A Horseback Retrospective

As the emperor’s host advanced along the highway, bound for the battlefield, the cheers of the people could still be heard far behind it, as if urging the procession on.

The last time I’d heard such cheers, it had been from within the confines of a carriage, and I had only been five years old. The last time I’d left the imperial capital, it had been for a tour of the Empire, and I had been nothing more than a puppet under the heavy guard of the nobility’s soldiers.

Now, at last, I had left the city of my own will, unfettered by the control of another. As the commander in chief of the emperor’s host, no less—though of course, we had an actual military commander with us to do most of the commanding. Still, it was hard not to feel moved.

I realized that I felt calm. The frustration I’d felt at not being able to leave the imperial demesne’s confines—a frustration I had not even noticed until now—was gone. My destination was a battlefield, and I knew that many of my plans would no doubt go awry amid the chaos there. But I would adapt with the current, rather than let it drag me under. Or at least, that was what I told myself.

I’d experienced battle before, but it had been coincidental, an ambush on my traveling column during one of my tours. Departing for the front at the head of an army was an altogether different experience. It had taken all thirteen of my years since being reborn in this world, but finally, here I was.

I suppose thirteen probably sounds quite young to you. Back in Japan, it would’ve put me around the age when I’d first be entering middle school. As for me, though, I’d felt every day of those thirteen years. Because you see, I was what you’d call a transmigrator: someone who’d been reborn with memories of their past life.

＊＊＊

After my life as a citizen of Japan, I had been granted a second spin around the wheel of creation, with the catch that the world I’d been reborn into was very much not Earth. Here, my name was Carmine de la Garde-Bundarte, emperor from birth of the Bundarte Empire, a country situated upon the landmass known as the Eastern Continent.

Emperor from birth. I bet that has an attractive ring to it, huh?

After all, an emperor was absolute, above even a king. An all-powerful monarch, usually of a sprawling empire. And that description would be correct, if we were talking about the dictionary definition. Ideally an emperor possessed complete authority, commanded the total obedience of his lords and retainers, and lived in the lap of luxury, sampling from lavish, opulent feasts on the daily.

I knew there was no shortage of people back on Earth who, if they were to be reborn in another world, had an entire life planned out for themselves. I mean, I had been one of them. For example, they would start out as the child of a wealthy merchant, or perhaps a noble, make a name for themselves via a series of thrilling adventures, work their way up to becoming the king of their own country, then expand their influence until eventually they became an emperor.

Unfortunately, in my case, the position of emperor had come with the qualifier: “from birth.”

In ordinary circumstances, a child would never take the throne, much less a newborn infant. The way it was supposed to go was that he would be raised and educated as the crown prince, inheriting the title of emperor from his predecessor only after becoming an adult.

Why had I been emperor from birth, then, you ask? That would be because my father, the crown prince, and my grandfather, the previous emperor, had already been dead at the time of my birth. More accurately, they had been assassinated. Hence, with no one else around to sit on the throne, the duty had landed in the lap of yours truly.

And to be fair, no one had possessed the gall to tell me what to do. Though of course, since I was a child, they’d ignored my commands too.

If I’d had the desire to order my lords, or indulge in whatever luxury took my fancy, I was sure I would have had no difficulty doing so—with the caveat that, if at any point I had overdone it and the nobility judged me to be more trouble than I was worth, they’d have had me bumped off.

As for lavish, opulent feasts, those had indeed been a part of my daily life. Albeit they’d always been cold to the center when they’d gotten to me, since they’d needed to be tested for poison, which had involved waiting for any possible delayed-effect pathogens to take effect.

What’s that? Alcohol and women? What was a child supposed to do with those?

Anyway, my point was that there was nothing more hollow and dangerous than a throne without power. If your very short list of duties consisted of pleasing the nobility, then you were no different from a court jester. So it went for any born sovereign.

Incidentally, certain historians have claimed that Tokugawa Iemitsu, third shogun of the Tokugawa shogunate, had once uttered the words, “I have been a shogun since birth.” In his case, however, his grandfather Ieyasu had still been alive at the time of his delivery, and his father Hidetada had been alive for some years even after Iemitsu had become shogun. Quite honestly, I would’ve swapped places with him any day of the week.

Why were my father and grandfather killed, you ask? I’m afraid I couldn’t say. I did know one thing, though, and that was the identity of those who’d masterminded it: the Chancellor and the Minister of Ceremony, the two most powerful noblemen in the Empire. From the moment I was born, I had been their puppet. Karl de Van-Raul, the Chancellor, had possessed direct control over roughly a third of the Empire and strutted about like he owned the place. Phillip de Garde-Agincarl, the Minister of Ceremony and my other grandfather, had held dominion over a vast stretch of land of his own and acted with arrogant impunity.

The political conflict between these two powerful noblemen had been fierce, and my continued survival had been a product of their compromise. I had been allowed to live because, as an ignorant infant, I could serve as a convenient puppet that they could discard at their leisure.

Thus, in order to survive, I had acted the part of a malleable fool. Year after year, I had done everything in my power to prevent them from noticing that I possessed memories of a past life, all the while gathering allies in secret.

During that time, the Empire continued to decline. With a child at the top and the individuals who held true power more concerned with the interests of their own holdings, it was inevitable.

But then, unable to bear the situation any longer, Duke Warren raised an army, its stated cause to rescue the emperor from his manipulators. Shaken by the sudden rebellion, the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony had ceased their long-standing argument over who would get to crown me and came to a compromise. The coronation would take place, and they would crown me together.

Incidentally, this argument of theirs had existed in the first place because the individual who crowned me needed to be my legal guardian. In other words, they would be the true ruler of the Empire in all but name.

However, the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony had let their guards down. As they advanced toward me, crown in their hands, they could not have imagined that the puppet before their eyes had been waiting years for this exact moment. I had drawn my blade, beheaded them both with my own hands, and crowned myself. Then I had declared the commencement of my reign, making it clear that it would be mine, and no one else’s. At last, I had been freed from my strings.

But that did not mean I’d gotten my happily ever after. Far from it. The nature of my elimination of the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony—instantaneous and in one fell swoop—had been necessitated by my circumstances. Since I’d been under constant surveillance, I’d needed to make a single, pivotal move that would upturn the board state they’d created.

Actions, however, had consequences. The suddenness of the upheaval had meant that the only territory I’d truly been able to seize control over had been the imperial capital and a scant few cities in the local region. Meanwhile, the sons of the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony had revolted, declaring their independence from the Empire. Honestly, that had only been fair enough. I couldn’t have expected them to obey me after I’d killed their fathers.

As for the other nobility, there had been no way they were going to fall in line so easily. How could they bend the knee to a thirteen-year-old child who had—for all they knew—been a puppet his entire life? I might not have been pleased with how few allied themselves with me, but I had not been surprised.

Some of the nobility had allied themselves with the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony’s sons, while others had adopted a wait-and-see policy out of self-preservation. Only a scant few had rejoined the imperial fold, and that did not necessarily mean I could trust them. That was particularly true in the case of the lesser nobility who governed the cities around the imperial capital, since they’d previously been in the patronage of the Chancellor or Minister of Ceremony. It was perfectly possible that they were only obeying me because, distance-wise, it was the safe choice, and they would betray me the moment my authority weakened.

In addition to all that, I still faced the task of rebuilding an empire in decline thanks to the high-handed tyranny of the aristocratic class. As the emperor, I had my work cut out for me.

“It’s enough to make one’s head spin,” I muttered.

I mean, where were my fantasy isekai clichés? My journey through another world, filled with adventure? My overpowered cheat abilities, and the freedom to do whatever I wanted? My rise up the rungs of society, thanks to the benefit of my knowledge of modern technology?

Reality couldn’t be any more different. As the emperor, I did not have the freedom to go on adventures, and the slightest overreach on my part could very well get me assassinated. And rising up the rungs of society? Yeah, right. If anything, I’d be on the side doing the oppressing. After all, if I wanted to survive, I needed to kick down the ambitious climbers coming up behind me.

I knew enough to understand that those who fell from the seat of power always met with wretched fates. There were too many examples to list of Chinese emperors who had abdicated, only to be assassinated by their successor anyway. That said, I had no right to complain, since I’d killed the previous individuals in power with my own two hands.

“Is something the matter, Your Majesty?” Timona le Nain, my personal attendant, was leading my horse by the reins on foot.

“No, nothing.”

I recalled the memory of the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony’s severed heads, put on display before the citizenry. It had happened on my orders, a fitting punishment for the criminals who had masterminded the assassinations of the emperor and crown prince. But at the end of the day, the true reason they’d met such grisly ends was simply because I’d beaten them at their own game.

If we lost to the Raul army at Chelán Hill, our destination, I might well end up the same way. As the saying went, whatever happened to someone else today could happen to you tomorrow. To avoid that, I needed to stay on my toes and make the best possible choice at every turn.

I also had to keep in mind that I’d spent my entire life so far acting like a fool in order to survive. But now that that was no longer necessary, I could not let the people decide that I was an actual fool, for reasons too obvious to need explanation. Worst case, I could vanish into history as rust on a guillotine, just like the aristocracy during the French Revolution. If I wanted to rid myself of my reputation as a fool, I needed to play a new role: that of an exceptional emperor. That was one reason I had departed the imperial capital at the head of an army.

Suddenly, our marching column came to a halt. I realized that we’d come far enough that the cheers from the imperial capital were no longer audible. From atop my mount, however, I couldn’t see any immediate problems.

“Why have we stopped?” I asked.

“The soldiers are taking a water break,” Timona explained. “Doing so while marching might cause the column to fall into disarray.”

“That was quick,” I noted.

I was no expert, but apparently, the basics of marching were to ensure everyone carried out the same actions at the same time. Case in point, our soldiers were walking in time with the signals being given by the column’s pipers. It was a far cry from the perfect coordination of the military marches I’d seen in parades on modern-day Earth, but function was likely more of a concern here than form.

“It is summer,” Timona said, by way of explanation.

My coronation had happened at the end of the fifth month of the calendar year, and we were now nearing the end of the seventh, having spent the time in between on military drills, planning, and other preparations. So while summer in this part of the world wasn’t as hot as it was in Japan, many among our traveling column were knights or soldiers in service to a lord, and thus were clad in metal armor. Frequent breaks were a small price to pay if they curtailed the risk of heatstroke.

For reference, the majority of infantry were equipped relatively lightly, and hardly any of it was uniform. Some wore leather armor, while others wore none at all. Evidently, unlike with the weapons we’d provisioned them, armor was one’s individual responsibility.

According to the generals, providing armor to our soldiers would simply result in a decent number of them selling it off before we even made it to the battlefield. After all, you couldn’t stab the other guy without a sword, but you could without armor. From a commander’s perspective, since having one’s soldiers sell off official provisions wasn’t the best look, it was common military practice for a footman to provide for themselves defensively.

Incidentally, I was wearing armor too, albeit only on the upper half of my body, not including the sleeves. Basically, picture a breastplate. What was more, it was a custom article, made to be relatively light and thin while maintaining enough durability to serve its purpose. It kind of felt like I was wearing a bulletproof vest. Fitting, for a VIP like the emperor.

Apparently, the recent trend was to wear armor that only covered a portion of the body, rather than a full set. Since firearms existed in this world—albeit still only at the level of matchlock rifles—heavy armor would only impair one’s mobility and, with only a handful of exceptions, paradoxically make you a softer target. After all, when bullets hit metal armor, more often than not it was the former that came out on top.

Thus, generally speaking, armor was kept to the bare minimum necessary to protect oneself from melee weaponry and designed to focus on ease of movement. That said, you were still strapping hunks of metal to yourself, under which you were wearing clothes, so the heat was still a major concern. Just not for me; I was secretly using heat manipulation magic to keep myself pleasantly cool.

Speaking of my magic, my ability to detect the presence of others had taken a huge hit to its efficacy. After much trial and error throughout my childhood, one of the magical tricks I had learned was to detect living things via the use of heat absorption. While ordinarily it was a convenient spell that allowed me to sense people through walls and such, since the detection worked by comparing the difference between a heat signature and the temperature of the air, its accuracy dropped as the conditions became hotter. In short, summer was my natural enemy.

Another contributing factor was the number of people around me. Amid a literal army like this, there was simply too much information for me to process in a timely manner.

In light of this, I was maintaining a Custor—a magical barrier—around me at all times, so that I wouldn’t get caught off guard by a surprise attack. I wasn’t sure whether it would stop a bullet completely dead, but it would at the very least kill a majority of its momentum.

The sudum guns in common use throughout the Empire didn’t have rifled barrels. If you weren’t familiar with the term, rifling referred to the grooves etched into the interior of a firearm’s barrel, which imparted spin onto bullets and helped them fly straight. Rifling ensured that, up to a certain distance, you could comfortably rely on your weapon delivering your bullets where you pointed them.

In other words, the typical guns of this world had poor accuracy over long distances. If memory served, the matchlocks of my previous world had needed to be fired from around thirty meters or less if one wanted to be sure of their aim. The sudums likely had a similar effective range. And as luck would happen to have it, that was just about the range the imperial guard could cover for me.

As a final point of note, even if my Custor failed to stop the bullet dead, I could always be stabilized with healing magic, so long as I didn’t die from the initial wound. Being the emperor put me at the top of the priority list for treatment.

