stjorthotic Chapter 228 : Kai's Growth (6)
Chapter 228 : Kai's Growth (6)
Two calamities haunted the Empire: the Battle Fiend and the Ogre Lord. They were disasters forged in the crucible of the Second Great War, though it was the concurrent war against the rebels that had truly birthed them.But to the common citizen, the rebels were a distant political squabble; the Demonkin were a tangible nightmare. So the blame, and the hatred, fell upon the invaders.
And when that hatred found no purchase on the retreating demons, it turned inward, settling on the Imperial Family who had failed to protect them.
“Why did our son have to die!”
“You took him! You said he was needed, and for what? To be a shield for your archers!”
The families of those lost to the Ogre Lord wailed at the gates of the Imperial Capital.
For other wars, there was at least a body to bury. But the Ogre Lord left none behind.
It was a truth too monstrous to grasp: the fallen had not merely died; they had been devoured. This final, desecrating act fanned the flames of sorrow into an inferno of rage.
“…What are we to do?”
At that same moment, a council of high-ranking officials was underway in the Imperial Palace. It was called a council, a term that lent a false dignity to what was, in truth, a frantic scramble to deflect blame.
“What about requesting aid from other nations? The Demonkin army is reportedly withdrawing to the Demonic Realm. Surely they’ve had their fill of bloodshed.”
“Hah! And who would you ask? Diva, where the Battle Fiend runs rampant? The Allied Kingdoms, who are circling us like vultures? Or perhaps the barbarians? Tell me, who?”
“So you suggest we just sit here and do nothing!”
It was the hollow posturing of powerless men.
“The western territories are completely cut off!” one minister lamented. “If we can’t retake what they’re calling the Ogre Road, all trade will cease.”
“Trade? Is your greatest concern right now? If we lose this war, centuries of Imperial history will be extinguished overnight!”
“Are you suggesting we abandon the western plains? Trade aside, those lands are our breadbasket! Their fertile fields are the source of the Empire’s strength! Losing them is a mortal blow!”
“And I’m saying we have to win the war !”
“Damn it all! Then tell us how we’re supposed to win it!”
Not one viable solution was offered. Not one man was willing to take responsibility.
Into the cacophony, the First Prince, who had been observing in silence, let out a slow, deliberate sigh. The sound cut through the noise like a blade.
“I have listened to your… arguments, my lords,” he said, his voice low but firm. The officials’ heads snapped toward him. “But it seems you have overlooked the very reasons we are gathered here. If I may?”
His gaze swept across the room, cold and assessing.
“First,” he began, “you are here to heal the pain of the people wailing outside our very walls. Yet not one of you has spoken of them. I should like to know why.”
A few men coughed into their fists, avoiding his eyes.
“Second, the news of the Demonkin army’s withdrawal can be interpreted another way. They are not surrendering. They are marching north. Are we to use the North’s forces so freely, only to turn a blind eye to their fate now that our own lives are at risk?”
“Hmm, that is… perhaps the Demonkin army has simply lost its will to fight…” an official offered weakly.
“And third,” the Prince continued, ignoring him, “you operate under a grave delusion. Other nations will not help us. It is far more advantageous for them to let the Empire bleed, wait for the rebels to take the capital, and then curry favor with the victor. What fool places a bet before the cards are even dealt?”
Each word was a hammer blow. The First Prince was a gentle man, but he was not a fool. And his words laid bare the rot at the heart of their council.
“So, speak,” he commanded. “If you can provide a clear answer to these three points, I will act on your counsel immediately.”
Silence.
The officials knew. They all knew this meeting was nothing more than a way to pass the time until their fate was decided for them. They, who had built careers on avarice and patronage, were utterly incompetent in the face of a true crisis.
“…We are deeply sorry, Your Highness.” The officials bowed their heads in shame.
The Prince clicked his tongue in disgust before turning his attention to a man who had remained quiet in the corner: Louis Berg.
“Marquis Louis, I have placed a terrible burden on you. On behalf of the Empire, I apologize.”
The First Prince bowed his head. He was not yet emperor, but he was the sole heir. For such a man to bow to a marquis was unthinkable.
“Huh…”
“My prince…”
The officials stared, their faces a mask of shock.
