Here was a duke with a dazzling record of military achievement, one who had now turned the tide by force of arms. A duke like that, upon entering the capital, would surely pay attention to how each party had performed in the siege before. So to accumulate some military merit in good time was to accumulate resources for the political investment to come—anyone with an eye could see that the situation in Ansle would be utterly reshuffled once this war ended. The Eastern Region and the Northern Region would both decline; even the Western Region had been gravely wounded. Only the Southern Region was the true victor—just as, a hundred years ago, after the end of the Fogmoon Civil War, the Wilde family had taken hold of Ansle under the name of "regent."

As for the king… the poor king. His royal authority would likely reach its end the very moment Duke Gao Yang Cecil entered the city.

Count Uriel, a capital noble out in full finery, lifted his head and glanced back at the royal banner fluttering atop Saint-Sunil's towering walls. He could not help shaking his head, and in the aria-like cadence characteristic of northern high society, he sighed: "Truly pitiful—the king has been free for only eight days."

Another at his side chimed in: "Indeed. Freed from the Wildes, only to welcome the Cecils… who could have foreseen that a few years ago?"

Count Uriel smiled with restrained complacency: "I once purchased large quantities of alchemical potions and thaumaturgical armaments from the Southern Region. As one of his important clients, Duke Gao Yang Cecil must surely have some impression of me."

"Of course, my friend. Your eye for investment has always been admirable…"

……

Welsh stood on the wall, watching that finely dressed company march off toward Crow Plateau, and for a long while said nothing.

Duke Boyu's voice came from beside him: "Your Majesty."

"Look at them—what a splendid company," Welsh raised his head slightly, indicating the advancing column with his chin. "Their armor is brand new, their warhorses bear not a scratch, their banners look as though they were just taken out of storage. Tell me, Boyu—where do you suppose they were hiding before?"

"…In those people's filthy guts."

Welsh turned his head in surprise: "…You actually know how to curse."

"Only when necessary," said Duke Boyu mildly. "But more to the point, Your Majesty—are you certain your choice was necessary?"

"With my own eyes I saw the efforts you and Grand Duke Victoria made. With my own eyes I saw the reformers and the conservatives set against each other and split apart. I have seen how lords increase their wealth and nibble away at freeholders' cropland, and I have seen how the so-called 'factory reforms' became a new excuse for enclosing and seizing land, leaving the common folk ever more displaced. I know every rule by which the upper society of this kingdom operates, and within those rules I found a truth…"

Boyu watched the king before him in silence.

"Our reforms did not succeed because we were not willing to risk enough. The prosperity and strength Ansle wants are not to be found at the negotiating table."

Having said this, Welsh suddenly laughed: "And I am truly, intensely curious—what choice would that founding hero make before a problem like this? I have set this stage—can it make even him falter, just this once…?"

……

The gunfire from Highland Two gradually died down. In the command post, intelligence on the frontline situation was continuously gathered before Gao Yang.

On the whole, the battle was unfolding according to plan. Now that those crystal-cluster giants had become frenzied monsters, what the Cecil Legion had to consider had actually grown simpler—monsters lacking command and tactics naturally lacked variation too, and so long as no major flaw appeared, the tactics already drawn up would largely match the projections. And as commanders at every level and the soldiers grew ever more accustomed to this battlefield, it could be said that the situation would no longer change greatly.

Above the arcane-net terminal beside the map table, Philip's bust floated in a holographic projection: "…We have already drawn near the Valley Corridor. At the earliest, we can reach the Saint-Sunil region by tomorrow…"

"Very good," Gao Yang nodded with considerable satisfaction, and there was no small approval in his tone—the originally scheduled rendezvous had in fact been three days away, yet Philip's ground main force had managed to arrive two days early, further ensuring that the scales of battle tipped toward their side. "But how did you manage to be so fast?"

"The enemy's counterattack was weaker than expected. It seems large numbers of monsters that had been roaming the central plains have been drawn to the Saint-Sunil region," Philip explained. "Still, we laid down sufficient fire-blockade points along the way—you may rest easy on that point."

Gao Yan nodded, then exchanged a few more words with Philip about the intelligence on the battle, and ended the communication.

The north-south blockade line was finally about to close.

He let out a slight breath, feeling somewhat eased, then turned his head, intending to discuss with Victoria beside him the arrangements for entering the capital next—but before he could speak, he heard Amber's voice from not far off:

"You say you're a messenger, so you're a messenger—a messenger, and you still go invisible? With that little skill of yours, you go invisible?!"