Salomon de Barbetorte, who was nearby, appeared to have picked up on my exchange with Timona. “Shall I urge them to make haste?” he asked.

Although Salomon was accompanying us, he was, strictly speaking, a member of the Belvérian royal family, rather than of the imperial army. The Kingdom of Belvére was a small country whose geographic position forced it into frequent conflict with its neighbor. It was also the homeland of my betrothed, Rosaria.

“No need,” I said. “We entrusted all marching particulars to Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray. We take no issue with his command.”

Salomon, who was here in the Empire as part of the support the Kingdom of Belvére had provided, had brought with him a unit of fifty or so mages. While you might initially think them insignificant due to their number, mages were rare to begin with, much less a unit of fifty of them. In addition, Salomon’s mages were the cream of the crop—watching them operate clearly illustrated the difference between a well-oiled mage unit and a simple group of soldiers with a passing grasp of magic. They even had live combat experience, won during their time fighting for Belvére. Paired with Salomon in command, they represented a vital military asset for us.

Having said that, it would’ve been a waste for a commander of Salomon’s talents to only oversee a unit of fifty, so I planned on giving him another one hundred and fifty soldiers to command once we reached Chelán Hill. These would consist of the magic-capable individuals we’d discovered while recruiting laborers or conscripting soldiers. Most of them couldn’t manage anything fancy or powerful, so we’d only taught them a few simple spells. Of course, by “we,” I meant Salomon, who’d been in charge of their training.

These one hundred and fifty mages weren’t actually a part of our traveling column. Since we’d prioritized teaching them magic, they hadn’t undergone any military training, and since we couldn’t delay all of our plans just for them, they’d be departing the capital at a later date, as part of the final column headed for Chelán Hill. As long as they could make it by the day of the battle, we’d probably be able to manage. Incidentally, they’d be under a heavier watch than usual as they traveled, to prevent any from deserting.

“Besides,” I said. “If you were to go, who would maintain our barrier?”

Salomon also knew that I was capable of magic, something I wished to keep a secret as much as possible. That was why, during this march, we were passing off all of my spellcasting as his.

Why hide it, you ask? Simple. If, for example, another country were to send a mage assassin after me, they’d send someone more powerful than I was if they knew I was capable of magic. But if they didn’t know, chances were they’d send someone more expendable. After all, training a highly capable mage took time and money—especially if you planned to utilize them as an assassin.

In that regard, I was extremely grateful that the Kingdom of Belvére had sent us such precious assets.

“We’re moving,” Timona reported.

It seemed the water break was over. Timona led my mount forward by the reins, in step with the imperial guard around me. We had brought them out of the imperial desmesne to serve as my personal guard escort. Led by their commander, Balthazar Chevillard, from the front, they were roughly a hundred in number.

The primary purpose of the imperial guard was to safeguard the emperor, so you might wonder why there were only a hundred of them. Well, that was because during the span of years when I had still been a puppet, they had been hollowed out and left to rot. The imperial guard had become a tool for the nobility to add to their prestige, and positions had been sold to blue-blooded heirs who couldn’t protect a sack of grain from a mouse.

Of course, the Chancellor and his cronies selling the positions had realized that it would be a massive issue if, in the unlikely event I was attacked, all of my guards froze up like the pack of incompetents they were, so they had tossed a few actual seasoned soldiers into the mix as well. These were the ones we’d brought along to be my guard escort.

So while their numbers weren’t particularly impressive, I could at least count on them to know their way around a fight.

Our host continued along the highway, taking frequent breaks as we advanced. At Chelán Hill, we would meet and engage the army of the Chancellor’s son, who had assumed the title of Duke Raul. That said, we wouldn’t be making the journey in a single day, but rather over several, either lodging for the night at settlements along the way or camping under the stars. Apparently, the whole thing had been planned out, so the towns and cities we’d be staying in knew we’d be coming.

As we marched, I simply sat atop my horse and let Timona lead it along. I was making a conscious effort to do nothing. After all, I had entrusted command of this march to Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray.

Make no mistake, though—this was very much the emperor’s host. The moment I gave any command, I knew Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray would do his best to consider it, if not obey it outright. I also knew that if I did that, we might as well toss the entire concept of a chain of command out the window. I could not even begin to count the number of historical examples I knew of royalty sticking their amateur noses into military affairs and achieving nothing but sowing confusion. Hence the impression I was doing of an insensate block of wood, devoid of any desires.

“Your Majesty!” A horseman approached from farther up the column.

“Balthazar,” I said. “Are you certain you should be leaving your command?”

“It should be no issue, Your Majesty,” assured Balthazar, battalion commander of the imperial guard, as he deftly steered his mount to my side. “The guard are well trained enough to maintain formation without me breathing down their—” He paused, clearing his throat. “Without me there to lead them,” he finished.

“Did something happen, then?”

“A number of farmers have gathered farther up the highway—they’re hoping to catch a glimpse of you, Your Majesty. Should we get them to bugger o—” Balthazar interrupted himself again. “Should we shepherd them away?”

Ah. Hmm. “Leave them be,” I decided. “They’ll be of no hindrance to us.”

The citizens of the imperial capital had, for the time being, welcomed me as their ruler. Some of that sentiment had probably trickled out to the farmers in the region, but even if it hadn’t, it wasn’t like I was about to walk into a group of bloodthirsty killers. In the highly unlikely event they did attack, I had more than enough protection to fend off a small group, and in all probability, they likely just wanted to see something rare. It was no skin off my back to be the panda at the zoo for them as we marched past.

“Understood, Your Majesty. If you’ll excuse me.” Balthazar spun his mount around and rode off at an energetic trot.

“Is it just me, or does he seem a lot more chipper than usual?” I whispered to Timona, low enough that it wouldn’t reach Balthazar’s ears. I remembered the imperial guardsman being a lot more listless, high-strung, and on edge back in the imperial demesne. As if he had felt cramped in its confines.

“Sir Balthazar began his service on the front lines, as a sworn retainer to his liege lord,” Timona explained.

So the guy was actually looking forward to returning to the domain of blood, death, and gunsmoke? He wasn’t secretly one of those bloodthirsty maniac types, was he?

Before long, people in peasant garb began to come into view, sprinkled along the highway in ones and twos. There were those who bowed and scraped with a sincerity only manageable from those who were truly convinced of my divinity, those who prostrated themselves but snuck glances when they thought they could get away with it, and children who hid behind their parents’ backs as they stared at the procession. No two reactions were the same. I took that to mean that none of it was feigned.

Perhaps distracted by their audience, the new conscripts began to lose their marching formation. I heard the angry bellows of platoon commanders from elsewhere in the column. Mentally, I shrugged—you couldn’t really expect much more from soldiers who had been ordinary citizens merely a scant few weeks ago. Even to my eyes, they looked like total amateurs, not really equipped to do much more than ready a spear or aim a gun.

Incidentally, the current, most common type of firearm in this world was the muzzle-loaded, smoothbore type. In other words, muskets, some of them matchlocks, such as the sudums our host was equipped with. Matchlocks had spread throughout Japan during the Sengoku period, and unlike automatic rifles, required the wielder to take a number of steps to fire them.

First, the firearm needed to be stood straight up, with its muzzle pointed into the air. The wielder would proceed to load the firearm with gunpowder and a bullet by using a rod to push it into the muzzle and down the barrel. Then they would return the firearm to a horizontal position before filling the flash pan with gunpowder and lighting the fuse, which was usually a piece of flammable rope or twine. Lastly, they would aim the weapon at their target and pull the trigger.

The way the mechanism worked was that the trigger pull would cause the fuse to make contact with the gunpowder in the flash pan, igniting it and causing the gun to fire. Afterward, it was also necessary to clean out the barrel with the rod before repeating the process.

In short, it was a pain in the ass and it took the better half of forever. And that wasn’t even getting into the tendency for amateurs to cause accidental discharges at the drop of a hat. We could’ve given every citizen in the imperial capital their own matchlock, ordered them to join us, and not improved our military strength in any meaningful way.

Our new conscripts, however, had been drilled in the proper procedure, trained to hit a target with some degree of accuracy, and familiarized with acting as a unit. Even so, perfection would be a pipe dream; I had no doubt there would be frequent errors.

What’s that, you ask? How could a ragtag group of soldiers who were little better than raw recruits even be useful on the battlefield? Honestly, if it came down to a fair fight on even ground, it likely wouldn’t take much to rout them—especially since none of them had any real combat experience. However, that wouldn’t be a concern for the upcoming battle, since we’d essentially be trapping them in our own defensive encampment on Chelán Hill. Additionally, these were the better of the new soldiers we’d trained and recruited. That was why there were only two thousand of them.

Whether that number seemed large or small probably depended on the person. Though, given the scale of the Empire as a country, it was probably small. There was a reason for this, and it was one I could do nothing about.

When I’d come into power, I’d been forced to start building my own army from scratch. I’d secured the numbers with my public addresses and the weapons through my agreement with the Golden Sheep Trading Company. However, that still left a gaping hole in the form of commanding officers.

One could not simply gather a whole heap of soldiers, label it an army, and call it a day. Aside from a general to take overall command, you needed officers of varying ranks to direct the army’s many divisions and subdivisions. To use the human body as an analogy, these commanding officers were like the joints—indispensable when it came to executing the commands sent down from the top. Without finger joints, for example, you’d be out of luck using your hands as anything but blunt instruments. It was only when all of the joints in the fingers worked in unison that delicate motor control became possible.

Boiled down, my point was that commanding officers were a crucial part of any army. Without them, our host wouldn’t resemble a united force of soldiers so much as it would a well-armed mob. No matter how superior the number of your soldiers or quality of your weapons were, you could not win a battle without officers to command your troops.

So obviously, having started from zero, I’d had no commanding officers to put in charge. It had taken a lot on my part to finally scrape together the bare minimum, including borrowing officers from Duke Warren’s army and calling upon Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray’s old acquaintances, just to name the big moves I’d had to make. Ordinarily, the positions would have gone to barons or viscounts within the emperor’s directly held territories, but the majority of such individuals had formerly belonged to the Chancellor’s faction or the regency, and thus couldn’t be trusted. To make matters worse, the most talented commanding officers around had long since been headhunted by other nobility to lead their personal forces.

I might have parted the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony from their mortal coils, but it seemed I’d be feeling the consequences of their corruption for a long time to come.

Incidentally, in the Empire, a platoon commander led a unit of a hundred soldiers. From what I’d heard, the rank had different names in other countries, such as a one hundred man commander or centurion. However, if you assumed that having twenty of them would be enough to mobilize a two thousand man army, you’d be wrong. You see, you also needed a second-in-command for each platoon, to take over in case the platoon commander became indisposed (e.g., sick, wounded, or killed in battle) and that alone doubled your officer head count.

As it happened, we had fallen rather short of our quota of seconds-in-command. In plainer terms, we were really pushing it with just two thousand soldiers. Even if we would have the armies of my lords and vassals fighting alongside us, our enemy was the Raul army, famed for its prowess. Victory would be far from easy to achieve.

It was a good thing we had spent a lot of time and resources preparing.

A Certain Inquiry

The hastily assembled emperor’s host, partly due to the tenacious efforts of the platoon commanders, managed to make it into the Duchy of Aphoroa by sundown, as scheduled. Our progress definitely could have been a lot worse.

The Duchy of Aphoroa was east of the County of Pildee, where the imperial capital was located, and Chelán Hill—our destination—was located in Aphoroa’s eastern border region. Incidentally, while it was called a duchy, there was no Duke Aphoroa to go along with it. There had been one during the age of the Rotahl Empire, before the Bundarte Empire had come into being, but now the duchy belonged directly to the throne.

Given that, I supposed it wouldn’t be wrong to call me the current Duke Aphoroa. Alongside my positions as the emperor and the count of Pildee, that made me a triple title holder—though a single individual possessing multiple titles wasn’t as rare as you’d think. Generally, the way it worked was that they went by their highest-ranking title, while the others—known as subsidiary titles—took a back seat. In my case, being emperor of the Bundarte Empire meant that I almost never needed to go by my other titles.

Getting back on topic, though, our host, having traveled its scheduled distance, promptly began setting up camp for the night. The word “camp” might conjure certain preconceived mental images, but save for a few exceptions, the soldiers would basically just be sleeping huddled together atop cloth or dry grass they’d spread across the ground. We did technically have enough tents for everyone, but it was the soldiers’ own responsibility to erect them and pack them away, and to fit everyone, they’d have to squeeze in like sardines. Since it was summer, and it didn’t seem likely to rain, it was actually a lot more comfortable sleeping under the stars.

Naturally, we had tents set up for the injured, the platoon commanders, and so on. I had my own too, reserved for the emperor. What’s that? I should stick with my soldiers as a show of solidarity? Uh, would you be able to fall asleep with the emperor next to you?

Anyway, as the soldiers lit campfires and began preparing their dinners, I was watching Timona care for my horse. He’d volunteered himself for the duty, and since it would have been unwise of me to wander off without his protection, I’d remained close by as I waited. I wasn’t just slacking off. Promise.

As I observed the soldiers at work, a rider approached. Looking over, I saw it was Vera-Sylvie, sitting sidesaddle in her dress.