Heedless, the Prince continued, his voice grave. “But I cannot lift this burden. In fact, I must ask you to shoulder an even heavier one.”
“…It is no matter,” Louis replied, his expression unreadable. “However, I have heard the reports. The Demonkin army moves north. I intend to do the same.”
The officials surged with renewed panic, their earlier shame forgotten.
“Where do you think you’re going!”
“The Empire is on the brink of collapse! Would you abandon us for a personal matter?”
“Your Highness, you mustn’t allow it! If Lord Louis leaves, the war is lost! I beg you, send his troops, but keep the man himself here!”
Their words differed, but their intent was singular. Their own lives were in peril, and they would not let their final shield depart. The fate of the North and its people meant nothing to them; they just needed someone to protect their own necks.
Louis shot a sidelong glance at the desperate men before his gaze returned to the First Prince. It was not a request. It was a statement of fact. His eyes were resolute.
“…Very well,” the Prince said finally. “If you say you must go, then who am I to stop you?”
“Your Highness!”
“Silence!” the Prince roared. “The Duke’s army has suffered immense losses; they will not attack immediately! Besides, is Lord Louis not the equivalent of an emperor on the battlefield? Would you have me chain him here and invite accusations of treason?”
The officials recoiled, stunned by his ferocity, but his decision was final.
“…We will abide by Your Highness’s will.” As they reluctantly bowed, the Prince addressed Louis again.
“Take your troops. You will need them to survive. But I have one request. Will you grant it?”
“Your command, Your Highness.”
“Once the North is stable… once you are certain the Demonkin have been repelled… will you return to us?”
The Prince bowed his head once more, and this time, the fear in his eyes was plain to see. It was not the fear of death or of being abandoned. It was the fear of his people being swept away by the tides of war once more.
Louis seemed to understand. He gave a single, solemn nod. “Yes. The moment the situation is resolved, I will use any means necessary to return and save the Empire.”
“…Thank you,” the First Prince said with a bitter smile. “Even if they are only words, I thank you.” He straightened. “Go, then. Protect the North.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
With those words, Louis Berg rose. He was going north to save his wife’s family, who were once again facing annihilation.
* * *
Far to the north, in the Duchy of Praha, a palpable tension settled over the land as a feast of demonic energy rolled in from the distance.
“…Remnants of the Demonkin army, I see,” the Third Elder, great-aunt to the duchess Lea, muttered to herself.
Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but her grip on her ironwood staff was unshakable. That she could stand unbowed against the razor-sharp northern winds spoke of a strength that had long surpassed the ordinary.
She was a Master.
The demonic energy prickled at her skin, and she clicked her tongue. “Tsk. If they’re remnants, they should have the decency to crawl back to their realm. But it seems they mean to strike at us.”
“…If they are merely remnants, shouldn’t we strike first?” a young northern knight asked beside her.
His logic was sound. In most battles, the first strike held the advantage.
But the knight had overlooked two crucial facts. First, his own skill was at the peak of an Expert; he could not properly gauge the quality of the energy they faced. Second, the “remnants” the Third Elder spoke of were not just defeated soldiers.
“Hold your position,” she commanded. “We can flee if we must. Sticking our necks out would be suicide.”
“What? But why?”
“Your question proves your ignorance. Enough. Go and summon the Acting Head. It seems they have a monster of their own with them. We’ll have to wait for our monster to arrive.”
The Third Elder dismissed the knight, sighing as she watched the approaching horde.
Louis Berg. The Hope of Humanity, the North’s final bastion. The youngest Grand Master in history. Their only hope for survival was to hold out until he arrived.
“Tsk… to rely so heavily on one man,” she grumbled. “The North’s time is surely running out.”
She turned to head back inside the fortress walls, then paused.
“Ah, and take a message to my foolish nephew. Tell him if he continues this way, I’ll see him stripped of his title. Tsk, tsk… a father so spineless… what use is he?”
She vented her frustration, hoping against hope that her nephew—the Grand Duke of the North, once called the Empire’s Unbreakable Shield—would finally find his courage.
* * *
The wait was not long.
A few days later, a tide of black armor and blood-red banners crested the horizon. A single, guttural cry echoed across the frozen plains, a thousand voices as one.
“Slaughter the humans!”
The demonic host charged.