“Did something happen?” I asked.

“Mr. Barbetorte asked me to take over for him,” she explained.

“Ah, right.” Since Vera-Sylvie was capable of magic, Salomon sending her over while he saw to other matters was a public display of keeping a mage bodyguard around me at all times. I reached my hand out to help her off her mount.

“Thank...you...” she said with a smile as she descended.

Now that I was getting another good look at her, she seemed really ill-matched for this whole army scenario. Here she was, a woman—a young girl, by all appearances—in a dress, traveling with a host of male soldiers. Frankly, she stood out.

Vera-Sylvie seemed to recall something, because she ducked her head into a bow and said, “I’m...sorry.”

I gave her a wry smile, knowing what she was apologizing for. “No... I was at fault too.”

Namely, she was apologizing for forcing her way into our army just before we departed. Although she was a capable mage, I couldn’t for the life of me picture her doing battle. My thoughts always ended up straying to the memory of my first time meeting her, when she’d been captive in her tower.

Vera-Sylvie was initially supposed to have been my father’s third wife. It went without saying that she had never received military training, nor had she ever stepped onto a battlefield. If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t think her spellcasting ability was reason enough to expose her to the dangers of war. I had been furious at my lords, who had hidden their plan to have her join me because they’d known I would object.

However, as the emperor, having Vera-Sylvie come with us was the correct decision. Not for her sake, nor mine, but for Count Chamneau’s.

Since Vera-Sylvie’s father needed to defend his own holdings, he would not be able to participate in the battle at Chelán Hill. Meanwhile, every one of my other lords—well, the ones who’d pledged their allegiance to me, anyway—would be dispatching their own troops to join the effort. This was to assist me, of course, but I’d say the majority of the reason was to secure their postwar rewards for themselves.

I was the emperor, and that meant I had a duty to lay gifts and accolades upon my vassals for their service. Major achievements would earn them land or titles, while lesser ones would earn more minor prizes, such as sums of coin. This process was known as the conferral of honors.

The act of accompanying the emperor into war was as clear-cut of a contribution as it got. With Warren and Ramitead on the field, one might easily assume that the lack of anyone from the comital house of Chamneau would create a disparity in their eventual postwar conferrals. Thus, if Vera-Sylvie managed to accomplish anything at Chelán Hill, Count Chamneau would be able to rest easy. As a noble, that is. As a father, he was likely concerned for his daughter’s safety.

Of course, when it came time to dole out the rewards, I didn’t plan on showing any favoritism. My standard for evaluation wouldn’t be whether my vassals had fought on the same battlefield as me, but rather how much they had contributed to the emperor and the Empire. It was just that my lords, being unable to read my mind, didn’t know that.

Additionally, Vera-Sylvie would also serve as something of a hostage, just like Nadine. I disliked the idea, and personally thought that anyone who was going to betray you would do so regardless of a hostage, but Count Ethaiq and Count Nunvalle’s holdings were near Count Chamneau’s. If they could be certain that he wouldn’t try anything while their forces were absent, then that was all the more focus they could put into the battle.

In light of all these factors, there was no reason to refuse Vera-Sylvie. It would mean peace of mind for Count Chamneau, as well as the other nobility. I did think she could have chosen to wear something more practical, but she was a mage, after all. No one had pointed it out in the lead-up to her joining us, so I took that to mean my lords hadn’t seen an issue with it.

Incidentally, I had zero intentions of skimping on the accolades I’d be doling out to my lords. Since this was a civil war and we had a just cause backing us, I could simply confiscate the land and wealth of our opponents and redistribute them to the lords who’d allied with me. I wouldn’t have to sacrifice anything from my personal stash, so to speak.

Well, if I had been inclined to be more miserly, I’m sure I could have skimmed off the top. However, the fact of the matter was that I couldn’t maintain the upkeep costs for any additional land, given my current resources and level of authority. Plus, hoarding too much territory would only incite discontent among my lords—and as matters stood, I would rather increase their influence by giving them more territory than give them reason to be dissatisfied with me.

Hmm? What’s to say that wouldn’t result in the second coming of the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony, you ask? Well, all the borderline neurotic fussing I was doing over each and every detail to ensure it wouldn’t, for one. Honestly, that was probably an accurate one-line job description for being an emperor. What a pain in the behind.

But I digress. If Vera-Sylvie was going to accompany the emperor’s host as a noblewoman, then it was my duty to treat her accordingly. I understood that very well. Yet, on a purely human level, I couldn’t help but be concerned for her safety.

“You’re determined to do this?” I asked.

There was no hesitation in Vera-Sylvie’s reply. “I am,” she said.

“Very well, then.”

Being fair, Salomon of all people had claimed that she’d be a useful military asset. And it wasn’t like simply keeping her away from the front lines would guarantee her well-being.

Vera-Sylvie looked relieved to hear my response. A thought occurred to me. “I didn’t know you could ride,” I remarked. Her mount stood next to us, waiting obediently.

“But I can’t,” she said, cocking her head.

I almost wanted to mirror the movement. What did she mean, she couldn’t ride? Unable to help myself, I pointed at her mount. It was neither a donkey nor a pony, but a fully grown adult hor— And that was when I noticed something was off. When Vera-Sylvie had dismounted—no, the whole time she’d been riding, in fact—she hadn’t been holding on to the reins, because there were none. On top of that, the horse seemed far too docile; it hardly even moved. It flicked its tail and ears occasionally, but that was quite literally all. Don’t tell me it’s a spell construct? I thought.

Vera-Sylvie seemed to have discerned my thought process, because she said, “That’s not a horse.” She opened its mouth, and where there should have been teeth and a tongue, there was only a hollow cavity, enclosed by something akin to packed dirt. “See?”

“It’s a golem?” I said, somewhat incredulously.

“I’m too scared of real horses to ride them.”

If I was getting this right, then Vera-Sylvie had created a spell construct in the spitting image of a horse, and was even directing it to act like one. Even now, it was staring at us while flicking its tail, just like a real horse would. If she hadn’t pointed it out, I honestly never would have noticed.

Ah. That explained why she’d had no problems wearing a dress, or riding sidesaddle. I’d thought she had been protecting herself against the bumps and jolts of riding with magic, but evidently there hadn’t been much to protect against in the first place. Although that just prompted a different question.

“You could’ve chosen any shape for a mount, couldn’t you?” I said. “Why go to the extra effort?”

“Because it’s cute,” she said, stroking the pseudohorse.

Oh, right. I’d known she was a magical prodigy, but I’d almost forgotten that she was the natural kind. Here I was taking into account all these details like efficiency, while she was casting spells going purely on vibes. Talk about feeling inadequate. Though, as a fellow mage, it also inspired a burning sense of curiosity.

“Hypothetically, could you cover it in armor?” I asked.

“Of course,” Vera-Sylvie said, and proceeded to do just that.

“What about giving it eight legs? Could you do that?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Probably not?”

Okay. So that meant it was an issue of imagination. To be fair, I thought the mobility of a horse was highly useful too. It was why I’d developed my Mollis Lutum spell several years ago—a spell that created an obedient construct out of earth for me to direct as I pleased.

However, due to her inability to ride, Vera-Sylvie had created a mount that wouldn’t shake her off so that she could keep up with the march. As spells went, that was highly inefficient.

“Isn’t it not worth the mana?” I inquired.

“It just...takes some time, is all,” Vera-Sylvie said, in a tone that made it clear she was wondering why I’d asked that.

“That’s true,” I conceded, realizing. “I suppose there’s really no need to care about efficiency, in this case.”

Spellcraft in this world was performed by exploiting the ambient mana in the air. People had their own internal reserves too, but pulling in ambient mana was about as simple as using a magnet to gather iron filings, so it was the most common method.

Another key characteristic of this world’s magic was that too much spellcasting in one place would leave the surroundings drained of mana. If you thought of ambient mana as fuel, then this was a simple phenomenon to understand. However, an area would not remain mana-burnt forever. Its ambient levels would eventually recover, given enough time.

In other words, there was, for all intents and purposes, no limit to the aggregate amount of mana a spellcaster had access to (in game terms, this would be your MP). As such, there was also little reason to prefer spells with a more efficient mana expenditure cost. The sole drawback of casting magic that required larger amounts of mana was that they would take more time.

Incidentally, while there was no hard limit to the amount of mana a spellcaster could use, there was a practical limit in the sense that maintaining control became more difficult as the amount of mana increased. Vera-Sylvie’s pseudohorse qualified her as a bona fide monster in the field of spellcasting.

“There are no enemies around to bother us,” I continued. “So I suppose you can cast whatever spells you wish.”

By the way, that drawback I’d mentioned, of higher mana-cost spells taking longer to cast? I wanted to be clear: In battle, that could be the difference between life and death. To illustrate, let’s consider how it applies to adventurers.

Adventurers had migrated to the frozen Northern Continent, where they hunted powerful magical fauna that had long since become extinct on our Eastern Continent. They made their living by exporting the raw materials and reagents gathered from their hunts, which they—as a general rule—conducted in small parties. In such hunts, a slow casting time could be a death sentence, so my understanding was that they preferred fast, efficient magic.

On the other hand, mages who were part of a more formal military—sometimes called battle mages—fought the exact opposite way, trying to maximize their mana expenditure as much as possible. This was because doing so would drain the ambient mana and leave less for the enemy to use as well. In other words, it was kind of a race to the bottom to use it all up before the other guy did. The mentality was prevalent enough that military mages preferred fuel-inefficient spells.

I had witnessed battle mage tactics in action, once. They had called forth monsters with summoning magic to act as shields, filling in for ordinary soldiers. Nothing major, as beasties went, but even monsters the size of a dog demanded attention in an organized charge on the enemy’s position. Infantry would be forced to fight back, and musketeers would be forced to fire. And since the guns of this age weren’t capable of rapid fire, this would impose a significant delay on the enemy’s offense—a delay that could be exploited by cavalry or footmen to make an advance. It was a simple attrition tactic that gave the battle mages’ mundane comrades the upper hand. Apparently, such methods had become part of every nation’s military playbook once firearms became commonplace.

The other primary battle mage tactic in common use consisted of slinging potent spells from amid the ranks of the infantry. This one was an old stratagem, and unlike the one I’d just gone over, focused directly on wreaking havoc and sowing chaos on the enemy to create an opening for an infantry or cavalry charge. The idea was to use one’s own footmen as shields for the mages. The trouble, of course, was maintaining the correct distance; beyond a certain point, a mage’s control over their spells dropped off considerably, and any attempt to close the gap for a close-range magic assault was bound to invite a faceful of arrows or bullets. Once cannons entered the tactical equation, they’d largely displaced mages from their niche as mobile artillery.

Of these two tactics, the former’s drawback was that you didn’t get much bang for your buck in terms of mana expenditure, since even modestly sized monsters were expensive to summon and, while disruptive, wouldn’t reduce the enemy’s numbers much. The latter tactic’s drawbacks were that it could easily be defended against by barrier magic, and the mana expenditure required to ensure offensive spells actually reached the enemy could sometimes be exorbitant. Of course, that last point could also be seen as a benefit, due to the whole aforementioned “use it or lose it” mentality.

Anyway, what I was getting at was that this was the fundamental battle doctrine drilled into this world’s battle mages. And it seemed that much of the nobility—who were often officers or situated in other commanding roles—subscribed to it as well.

In contrast, my fighting style was probably closer to an adventurer’s. One of my most commonly used spells, Flamma Lux, was a good example. I favored it because it converted mana to heat energy in a fast, energy-efficient manner, allowing me to fire it off quickly.

My development of the spell had probably been influenced by my assumption that I’d be doing magical combat within the confines of mana-sealing wards—magical equipment that created antimagic zones where they were installed. By freezing the ambient mana within them, the wards could essentially jam a mage’s spellcasting ability. However, I could still manage to cast by forcibly expelling my internal mana and channeling it in the split second before it froze. Hence my frequent use of the swift Flamma Lux. Since overusing my internal mana caused me to faint, I wanted to keep my expenditure rate at low as possible.

Thus far, I had yet to come across another mage capable of using the same method to cast under mana-sealing wards, which went a ways toward explaining the widespread belief that a battle mage’s job was done when the ambient mana ran out.

Hang on. Something I couldn’t quite place was prodding at my memory. It felt like a small bone had gotten caught between my teeth...

Ah, whatever. I’d probably remember whatever it was later.

“What other magic can you do?” I asked, realizing that I was rather unfamiliar with Vera-Sylvie’s repertoire. We hadn’t been able to meet when I’d gone out on my tours, and even when we had met, we’d mainly gotten caught up in idle chitchat. And ever since she’d been released, I’d been busy with war preparations.

Vera-Sylvie began to list things off. “I can make vines grow,” she said. “Produce water. Ask birds for favors. Things like that. And...carry heavy things too, I suppose.”

Hmm. Well, that was all stuff I knew—or was pretty sure—I was awful at. So this was what they called being a natural, huh? There was no way I’d ever manage to magically communicate with animals, that was for sure.

“I also...practiced the magic...you showed me,” she said. “I’m not very good...at it, though.”

“The magic I showed you?” I repeated. I didn’t know what she meant, specifically—when she’d still been imprisoned, I’d demonstrated a number of different spells in the process of teaching her magic. Actually, on that topic... “By the way,” I said. “Back when you were in the tower—did you notice anything strange about the iron bars in your window?”

Vera-Sylvie’s old cell was now being used to imprison the regent. Uh, former regent. I had the vague memory of melting the iron bars, once, then hurriedly cooling them back into shape—a rather shoddy job, all told. Looking back, I was certain my physical youth must have influenced my behavior. So if you’d told me that it was my fault that the bars had weakened, well, at the very least, I wouldn’t be able to deny the possibility.

“Why...do you ask?”

I launched into a rundown of the recent tower-related incident.

On account of her despotism and general tyranny, I had imprisoned Acretia, my biological mother, much as I had the rest of the regency. Her cell, in particular, was the same tower in the imperial demesne where she’d imprisoned Vera-Sylvie. However, Count Copardwahl, Acretia’s lover, had chosen to undergo castration if it meant he could be with her in captivity, abandoning his life as a noble in the name of love. Now, if I’d ended the story there, it’d be a real tearjerker romance, wouldn’t it? Uh, except for maybe the “lover” part. That part wasn’t so pure.

The problem was, Acretia had recently pushed Count Copardwahl from the tower’s window, sending him plummeting to his death. Naturally, doing that to your lover who’d undergone castration and imprisonment just to be with you was difficult to explain as anything other than a catastrophic lapse in reason. It had also added more worries to my plate that I really didn’t need, since now I had to change my plans for the count’s holdings.

Strictly speaking, though, it was still unclear whether it had been intentional or an accident. We certainly hadn’t had the time to conduct a thorough investigation. Every window in the aforementioned tower had iron bars installed as a suicide prevention measure, with the exception of one, where they had come loose, which was allegedly the window Count Copardwahl had fallen out of. The problem was, that was the same window I’d broken in through that one time.

From what I recalled, the window was definitely large enough to fit a person through—albeit an adult would definitely have to curl up. An interesting point of note, though, was that the iron bars hadn’t been pulled out cleanly or removed with the frame, but broken in a similar manner to when I’d melted them. That, or they’d been blown out by a bomb or something.

Additionally, while there was something of a simple balcony outside of the window, part of that had been destroyed too. An explosion that had been heard near the tower that lined up with the timing of the incident. For the record, no traces of gunpowder had been found.

Given the circumstantial evidence, the most likely theory was that an explosive magical device had been smuggled in and used to blast open the iron bars that had been weakened by my slapdash repairs, leading to the count’s demise. Not that any trace of such a device had been found. But what with the count falling to his death right after the sound of an explosion, it really did seem to be the best fit.

I had no doubt the case would go cold. It wasn’t like we had detectives or policemen around in this era. What about the suspect’s testimony, you ask? Well, as you can imagine, Acretia was keeping her lips tightly zipped.

That about covered the evidence and the deductions I’d made so far, all of which I brought Vera-Sylvie up to speed on. Incidentally, not much focus was being spared for figuring out the methods used to perpetrate the incident. Neither the Count Palatine nor the rest of my lords seemed to care overmuch about how exactly the murder was done. I couldn’t help but be curious, though, which was why I was asking Vera-Sylvie for her two cents.

Her answer ended up being rather absurd. “Maybe she...got emotional...and used magic,” she suggested.

“That couldn’t be—she was under mana-sealing wards,” I reminded. “I know you could manage it, but ordinarily, spellcasting is impossible within that tower. Besides, I’ve never heard anything about her being able to use magic.”

Acretia being magically capable would neatly explain the explosion, the iron bars, as well as the lack of any sort of device found in the aftermath. However, that was one hell of an initial premise to swallow.

“But she should...have the talent,” Vera-Sylvie said adamantly.

“For magic?” I asked. “What makes you think that?”

Vera-Sylvie proceeded to explain that previous generations of the imperial family had taken a proactive approach to mixing mage bloodlines with their own. That, I could understand. Historically, the capability for magic was closely linked to being of the nobility, to say nothing of the fact that magic itself was a symbol of power.

This had led to the imperial family absorbing mage bloodlines to retain its influence and authority, as well as the common practice of selecting an empress consort from such bloodlines—though, whether she was actually capable of spellcraft or not was often ignored as a concern. Regardless, this meant that every empress consort to date had either been magically capable themselves, or had belonged to an attested magical bloodline.

“That was why I was...chosen to be the crown prince’s wife,” Vera-Sylvie finished. “And why Lady Rosaria is studying magic.”

It was easy enough to test whether someone had the potential to become a mage with a magical diagnostic tool. That was how we’d discovered our crop of magically capable individuals during the army’s recruitment effort. However, possessing the potential was very different from actually being able to cast a spell. You see, the difference sprang entirely from the subject in question’s imagination, or rather the limits thereof. It was why there were so many grimoires out there that listed dozens of practice methods for or ways to mentally picture a single spell.

Would-be mages also faced another hurdle when it came to the very first step of sensing ambient mana. I’d picked up on it quickly, since I’d noticed there was something in the air that I’d never felt back on Earth, but others didn’t have the benefit of that comparison to help them. Apparently, there were quite a few people who had the potential to be mages, but couldn’t because they lacked the mana perception.

In Vera-Sylvie’s case, although she had never used much magic, she’d become the crown prince’s wife because she’d possessed the potential. It was only after she’d been imprisoned that her talent for spellcasting had truly blossomed. Taking that into account, it didn’t seem too unlikely that Acretia had undergone a similar blossoming after she’d been imprisoned.

Actually, that did make an odd sort of sense. As far as the people of this world went, magic could be considered a type of inherent combat instinct—a part of the “fight” half of “fight or flight.” It stood to reason that exposure to extreme circumstances, such as being imprisoned, could awaken that natural instinct. The fact that Acretia’s father had been the Minister of Ceremony—a descendant of the magically rich Bundartian imperial family bloodline—lent credence to this theory. Not to mention her mother had been a descendant of Ein, the Illuminatus. If that transmigrator in butler’s garb I’d run into all that time ago was anything to go off of, it seemed likely that Ein’s descendants had a strong magical bloodline too. Everything seemed to point toward Acretia having significant latent talent for magic.

Damn it, why had no one ever told me about this? Well, probably because it was considered common knowledge among this world’s aristocracy, now that I thought about it. In fact, did that mean that so long as royalty and nobility kept marriages among themselves, we’d basically never run out of mage bloodlines?

If I assumed Vera’s conjecture was correct, and Acretia had awakened as a mage within mana-sealing barriers, that meant the former regent was capable of escaping whenever she wanted. No, wait—that wasn’t true. If it were that easy, Vera-Sylvie would’ve managed it a long time ago. There were still the guards and all the surveillance in the way. Nevertheless, I would have to keep an eye out so that Acretia didn’t create even more hassles for me to deal with.

It really would have been a lot easier just to kill her.

Following the mage hypothesis, though, led me to another question. “Why did she become emotional, then?” I grumbled. “What drove her to kill the count? I cannot fathom in the slightest what she was thinking.”

“Maybe she wasn’t thinking at all,” Vera-Sylvie suggested. She went on to claim that Acretia had no desire to provoke my anger. Nor did she bear a grudge against me for imprisoning her, apparently.

Personally, I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. She had been one of my foremost puppetmasters!

“I think, just because...she didn’t know how...to love you...” Vera-Sylvie said, her words gradually losing confidence until they became nothing more than a whisper. “Doesn’t mean...she didn’t...love you at all...”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No...”

Well, I’d figured as much. Vera-Sylvie hadn’t come into contact with Acretia for the last decade. This had to be her own opinion—an opinion with no basis, I would add. The former regent had abandoned me to devote herself to the child she’d had with her extramarital lover. To claim that she loved me stretched the bounds of belief.

There was no hard evidence that she was capable of magic, regardless. All of this had been nothing but speculation. I could’ve thought as hard as I wanted about how she’d done it, and I would probably never get the answer.

It seemed that, ultimately, the conclusion I’d reached matched that of my lords. Given the existence of magic in this world, the “howdunit” really didn’t matter all that much.

As for how I would deal with the fallout, I’d think about it another time. You know, come to think of it, Acretia was the person responsible for imprisoning Vera-Sylvie for so long. The young magical prodigy had to have the heart of an angel, if she was trying to defend her.

Nevertheless, it seemed that Vera-Sylvie had nothing more to say, leaving us to lapse into a long silence.

At the Campground

In the end, the awkward mood between us persisted until Vera-Sylvie headed for the nearby town. Unlike the rest of us, she wouldn’t be spending the night at camp.

When an army was on the march, it was common for its nobility, or the emperor, to stay in nearby villages, cities, or churches. As a general rule, large settlements were often governed by viscounts or barons, and this was no exception for the Duchy of Aphoroa. Naturally, this meant that they could offer up their residences for a night.

Both Vera-Sylvie and Nadine would be staying in the nearby town, where they would have access to luxuries such as toilets, water, kitchens, and most importantly of all, beds. Since they weren’t accustomed to sleeping in the embrace of mother nature, it was best to avoid causing them any unnecessary stress.

Oh, me? I had refused the option, choosing instead to stay in a tent. Despite appearances, I had a lot of experience with camping, owing to my tours of the Empire. In fairness, my retinue had brought a simple bed along for me for those, as well as enough cooking equipment to basically serve as a mobile kitchen. That was what you got when your tours were noble-led and noble-funded. Nature’s lack of conveniences could only be compensated for so much, though, which was why I’d been impressed that Rosaria had come along and used a tent.

Incidentally, we hadn’t brought any such luxuries along for this march. They’d only get in the way, and if I had been inclined to have them, it would’ve been more efficient to stay with the local nobles anyway.

Long story short, I’d be roughing it just as much as our soldiers: simple food, whatever cloth that could be scrounged up to use as a bedroll, and water from nearby rivers that had been filtered—to an extent—and boiled. The latter in particular took time and effort, which meant there was only a fixed amount to go around. And finally, a hole dug in the ground in lieu of a toilet.

Why had I chosen to stay at the camp, you ask? Well, because I trusted the nobility about as far as I could throw them. I mean, staying the night at the home of someone who’d been a lapdog of the Chancellor until two months ago? Are you joking? Even Vera-Sylvie and Nadine weren’t staying with the nobility, but at one of the town’s inns.

On the surface, the nobles I was talking about had returned to my service—which was a paradoxical statement if you thought about it, because being the governors of the territories directly under my control, they never should have been out of my service. Nevertheless, that meant I was forced to play along with their token attempts to curry favor with me.

“Surely there is no need for Your Majesty to subject yourself to such austerity? Please, grace my mansion with your presence. The quality of my table may be a far cry from the fine cuisine of the imperial demesne’s kitchens, but my family and I would spare no effort to ensure your comfort.”

“And should Your Majesty feel disinclined toward the good viscount’s mansion, what of my church? I will have the nuns see to your every need—meals and otherwise.”

The stooges I was currently dealing with were a local petty official—a viscount who had belonged to the Chancellor’s faction, despite ostensibly being in charge of one of the throne’s territories—and a far too materialistic sacerdos—a priest—who had climbed the ranks by kissing the boots of Georg V, the former Archprelate of the Western Orthodoxy who’d been sentenced to death.

Oh, the stooges’ names? Why would I ever need to remember those? I was more concerned with why the sacerdos was talking like the church was his private property. Not to mention how his comment about my “other needs” had to be a low-key way of offering me women. I made a mental note to report the guy to Daniel de Piers later.

“As you can see, our army has many soldiers armed with guns,” I said, reiterating the initial reason I’d refused them in the first place. “As such, we would prefer to ensure they all may stay the night under a roof. However, neither your town nor your church has the capacity to house seven thousand soldiers.”

Since matchlock firearms required you to light a fuse to fire them, moisture could affect their performance. They wouldn’t become unusable, of course, but I wanted to optimize our chances wherever possible. Providing roofs and beds for our soldiers also had the added benefit of letting us dangle a carrot in front of our new conscripts, which was why for this march, we’d be putting up the best-performing platoons in the towns we’d be staying near. Hopefully that would cut back on today’s sloppy marching formations as time went on.

More specifically, we’d be lodging the soldiers in inns or civilian homes. The nobles had refused to lend their residences; likewise with the clergy and their churches. In fact, the latter’s doors were basically closed to everyone short of me. It was evident that they still didn’t understand the position they were in.

Maybe that was inevitable, though. The survivors of Georg’s faction had adopted a policy of waiting in an opportunistic limbo, since the top seat of the Western Orthodoxy was still being fought over—and rather intensely, at that.

After the Archprelate, the highest three authorities in the denomination were the prelate liturgia, the prelate scriba, and the prelate officium. The last role was currently occupied by Daniel de Piers, one of Ein’s Storytellers, which said a lot about the Western Orthodoxy’s modern vetting practices, since the Storytellers didn’t buy into the denomination’s beliefs to begin with.

For all that, the Western Orthodoxy’s clergy had a dogged obsession with power and influence. And since Georg V had been reduced to ash on a pyre, the top spot was open. At the moment, the prelate liturgia and prelate scriba were fighting tooth and nail over who would get to fill it, while Daniel stood in between as a neutral party and fanned the flames...on my orders.

When it came to politics, there were few things more troublesome than religious authorities with secular influence—especially if their particular vice was greed. Sure, the Western Orthodoxy had been quick to declare their support for me after my coronation, but I knew they were nothing more than self-serving hyenas. The more I could curtail their power, the better, so as far as I was concerned, the prelates could fight each other all they liked. After they’d worn themselves out, I’d crush them both.

After somehow talking the viscount and sacerdos into going away, I joined the platoon commanders for their meal. Timona still poison tested it for me, of course. Honestly, I would’ve preferred to join the rank and file, but that probably would’ve just set them on edge.

I couldn’t read minds, so I couldn’t say for sure how the platoon commanders felt about it, but I was pretty sure I’d left a good impression. And given how I’d probably be giving them orders at some point, they’d probably be easier to swallow if they came from someone they were familiar with.

It seemed that a certain someone, however, had taken issue with how I’d spent my mealtime.

“That sacerdos came to me,” Nadine grumbled as soon as she stepped into the command tent. “He was blathering some complaint about transgressions against God’s teachings, or something or other. Frankly, he was quite the nuisance.”

The command tent was the largest tent in our encampment, and being the place where my lords convened to discuss military matters, had been furnished with several plain desks and chairs.

“He also came as far as the tent’s entrance to protest,” Salomon said. Evidently, he’d seen the disgruntled sacerdos as well. “With such energy available to him, one would think he had better matters to spend it on.”

It seemed that the materialistic clergyman was the persnickety type, with how much running around he’d been doing. Incidentally, he had been escorted away by the imperial guards. If they kept doing good work like that, I’d consider giving them an employee of the month award.

As for why a clergyman who looked like he cared about nothing except power had come to protest, that had to do with First Faith doctrine.

During the Middle Ages in Europe, it had been common to eat food with your hands, rather than using cutlery such as spoons or forks. I’d even read historical anecdotes that some people had used dried bread in place of plates. Apparently, this practice had stemmed from religious beliefs, with the clergy of the time espousing the idea that only human hands should touch food, and that using tools would be an act of sacrilege. Or at least, I was pretty sure I’d heard something along those lines, at some point.

I didn’t really “get” it, since I wasn’t a Christian, but my best guess at the reasoning was: Since humans were God’s creations, eating with one’s hands was fine, but eating food—also one of God’s creations—with tools made by human hands was no bueno. It was a shame I no longer had access to any search engines or reference materials that would let me confirm it.

In this world, however, spoons, forks, and plates were all in common usage. When I’d recently been reborn here, I’d rationalized it by thinking, “Well, it’s an alternate world,” but in actuality, it was due to the influence of the First Faith. Apparently, the Illuminatus, Ein, had been quite clear about the “proper conduct” of using tableware, washing one’s hands before a meal, and table manners in general. It seemed that in this world, there was no need to worry about catching a knife in the hand in a fight over meat, and murder would still be considered murder, even when seven or more people got together for a meal.

We had the First Faith to thank for the propagation of flush toilets and the common practice of bathing too. All praise the mighty Ein. Granted, it was also a testament to the sheer influence that religion could possess.

Getting back on topic, though, the point was that the acts of using tableware, not eating with one’s hands, and splitting food from shared platters onto personal plates before eating were considered righteous conduct. Conversely, that meant that doing the opposite could be considered to be acting against God’s teachings. This was the position that the Western Orthodoxy had taken.

However, an army on the march could not afford to observe these practices. I mean, what were we going to do—issue every soldier their own personal tableware? Yeah, right. They ate with their hands, and if the meal happened to be soup, they took turns passing a ladle around. Unless they were the emperor, in which case they had the simply egregious privilege of possessing their own bowl of soup and spoon.

Once, during one of my tours, a noble had warned me against eating porridge made by farmers because it would “dirty” me. But what he hadn’t done was make any accusations of impiety, since the farmers had been eating with bowls and spoons. This time, however, our soldiers had been using neither.

For someone so obviously concerned with material gain, it seemed that sacerdos had a stick up his behind when it came to doctrine. That was probably why he was so inflexible. I suspected most of his motivation was so he could take some petty revenge, though.

“What does the former minister superior have to say on the matter?” I asked, turning my gaze to Deflotte le Moissan. I didn’t know when, but the ex-clergyman of the Western Orthodoxy had shown up to join our traveling column at some point.

For the record, the Western Orthodoxy had a clearly defined hierarchical structure. Roughly from the top down: prelate, hierarch, presbyter, diocesan, sacerdos, vicar. Of course, there were more granular separations among those, and sometimes their actual influence differed from their rank. An example of the former was the Archprelate and the other prelates, while presbyters and diocesans constituted an example of the latter. From what I knew, it wasn’t uncommon for clergy members to aim to become regional diocesans rather than presbyters in major population centers, since being a big fish in a small pond often came with more benefits than having a technically higher rank but having to answer to a hierarch or some such. The two ranks had shifted close enough that a new term had cropped up recently to refer to them both: minister superior.

In Deflotte le Moissan’s case, aside from being the agent of Daniel de Piers, the prelate officium, he had held the official rank of presbyter.

“It is the shared interpretation of every denomination that such transgressions may be forgiven if they are performed when there is no other choice, and for the sake of protecting one’s family,” Deflotte said. “As war would fall under that category, there is no issue.”

While Deflotte had been with the Gotiroir until now to act as a liaison to the imperial capital, it seemed he’d made his return because I had finally made my move. Incidentally, Count Palatine Vodedt wasn’t around right now. Being the spymaster, he often had to disappear to see to other matters. I had a suspicion that Deflotte had chosen the timing of his appearance specifically to avoid his father. He denied it, but it seemed pretty obvious to me.

“That is cold comfort for those of us who had to put up with that fool’s grievances,” Nadine grumbled.

The sacerdos had seemed pretty chauvinistic. It was easy to imagine him believing Nadine would make a more receptive target for his preaching. There were many sacerdotes like him, who mistook their regional churches—which belonged to the Western Orthodoxy—as their own possessions. Still, haranguing the daughter of a duke? I couldn’t tell if he was too jumped-up and blinkered by his power trip to feel fear or was just plain stupid. It impressed me that Nadine had put up with him at all.

“Sorry Nadine,” I apologized. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with that.”

She was quiet for a moment before turning her gaze away. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

The First Faith had been founded by Ein, a transmigrator, so rather than pure idealism, there was a lot of practicality baked into its core doctrine, including provisions for exceptional circumstances, such as war. That wasn’t even touching on its aforementioned interest in hygiene and the sheer effort Ein had made to curb discrimination and prejudice right out the gate. As religions went, I personally thought the First Faith was pretty good. The members of the clergy, though? Well. They seemed pretty preoccupied with reproducing the same trajectory you saw in organized religions throughout Earth’s history: A real swell guy got the ball rolling, and then it was all downhill from there.

“How was the soldiers’ fare?” Deflotte asked suddenly.

Today’s meal had been bread—the kind that could keep for a good long while—and relatively fresh meat. According to the platoon commanders, dried meat would start showing up more frequently as time went on, and if provisions ran low, we’d see more porridges and gruels. That happened more often on cross-border expeditions, though, where a supply chain was harder to establish. Chelán Hill was relatively close, so we had little to worry about in terms of our food situation.

“It was excellent,” I said truthfully.

“Oh? So it wasn’t to Your Majesty’s liking?”

It seemed my answer had been taken as sarcasm. “No, it truly wasn’t bad. The taste was much more palatable than we’d expected.”

“That would be Your Majesty’s own achievement, then.”

“Ours?”

“Yes,” Deflotte said. “It appears that wily she-fox... No, I suppose ‘ewe’ would suit her more as a moniker. It appears that she and her associates have taken a liking to you. Thanks to their abundant provisions of pepper, your lords’ soldiers are in excellent spirits. After all, they have experienced military provisions without it. Perhaps it would be wise to make sure they know their good fortune is due to Your Majesty’s efforts?”

Oh, that made sense. I’d taken it for granted since my meals always came seasoned, but there had been pepper added to the provisions today. Another part of the Golden Sheep’s loan, I supposed.

Since canning hadn’t been invented in this world yet, the primary method of storing food was to preserve it in salt. But while that would delay the rotting of meat, it wouldn’t completely stop it, so pepper was used to mask the taste. Hence why it was so popular. Although I’d been reborn in a different world, it seemed that some historical quirks had remained the same.

“We plan to treat the men to alcohol once we reach Chelán Hill,” I revealed. “That should suffice, for now.”

“My apologies for the delay,” said the last of my key vassals to join us as he entered the tent.

“Right,” I said. “Let the war council commence.”

A Fluid State of Affairs

We began with a review of the day’s events, followed by a reevaluation of our expected marching progress. These were part of the preestablished agenda of the council, and since there weren’t any major issues, we proceeded through them swiftly.

Present at the table were myself, of course, as the leader of the emperor’s host, as well as Timona, my personal attendant and secretary. On my left was my cadre of commanders. In order: Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray, deputy general of the emperor’s host; Salomon de Barbetorte, battalion commander of the mage unit; and Balthazar Chevillard, battalion commander of the imperial guard.

For the record, Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray’s title of deputy general was limited to the context of this army only. By all rights, the mantle of command for an army was worn by a full general, and above that were the imperial grand marshals who directed multiple armies simultaneously. It was these ranks that possessed the right of command, which meant—well, the name was self-explanatory. Without it, one could not instruct the imperial army to budge a single finger.

Incidentally, since the private forces of the nobility were just that—private—they followed their lords’ commands and were not considered a part of the imperial army. Thus, while a general occupied the same rank as said lords, they could not issue directives outside the bounds of their own army.

However, imperial grand marshals, in addition to the right of command, also possessed the right of control, which granted them the authority to issue commands to the lords’ armies too. Currently, I had only appointed two imperial grand marshals: Duke Warren and Count Chamneau. That was actually why I’d entrusted the imperial capital to the former; if the need arose, he would be able to direct both his personal forces as well as the city’s garrison.

Incidentally, while I had appointed two imperial grand marshals in order to ensure a decentralization of power, Count Chamneau had been doing his best to avoid association with the role. It was something to do with the hierarchy of the nobility—the kind of unspoken agreement that only those who were a part of it fully understood.

Back in the imperial capital, when we’d held a council involving Count Chamneau via the use of the Chapelier’s earrings, he had addressed Duke Warren as “Your Excellency,” while the duke had addressed him as “General.” In non-blue-blood speak, that meant Duke Warren had been announcing his intent not to view Count Chamneau as an equal, which the count had accepted as though it were perfectly natural.

I’d only realized this after the fact, because nothing had felt wrong about addressing an imperial grand marshal as “General.” After all, aside from the rank, the word was also a universal term to refer to the commander of an army. The count addressing the duke as “Your Excellency” had seemed perfectly natural too, since the latter was of objectively higher rank. But in reality, it had all been a sophisticated and subtle method of establishing pecking order. Nobles were scary, man.

But I digress. My point was, while a general was outranked by an imperial grand marshal, they still had the tremendous authority of being able to command the imperial army. Thus, seeing as Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray was a foreign noble whose family had fled here from the Imperium, it was difficult to appoint him to the role.

Given that he’d been a general in the past, I had honestly wanted to give it to him anyway. However, that was a line that I had to be careful crossing, lest I cause unintended insult to the rest of the nobility.

That was why I had settled for appointing him deputy general. Throughout history, there were many examples of the emperor directly accompanying an army, and when he did, he had absolute command—not even a general could gainsay him. However, whether he was actually competent enough to lead was a different question. An emperor who didn’t know his military ABC’s taking command would only risk exposing himself to danger.

To prevent that, the Empire had created the rank of deputy general—a rank that granted one command of the imperial army as the emperor’s, well, deputy. Of course, since emperors hated being ordered around, the rank had seen little use. Granted, part of that was because unlike olden times, recent emperors tended to avoid the battlefield in the first place.

Incidentally, it had been Charles de Agincarl who’d dredged the rank up from the forgotten corners of history. The Minister of Ceremony’s third son was being quite cooperative with me, despite still being in confinement, and when I’d asked him for his opinion, had recalled the old law that allowed for deputy generals on the spot. Honestly, I was beginning to take a shine to him.

He was the calculating type—the proof of that lay in how he’d discarded essentially his entire life for the sake of self-preservation. That made him someone to keep a close eye on, but it also meant he was highly competent. All the nobles who had come crawling back to me lately only knew how to kiss ass, and each such encounter only made me want to accept Charles into my service even more.

At any rate, that was why I’d appointed Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray deputy general and given him de facto command of the emperor’s host. True to his reputation as an equal to the Twin Champions, everything from his training methods to his command seemed to be remarkably efficient.

Next up was Salomon de Barbetorte, battalion commander of our mage troops. The reason he had the role was simple: Who else was I going to put in charge of our mages? While he was also a foreigner, his case differed from Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray’s in that he was officially participating as a mercenary element, due to our agreement with the Kingdom of Belvére—and the highest rank a mercenary could hold was battalion commander. For obvious reasons, you couldn’t have any random leader of a sellsword band making it to the rank of imperial grand marshal.

I supposed another way to put it was that Salomon was a guest general from an allied country, given the diplomatic significance in his presence. He definitely had the skills to back up the role, and as an experienced commander of battle mages, would be invaluable to have around; all the individuals on the Empire’s side who matched him in skill set were in the service of either Raul or Agincarl already.

Finally, in the furthest seat from me was Balthazar Chevillard, battalion commander of the imperial guard, the force tasked with my personal protection. Since the imperial guard was considered a part of the emperor’s host, and Salomon, who held the same rank on paper, was a visiting general, Balthazar had the least political importance of the three commanders present, hence his position at the table. Not that he particularly seemed to mind.

Incidentally, while the imperial guard was hierarchically subordinate to the emperor’s host, only the emperor could issue orders to its commander. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray; it was just that it was better to be safe than sorry.

Next we came to those sitting on my right. In order, they were Nadine de Van-Warren, daughter of Duke Warren; Hervé de Cédolin, who was the legate of Duke Warren’s forces; and Arnoul de Nunvalle, the commander of Count Nunvalle’s forces.

Nadine, who was a year my junior, was here as Duke Warren’s political stand-in. She’d really grown in the time I hadn’t seen her. I was referring to her height, of course, but also the calm composure that she hadn’t possessed before. She’d overcome her lack of skill with horses too, and was well on her way to becoming a competent rider. She was still a child in some aspects, and her barbed speech made it obvious why she’d earned the moniker “Thorn Princess,” but all of that could probably be bundled up and sold as part of her charm, if you squinted hard enough.

What stood out to me, though, was that unlike Vera-Sylvie, who came off far too unsuited for the battlefield, Nadine seemed to fit into this operation too well. She must have gotten it from her father, career soldier that he was. I wondered if Duke Warren was okay with this. He knew that young noble ladies didn’t ordinarily don armor and stand in formation, right?

That aside, Nadine would be handling several of my duties for me during the course of this conflict, such as being the port of call for any lesser nobility who wouldn’t dare bring their complaints directly to me, acting as my stand-in to be wined and dined by the nobility, and just giving the nobility attention in my name when they needed it in general. If that sounded like she’d drawn the short straw, that was because she had—albeit voluntarily. The sacerdos from earlier might’ve been the first to go to her with his complaints, but he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Honestly, I felt guilty about the whole thing.

Of course, her most significant role was to act as a hostage. Not for my sake, but Duke Warren’s—her presence was a sign from him to the other nobility that he would act in good faith.

You see, our marching column wasn’t a single army; it was a coalition of the forces belonging to the emperor’s faction. As such, Duke Warren, Count Chamneau, and Marquess Ramitead were all keeping a close eye on one another for any sign of betrayal. This wasn’t because there was any bad blood between them—it wasn’t even that any of them were being paranoid. It was the simple fact that since everyone involved was putting their lives and their families’ lives on the line, caution was the norm. Hence why, for the nobility, it was common practice to make a show of good faith in such circumstances.

Next, we came to Viscount Hervé de Cédolin, the legate of Duke Warren’s troops. He was of the same generation as the duke, and according to Nadine, had been his milk brother. And I was only just now realizing that I’d seen him before—Duke Warren had brought him as a guard the first time he’d come to the imperial capital for an audience with me. Hervé de Cédolin hadn’t spoken a word back then, which was why I hadn’t remembered him until getting this chance to examine his face in detail.

In simple terms, Duke Warren had basically sent me his version of Timona. A monumental gesture, for someone who’d seemed so lukewarm when informing me that he’d be sending me “one of his commanders.”

Hervé de Cédolin’s position of legate was, in brief, something of a mix between staff officer and stand-in commander. All of his actions, words, and commands were to be taken as if they were from Duke Warren himself, and every decision he made would be interpreted as being Duke Warren’s will. And since the duke was an imperial grand marshal, that meant that Hervé de Cédolin had the right to temporarily exercise the full authority of an imperial grand marshal too. It was he who was directing Duke Warren’s forces during this march, rather than Nadine.

While the position of legate sounded quite convenient when I described it like that, you actually didn’t see it very often. This was because responsibility for the legate’s actions would fall upon the person who had appointed them. In other words, if the viscount screwed up, Duke Warren would have to take the fall. On the other hand, that Hervé de Cédolin was a legate at all was a testament to the degree of trust between them. Hopefully, that gave you a good picture of the sheer significance of the personnel the duke had decided to send.

Duke Warren’s contribution came in at three thousand five hundred men. I was pretty sure it was the absolute maximum he’d been able to cough up, given that he still needed sufficient numbers to guard his own holdings and the imperial capital, and had several detachments holding the territory of nearby nobility. Not to mention how his duchy was at the Empire’s southern border, neighboring the kingdoms of Apraada, Benima, and Rocourt. As long as there was even a ghost of a chance that they’d try to stick their nose into this conflict, he wouldn’t be able to make cuts to his defenses.

Then we came to the individual who’d arrived last to the command tent: Arnoul de Nunvalle, commander of Count Nunvalle’s forces. Arnoul was the Minister of Finance’s son and, unlike his father, still had a full head of hair. My first impression of him had been that he was a natural-born civil officer, but now that I was getting a closer inspection, I’d have bought it if you tried to convince me he was a military clerk too. He just had that look about him. Maybe it was the apparent lack of the same iron vigor that Duke Warren seemed to have.

I wasn’t familiar with Arnoul de Nunvalle’s level of ability, but I’d heard that the mage archer unit he led was quite famous. As for Count Nunvalle’s forces, they numbered about a thousand. That seemed fair, given that he was a bureaucrat who spent all his time in the imperial capital. I’d never heard of any conflict happening in his holdings either. As I understood it, his personal forces were only at the bare minimum size required to safeguard his county. From another perspective, perhaps his lack of border disputes with other nobility had been what allowed him to remain neutral. And as a final consideration, the County of Nunvalle was technically a part of our front line against Agincarl. While there hadn’t been any developments there in that regard, it had still restricted the number of soldiers the count had been able to contribute.

Finally, standing at the far end of the table across from me was Deflotte le Moissan. Once a member of the clergy, he’d returned to secular life—though he still referred to Daniel de Piers as his mentor. Nevertheless, he lacked an official rank and position, which was why he was standing.

Once the standard agenda had finally been seen to, I directed everyone’s attention to Deflotte. “Now then, Sir Moissan. Would you care to explain to everyone your presence here?”

“But of course, to be the bearer of information, Your Majesty.” Eyes closed as always, Deflotte bowed and began his report. “The Raul army has shifted its course toward Chelán Hill. We estimate their number to be twenty thousand strong.”

＊＊＊

Ever since my coronation, the Raul army had been engaged in conflict at their eastern border with the Gotiroir people, the latter being a minority ethnic group who possessed their own autonomous region within the Empire. They inhabited the highlands at the base of the Heavensreach Mountains, which bisected the Eastern Continent from north to south, and were famed for their hunting ability—both in craggy and forested terrain—for being of relatively short stature, and for being excellent soldiers.

From what I understood, they were renowned on the other side of the Heavensreach as well, and the rumor went that they’d never suffered a defeat. The fact that their autonomy was even recognized by the Empire was a testament to their resilience.

In more recent history, the Gotiroir had been engaged in guerrilla warfare—a specialty of theirs—against the Raul army for some time. It was thanks to their efforts to buy us time that we’d been able to get so many preparations in order.

“The Gotiroir forces are pressing their harassment campaign, but the Raul army is providing little to no response,” Deflotte continued. “It appears they’re willing to abandon their towns and cities in the east and south as they make for Chelán Hill. Naturally, the self-proclaimed Duke Raul is with them.”

Despite their formidable reputation, however, the Gotiroir had a clear weakness: a complete lack of siege weaponry. This was an intentional choice on their part, so as to not draw too much attention from the emperor or imperial nobility, but it meant that taking any settlements of significant size within the Duchy of Raul would be a time-consuming effort. In short, despite their continued unresisted harassment of the Raul army, their job was now essentially finished.

Incidentally, the current, official stance of the emperor was that the current “Duke Raul” was illegitimate, hence the “self-proclaimed” qualifier. This was true of Agincarl as well. In accordance with imperial law, I had exercised the rights afforded to me as emperor and stripped the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony of their courtly titles. It was just that their would-be successors had refused to recognize my decision.

“That’s rather decisive of them,” Salomon commented. “Too decisive, in fact. It’s uncharacteristic.”

He wasn’t wrong. This move by the Raul army was an anomaly in the playbook they’d shown us so far. Given our fortification of Chelán Hill, my direct advance to said fortification, and the pincer we had them in with the Gotiroir, there was no mistaking that every part of the board state had been prepared for the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s eventual arrival. However, abandoning their cities in the south and east was far too extreme, especially after they’d spent the last two months fighting a guerrilla war specifically to protect them.

For the record, the self-proclaimed Duke Raul—otherwise known as the Chancellor’s son—was famed as a dauntless and intrepid commander. Since his father had primarily been based in the imperial capital, it was he who’d been the de facto commander of his house’s forces. An unbeaten, invincible general, loved by his soldiers and guaranteed to become an imperial grand marshal one day.

Or at least, that was the sales copy the Chancellor’s faction had loved to regurgitate before it had become a shadow of its former self. The man’s actual competence was still an unknown variable, but according to Duke Warren, he’d never had command experience during a genuine, full-scale war. And if one simply looked at his track record for this domestic conflict, nothing he’d done had given me cause to feel threatened.

All in all, I certainly wouldn’t be letting my guard down, but I wasn’t especially afraid of him either.

“Perhaps we’ve driven him too far into a corner,” Viscount Cédolin suggested.

“Even if we have, it does not change our plan of action,” I asserted.

Our combined forces for this march fell short of seven thousand. However, Fabio’s—that is, Marquess Ramitead’s—army awaited us at Chelán Hill, along with the Atúr led by Péter Pál, and roughly ten thousand common citizens. That wasn’t all either; the armies of Count Ethaiq and Marquess Mardrusa—numbers TBD—were marching to the hill as well. In total, our numbers would theoretically be superior to the Raul army.

Well, a significant chunk would just be laborers, who were basically decorative ornaments as far as any actual conflict went, but they’d do a decent job as scarecrows to frighten the enemy, if nothing else.

“For the next part of my report, I’d like you all to take a look at this map,” Deflotte said, unfurling a large sheet of parchment.

“What is this?” I asked.

“The current state of the war, according to the aggregate of our information and what imperial intelligence agents have reported,” Deflotte explained, putting a slight emphasis on “our.”

Now that was a surprise. I never would’ve expected the Rotahlian Watchmen to share information with Ein’s Storytellers, given they got along like cats and dogs. Don’t get me wrong—it was a good thing, and it actually would’ve been a problem if they weren’t capable of cooperating at least that much, but it was still a surprise.

“The map is color coded based on held territory,” Deflotte explained. “It displays that of our emperor’s faction, so to speak, as well as Raul-held territory, led by the self-proclaimed Duke Raul; Agincarl-held territory under the control of August, who has claimed independence as the Grand Duchy of Agincarl; and Agincarl-held territory under the control of Phillip de Agincarl.”

After the deaths of the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony, the only son of the former, Sigmund, and the second son of the latter, August, had called their forces to arms and declared independence as the Grand Duchy of Raul and the Grand Duchy of Agincarl respectively. Naturally, I refused to recognize their claims and ordered their subjugation. This was the primary reason behind the ongoing civil war.

In order to oppose me, both factions had put aside the deep-seated grudges they’d held for each other since their time as the Chancellor’s faction and regency and formed what they had called the Archducal Alliance. In response, Phillip de Agincarl had proclaimed himself to be the true Agincarl heir and raised an army of his own, splintering the Agincarl forces in two. This meant that currently, there were four notable powers within the Empire, including my own.

While it appeared as if our emperor’s faction had widened our influence considerably over the past two months, I knew it only seemed that way because the map didn’t make a distinction more granular than the territory level. There were, for example, viscounts and barons in holdings directly possessed by the throne who were still ignoring my commands.

“However, the intra-Agincarl conflict has become messy and protracted—a state of affairs only worsened by the old Agincarlish nobility running amok,” Deflotte continued. “It may be that this information is already sorely outdated.”

That was unavoidable—wars could change wildly by the hour. It was probably best to interpret the map’s color coding as an indicator of which power was most dominant in each territory, and nothing more.

“Regardless, our current focus should be on Raul,” Viscount Cédolin said.

I agreed. For the time being, we could ignore Agincarl. It had always been my plan to leave them to their infighting; I had seen evidence of the old Agincarlish nobility’s grudge against the Empire with my own eyes during my tours. I couldn’t even blame them for it—the fault lay with the emperor who’d secured their vassalage with a set of generous conditions, only to go back on his word later.

Peaceful rule over any given territory would be difficult for as long as the old Agincarlish nobility existed as dissidents within it, so it was better to lance the boil and let the pus drain out all at once. Pitting them against the Agincarl factions would (I hoped) be enough to exhaust them and weaken their influence.

As for the Raul faction, not every holding under its control was in conflict with us. Broadly speaking, they could be sorted into three categories: territories under the direct control of the self-proclaimed Duke Raul; territories that were in vassalage to the self-proclaimed Duke Raul and engaged in hostilities with our emperor’s faction; and territories that were in vassalage to the self-proclaimed Duke Raul but whose nobility were in contact with us.

The self-proclaimed Duke Raul controlled basically the entirety of the eastern Empire, which was also where his influence was the strongest. However, his vassals’ territories in the Empire’s northwest near the Teyanavi border were less secure; we’d made overtures to the lords there. Their responses varied, with some sending diplomatic envoys, others sending a son, and so on, but the common through line was that they all seemed to wish to avoid full-blown conflict with us. My suspicion was that, if circumstances had allowed, they would have stolidly declared their neutrality.

What had surprised me was the Marquessate of Arndal, situated at the Empire’s northern border. Marquess Arndal, who had been one of the nobility we’d released relatively quickly after imprisoning them all during my coronation, had declared his loyalty to us, resulting in a force of his former allies’ troops—those of the self-proclaimed Duke Raul included—establishing a siege around his castle.

To give a bit of historical context, Marquess Arndal had originally been a member of the regency together with Count Vadpauvre, whose holdings neighbored the marquess’s to the south. But while the count had readily submitted to the self-proclaimed Duke Raul, I had not expected the marquess to exhibit such do-or-die resistance in the face of the Raul army. After all, he had no close ties to me or any of the emperor’s faction nobility. It seemed that he’d simply decided to gamble the fate of his house on us winning the civil war.

“As for the County of Copardwahl, while allied forces have managed to establish control over all major cities, interference from both Agincarl factions means the situation remains highly unpredictable,” Deflotte reported. “Meanwhile, Duke Warren’s forces have established nigh total control over the County of Buhnra. Their intention is to use it as a staging ground to invade the Marquessate of Lufini, in order to provide us a distraction.”

“That’s welcome news, but...” Arnoul de Nunvalle trailed off worriedly. “Do they have the reserve strength for that?”

“There should be no issue,” Nadine answered. “Their commander is the surviving Twin Champion.”

“The Twin Ch—?! I see... It may very well be possible, then.”

While one of the famed generals who’d made up half of the Twin Champions of Crown Prince Jean had already died, the other was very much alive and kicking. From what I’d heard, he’d gone straight to Duke Warren after the crown prince’s death.

Salomon used the break in the conversation to point out a location on the map. “I see here that the Marquessate of Dozran has been singled out with its own color,” he noted. “Why is that?”

Marquess Dozran... He was one of the nobles who’d ignored my command to return the capital, but in his case, it was notable because he’d maintained an almost eerie level of silence on the matter.

“A letter arrived on the eve of this column’s departure,” Deflotte explained. “It stated the marquess’s intent to participate in the battle at Chelán Hill.”

“But we have given him no such order,” I objected.

While I had instructed Marquess Mardrusa and Count Ethaiq to send forces for our cause, I had not done so for Marquess Dozran. In other words, he was coming of his own accord.

“I imagine he sent a very similar letter to Raul,” Deflotte posited. “In the worst-case scenario, he may betray us once the battle has commenced.”

There was a ripple of unrest among my lords. As far as we were concerned, the Marquessate of Dozran was positioned extremely dangerously. It was north of the Duchy of Warren, south of the emperor’s direct holdings, and west of the Marquessate of Ramitead. If Marquess Dozran decided to betray us, it would create a new front for Duke Warren, prove to be a major thorn in the side of Marquess Ramitead (who had only recently stabilized his territory and had deployed almost all of his forces to Chelán Hill—on that last point, he’d even contracted mercenary forces totaling around a thousand to join him, out of the concern that he hadn’t brought enough), and I probably didn’t even need to explain to you what a danger it would pose to my directly held territories, given we hadn’t even established complete control over them yet.

That wasn’t even going into how a betrayal during the battle itself could throw a massive wrench in the works—one that would shift the battle in a disadvantageous direction for us, I was sure.

“Do we have the option of eliminating him first?” Viscount Cédolin asked.

I could understand why Duke Warren’s subordinate would be extra sensitive to any risks posed to his liege lord, but unfortunately, that would be impossible. The conniving marquess was, by all appearances, not yet our enemy. As his liege lord and emperor, I was within my rights to rake him across the coals verbally for his actions, but that was a far cry from having the justification to attack him outright.

“No, that would be a poor plan,” I said. “We do not have the resources to spare. He would not have taken such a brazenly provocative action if we did.”

It was a similar case with Raul and Agincarl. The only reason I’d been able to raise an army for the purpose of subjugating them was because they’d done so first, and had declared open rebellion against me.

I didn’t know what Marquess Dozran’s true intentions were. It was just as likely as anything else that he was trying to make himself look like a valuable investment to me. We didn’t have a choice but to wait and see.

“If he defects at Chelán Hill, then all we must do is ensure we win the ensuing battle,” I declared boldly.

Of course, that was the only thing I could say, if I wanted to assuage my lords. Marquess Dozran had left me with little choice but to take up the gauntlet he’d thrown down. Honestly, even I wanted to reply to myself with an “If it were that easy, we wouldn’t be having so much trouble.”

I forged on, pointing at a spot on the map that had piqued my interest. “Sir Moissan,” I said. “It says that we are engaged in conflict here in the County of Nunmeidt, but we have not heard anything of the sort. What has happened?”

“The count’s offspring—male and female—are squabbling at the moment,” he explained. “However, it should not be long before the more ‘prepared’ party achieves victory. It should be of no concern.”

For Deflotte to say that meant it had to be... Ah. Them.

＊＊＊

After the tower incident, I had made a request of Daniel de Piers.

“We say this not as a criticism of you, but another transmigrator once attempted to assassinate us. We would like you to deliver them a message.”

Once, during one of my tours, I’d been attacked by a man dressed in butler’s garb. Later on, after drawing a number of conclusions with the information I had access to, I became convinced that he had a connection to Ein’s Storytellers.

Daniel de Piers was silent for a few moments before replying, “May I inquire as to the nature of that message?”

“Tell him to participate in the battle at Chelán Hill. Otherwise, they will not be able to distinguish themselves above the other nobility.”

After my fight with the other transmigrator, we’d made a number of verbal agreements. I’d made some concrete promises to ensure the continuance of his liege’s house and name, and to overlook a number of their actions. Put bluntly, I hadn’t offered anything more than a maintaining of the status quo. I’d told him that if he and his liege wanted land and laurels, they’d have to win it on the merit of their own achievements.

That said, it wasn’t every day I met another transmigrator, and luckily, he’d been the reasonable type who seemed willing to hear what I had to say. He’d also been firmly devoted to his liege, which told me she was someone I could have high hopes for.

Given my notable dearth of vassals I could confidently put my trust in, handing out promotions to capable and decent-seeming nobility was one of the items that had firmly earned its place on my to-do list. Having said that, as the emperor, I could not break the general meritocratic principles of just punishment and reward. If I wanted to reward the nobility, they’d have to earn it—and do so in a way that was obvious to all.

“I shall ensure he receives the message, Your Majesty.”

“See that he does.”

＊＊＊

So, it turned out that the other transmigrator was closer to me than I’d thought.

When I’d made my request to Daniel de Piers, I had considered any assistance the butler’s liege could provide to be something of a fallback to a fallback—welcome, certainly, but something we should be able to win without. However, it seemed my past decision was paying dividends. Given Deflotte’s express mention of “male and female offspring,” the transmigrator’s liege had to be Count Nunmeidt’s daughter. It seemed we’d added another arrow to our quiver of advantages.

Well, doing away with the metaphors for the moment, the emperor’s faction was at a clear advantage. The County of Nunmeidt was the southern neighbor of the Marquessate of Arndal and western neighbor of the County of Vadpauvre. It also bordered the County of Pildee, which was where the imperial capital was situated.

In other words, if the County of Nunmeidt became emperor’s faction territory, the geographical line it formed with the emperor’s direct holdings and the Marquessate of Arndal would split the Raul territories in half down the middle. Wait a second—so that was why the Raul faction was so frantic in its current invasion efforts into the Marquessate of Arndal. This was a revelation and a half. Maybe it was even the express reason the Raul army was acting like someone had lit a fire under its behind.

It also meant that we would no longer have any hostile powers in the vicinity of the imperial capital, which would make it easier for Duke Warren to move. The County of Nunmeidt’s position was so convenient for my purposes, in fact, that I was tempted to call it miracu— Oh, hang on. No, it was the other way around. The transmigrator in butler’s garb had attacked me when he had because he was from the County of Nunmeidt.

Back when I’d had a reputation as a fool, much of the nobility had seen me as convenient. After all, so long as none of my idiocy caused them any harm, I was their exploitable puppet and someone else’s problem. However, to the people of the County of Nunmeidt, which bordered the emperor’s direct holdings, it would’ve felt like living next to a bomb that could’ve gone off at any moment. No wonder some of them had wanted to dispose of me as quickly as possible.

What was more, Count Nunmeidt was the former Minister of Domestic Affairs, a role concerned with the Empire’s internal issues and general domestic administration. I had no doubt he would’ve been one of the people involved in planning my tours. The transmigrator, being a servant of his daughter, could have easily snuck a peek at the plans and proceeded to stake out the mansion I’d be staying at. And since Count Nunmeidt hadn’t been in charge of security, no fingers would have been pointed at him—but more importantly, not at his daughter—in the event the transmigrator failed, so long as he didn’t confess his loyalties.

It was all coming together. All the hints had been there, just waiting for me to connect the dots. Thought-provoking stuff.

Anyway, the question was whether they’d come to Chelán Hill or not. I’d dangled the prospect of greater postwar rewards in front of them, but it was difficult to tell. Was it worth sending another message, but making it a demand, this time? No, but there was the whole thing with the Marquessate of Arndal. If the marquess fell, the enemy forces besieging him could head south into the County of Nunmeidt. In light of that, I couldn’t command the young Lady Nunmeidt to weaken her territory’s defenses. In the end, I supposed it all hinged on her judgment of the situation.

“Does that conclude your report?” I asked.

“It does, Your Majesty,” Deflotte confirmed.

With the debriefing on the state of the war finished, we called an end to the war council for the day. As matters stood, despite a few issues, things seemed to be going well.

Well, that was my read on it, anyway.

An Incomplete Encampment

A few days of marching later, we finally arrived at Chelán Hill. Our pace had been fairly expedited, owing to the tight nature of our schedule, but the new recruits had done well to keep up. I’d rewarded them with wine and praise for their efforts. The former wasn’t the stuff nobles drank, so it wasn’t particularly sweet, but it was of decent quality all the same. The soldiers had certainly seemed to enjoy it. Come to think of it, I’d had no idea that it was conventional for the nobility to prefer their wine sweet. Given the exorbitant price of sugar, maybe it was brewed with honey or something.

Anyway, on to the topic of Chelán Hill. It was a strategically vital location I had taken note of during my third tour of the Empire, located at the border between the Duchy of Aphoroa—one of my direct holdings—and the County of Veria, which was Raul-held territory. This also placed the hill between the major city of Keighamer, which was located at the easternmost tip of the Duchy of Aphoroa, and the major city of Reydra, which was at the westernmost tip of the County of Veria. In short, Chelán Hill was one of several of our fronts against the Raul army in this civil war.

Also worthy of note was the major highway that connected Keighamer and Reydra. Although it was in good condition and sizable enough to convey a marching army with ease, it curved south in order to circumvent Chelán Hill. That meant that possessing control of the hill was as good as possessing control of the highway—which, by the way, continued beyond Reydra, linking to a number of other major cities in the Duchy of Raul. Of course, the reverse was true as well; it was also one of the highways that led straight to the imperial capital.

All in all, that made Chelán Hill a strategic position that could not go ignored. Just as the enemy could use it as a foothold to advance on the capital, we could use it as a staging ground to invade the Duchy of Raul.

Incidentally, Count Veria had been one of the nobles who’d fallen victim to the Three Houses Coup, the bloody debacle that had resulted from the succession dispute before I’d been born. The Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony had each backed different sisters of the previous emperor, and one of those sisters had been Count Veria’s wife.

In the end, my birth had caused the Chancellor and Minister to do an about-face. Deciding that the emperor’s sisters would only be obstacles to their plans to use me as a puppet, they had machinated the coup to eliminate all three sisters and the houses they’d married into.

The former Duke Raul had governed the County of Veria ever since—an entirely arbitrary decision, I might add. It was basically no different from outright occupation. No one had criticized him for it, though, because the Minister of Ceremony, his political opponent, had similarly occupied the Marquessate of Agincarl d’Decci, forcibly installing his son into power despite there being a legitimate heir higher in the line of succession. Incidentally, the third territory freed up by the Three Houses Coup was the Marquessate of Ramitead, which had been occupied by the Chancellor until Fabio had incited an uprising.

With all that in consideration, the County of Veria was actually not stable territory for Raul. From what I understood, the surviving vassals of Veria still bore a grudge, and occasionally raided Raul merchants and messengers.

Getting back on topic, there was also a pagan myth surrounding Chelán Hill that claimed it was the gravesite of the Harperion Empire’s last emperor, the Harperion Empire being the legendary historical superpower from which the Rotahl Empire had drawn influence. And maybe it was confirmation bias speaking, but I could see how a part of the hill looked like a collection of burial mounds, if I squinted a bit.

Hmm, what’s that? Wasn’t it bad luck for an emperor to fight atop an emperor’s grave? Maybe, but I didn’t mind. You could just as easily spin that superstition the other way and say the past emperor would be watching over me for the battle. Besides, it was only a myth; no archaeologically significant remains had been found in the area yet.

Now, geographically speaking, Chelán Hill was technically a formation of three separate hills. Byner Hill was the tallest, as well as the largest by circumference, with Ginaugh Hill situated to its northeast and Mifeux Hill situated to Ginaugh Hill’s west. Worth particular note was the steep slope on Byner Hill’s eastern bank—the incline was so severe that it essentially qualified as a cliff.

I had charged Fabio with fortifying Chelán Hill into a solid defensive encampment. However, it seemed that a rather serious problem had occurred, requiring us to hold an urgent council to address it.

I’ll begin from the top. In general, the construction of the encampment—ostensibly a “fortress” as far as the public was concerned—had been performed exactly as I’d instructed. It consisted of leveled ground ringed by deep ditches that would serve as dry moats, in which had been installed wooden chevaux-de-frise to deter cavalry. The slopes of the ditches had been cleared of vegetation and stones to make them easier to fall into, and dirt walls had been erected along the interior to provide our soldiers cover. Trenches had also been dug behind those walls for much the same purpose. The entrance and exit to this fortification had been constructed at Byner Hill’s southwest side.

The way these fortifications had been built meant that anyone on the inside attempting to escape would fall into the staked moat. Thus, it didn’t matter how frightened they got; cowering in the trenches behind the dirt walls would always seem like a better option than falling into the moat and meeting a grisly end. Our people would be completely trapped inside.

I did feel guilty toward the laborers who’d built their own prison—they were only common citizens, after all—but with this, we’d achieved our goal of being able to forcibly conscript them when the battle broke out.

Additionally, a gun platform had been erected on the ridgeline, and the carver and flock cannons—types of bombards—had already been moved into place. Also complete were storage areas for the stone ammunition and gunpower, rest areas for the soldiers, wells for water, and depots for our food stores. All in all, everything was perfect.

The problem was that all this construction had only been completed for Byner Hill.

You see, the work schedule had been staggered in sequences, since we hadn’t known when the enemy would be coming. The first stage was the work on the eastern slope, since that would be the direction the enemy would approach from. The bare minimum of defenses had needed to be established in order to defend against any possible surprise attacks.

The second stage was the work on Byner Hill. It was the largest area, as well as the most vital for the purposes of our strategy. Since it was where our main encampment would be situated—as well as where I would be based—it needed to be as defensively sound as we could make it.

Stage three was the work on Ginaugh Hill, while stage four was the work on Mifeux Hill. That is to say, the construction was currently partway through stage three—slower than what we’d scheduled.

To elaborate on why this was a problem: Our biggest objective was to create an encampment that would prevent our people from deserting. While this had been completed for Byner Hill, it hadn’t been completed for the others, meaning we couldn’t station our soldiers there.

Well, no, we could still station them there if we wanted. It was just that they’d be able to cut and run any time they wanted. In other words, our northern defenses were exceedingly vulnerable. More importantly, our trump card was positioned on the southern side, which meant we needed to lure the enemy there, else there would be no point.

Regarding the delay, Deflotte had already informed me prior to our arrival; he’d come to me personally after our war council on the first day of our march. Apparently, he’d stopped by Chelán Hill first on his journey back from Gotiroir territory to avoid missing me.

“No apology I can offer can suffice, Your Majesty,” Fabio de Ramitead-Denouet said as he prostrated before me.

Fabio had been in my service since long before my coronation. He might have failed me in this instance, but quite honestly, I didn’t want to punish him if I could manage it. Besides, this wasn’t entirely his fault—there were a number of other factors at play.

The first was that the construction wasn’t all that behind schedule. It only seemed that way because the enemy had made their move faster than we’d anticipated, with far greater decisiveness than we’d anticipated. As a result, they’d be arriving earlier than our scheduled date for the construction’s completion.

Next—and this was in part an oversight of mine too—it had been a poor call for us to draft up the construction plans in the imperial capital. To explain why in a single phrase: weights and measures.

Measurements such as length, volume, and weight needed standards to serve as a basis for comparison, such as meters, liters, and grams. These standards were referred to as weights and measures, and the problem in this case was that our plans had used anthropometric units.

Anthropometric units were units of measurement based on human body parts, and had been the mainstream method used on Earth before the invention of the meter. Inches, feet, and yards were a good example. If I recalled correctly, the standard length of an inch had originally been based on the width of an adult male’s thumb. I couldn’t remember what the others were based off of, but I was pretty sure that they were all anthropometric.

Now, anthropometric units were indeed convenient. They meant that you could measure anything on the spot with nothing more than your own body, if you were so inclined. The problem, though, was that humans came in different sizes—sometimes drastically different sizes. For every person you found with fat thumbs, there was someone else out there with thin ones.

In this world, anthropometric units were still the common method of measurement. In fact, they were the only method of measurement. The meter standard just didn’t exist, unfortunately.

Length was primarily measured with either of two units: telts or pesculs. One telt was equal to the width of a middle finger, while one pescul was the length of a foot from heel to toe. Generally speaking, one pescul was also treated as twelve telts. Up to here, things were actually fine. The problem was when it came to measuring height.

You see, the First Faith had designated the unit of one eizn as a standard unit of measurement, that being the actual height of Ein when he’d been alive. Worse, this had become the common standard. What were we supposed to do when we wanted to measure the height of something, then, damn it? Ask the church to produce his mummified body to double-check? To begin with, a height-specific unit of measurement didn’t even make sense!

Naturally, it was obvious to everyone that anthropometric units could be highly inconvenient; hence, countries throughout history had created their own standards and measuring devices to compensate—often by using the finger and foot measurements of their kings and emperors as a basis. As you’d expect, this had resulted in the length of telts and pesculs changing drastically depending on the country and era.

If that wasn’t bad enough, the standards they had created hadn’t maintained their consistency over time. Wood expanded or contracted depending on humidity, iron would do the same depending on temperature, and stone would gradually wear away. The more accurate one tried to make a measuring device, the more expensive it would be.

There was also the fact that the current standard of engineering made identical reproduction impossible. As long as human hands were involved in the creation of a product, there would be margins of error—and enough of those stacking up could result in considerable differences in measurement.

This was evidenced by the current problem on our hands: The intelligence agents who’d surveyed the area, Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray, who’d drafted the plans, and Fabio, who’d overseen the actual construction, had all used their own, ever so slightly different measuring devices.

Now, that all should have given you a pretty good idea of why there had been measurement errors in the first place. On to the next issue: Quite frankly, being fastidious about such measurements was a pain in the ass. Despite the fact that it all added up, most people would simply shrug it off, assuming it would all work out in the end. And indeed, that was exactly what the laborers had done. Rather than go to all that trouble, they had simply made the measurements with their own bodies.

Of course the final product would be off, if that was what they’d done!

Still, that wasn’t their fault, but mine. I hadn’t supplied them with the measuring devices they’d needed. Yet another example of me failing to adapt to this world’s common sense.

Ugh, god damn it. I hadn’t even considered that this would be a potential pitfall. To make matters worse, I had told Fabio that I’d leave the on-site details to him. My intention had been to provide him with a degree of flexibility, but his loyalty and diligence had caused him to personally ensure that every mistaken measurement was fixed.

Perhaps you could call this a breakdown in communication. I, as the deviser of the Chelán Hill encampment, had failed to anticipate the measuring errors that would occur. Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray, the designer of the encampment, had assumed that the construction workers would naturally compensate for those errors, because in his experience, that was common practice. Yet Fabio, out of his loyalty to me, had attempted to ensure that the fortifications were as accurate as possible to the plans—the plans that differed from the reality on-site. Hence why the work schedule had experienced delays.

But the problems didn’t end there. You see, Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray, who had drafted up the base design for the defenses, had a history. I’d been briefed on some of it, such as how, unwilling to be dragged into the Three Houses Coup, he’d renounced his rank of general and gone to the Gotiroir.

What I hadn’t known—and how the hell could I possibly have known?—was that Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray had been on friendly terms with House Ramitead, whose marquess at the time had been counting on his assistance. When the former general had gone into seclusion, the marquess’s vassals had seen that as him abandoning them and their liege lord, and the survivors of the coup still held a grudge to this day.

In a stroke of cosmic mischief, it turned out that Fabio was completely unaware of this grudge. After all, he’d been nothing more than a boy at the time of the coup, and hadn’t even been from the main house’s line at that. He’d only learned about it some time after arriving at Chelán Hill, so of course he hadn’t been able to tell me about it.

Fabio’s subordinates had initially been energetic about their work; after all, it was my plan, and they felt indebted to me. However, there had been a blatant drop in their efficiency once they learned that Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray was involved.

Say something sooner, damn it! God!

As for Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray himself, it seemed that he was completely oblivious about the matter. Part of me wondered whether the fact he hadn’t qualified to be considered one of the Twin Champions wasn’t just because he was a foreigner, but because of his inability to read a room too.

That still left one more problem. Fabio had apparently reported the delays via one of the messengers we dispatched to Chelán Hill at regular intervals. The thing was, we’d apparently missed each other, and the messenger was currently back in the imperial capital.

That actually wasn’t the worst possible outcome, in this regard. The worst outcome would’ve been the enemy capturing the messenger and finding out about the delays. From there, it would’ve been easy for them to figure out the weak point of our fortifications. Concerned about the risk this posed, Deflotte had brought this information to Count Palatine Vodedt straightaway. The spymaster, grasping the gravity of the situation, had immediately left to find the messenger, without even pausing to give me notice. That was why he hadn’t been present that night.

Now, as for why the messenger had missed us, it was because he wasn’t an intelligence agent, but an ordinary bureaucrat. I’d thought it would be better to send someone with the bare minimum knowledge of construction work, but evidently that had backfired. It wasn’t that he’d slacked off on the job or betrayed us—it was that we’d taken strict measures to ensure that the only people currently working in the imperial court were those who hadn’t been in the pockets of Raul and Agincarl. However, that meant we’d been left with only those stubborn enough to resist the former dukes, or those incompetent enough that the former dukes hadn’t wanted them to begin with.

And in this case, we’d ended up with an incompetent one. The bureaucrat had listened to the report, failed to notice anything was wrong, and headed back to the capital with no sense of urgency, which explained his lateness and choice of a different route. In fairness, the blunder could also be partially attributed to my inattentiveness. Though it wasn’t as if the Chancellor or Minister of Ceremony had left me performance evaluations for the imperial demesne’s bureaucrats either.

Fabio was partially at fault too for not sending multiple messengers, but I didn’t want to be too harsh on him—even Marshal Generals of France could make that mistake. I’d inform Fabio about this later via Timona, so that he wouldn’t make the same blunder again in the future.

＊＊＊

Such were the unforeseen and unfortunate circumstances we had found ourselves in as we held our council. We had assembled the same roster as last time, plus Count Palatine Vodedt and Fabio, who was still prostrated on the ground.

“Our agents have brought another piece of unwelcome news,” the Count Palatine said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The enemy are also marshaling the general populace. We’ve yet to determine their exact numbers, but it’s undoubtedly a large-scale effort.”

Reflexively, I clicked my tongue. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet tent.

Not good. As the emperor, every minor action I took would be scrutinized. I couldn’t allow myself to get emotional. First, I’d decide on Fabio’s punishment. Then we could move on to thinking up a countermeasure for the enemy.

“Fabio de Ramitead-Denouet.”

“Your Majesty.”

“We shall settle this matter once this is over. Redeem yourself with your performance in battle.” I figured that would work for the time being. There was no sense causing any unneeded friction before a fight.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Your magnanimity knows no bounds.”

Next, to deal with the actual problem. “Count Palatine Vodedt has brought us intelligence that the enemy are conscripting from the populace,” I reiterated. “In all likelihood, this will mean that we will not be able to maintain our numerical advantage in the coming battle.” Still, it wasn’t like a vast enemy army had popped up under our noses and tanked our troops’ morale. We had time to think up a countermeasure.

“If we suppose that our enemy’s plan is to completely encircle Chelán Hill, then our strategy will be rendered useless,” I said.

Originally, that had been an unlikely enough eventuality that I’d dismissed it pretty much out of hand, since the presence of the Gotiroir to the Duchy of Raul’s east meant that the Raul army wouldn’t have been able to dedicate that much time to keeping us under siege. However, their decisive mobilization had given them more leeway in that regard, and the Gotiroir, having spent the last two months engaged in constant combat, wouldn’t be in prime condition. It would be impossible for them to take any of the duchy’s major cities in such a short time frame.

“So in order to prevent that outcome, we are considering taking Reydra,” I concluded. “What are your thoughts?”

Reydra was the enemy’s frontmost city, located east of Chelán Hill. If it remained secure, our enemy would have a foothold from which provisions and other supplies could be delivered to them while they sieged us.

“I mean no disrespect, Your Majesty...” Arnoul de Nunvalle began. He spoke haltingly and sent frequent glances at the other lords, as if worried about what they might think. It was a marked difference from his father, who never hesitated to provide a contradictory opinion to mine. “But even were we to successfully take it, we... We would not have the numbers to hold it.”

“Yes, that is true,” I agreed. “Which is why we will not be defending it. Our intention is simply to render it impossible for the enemy to use it as a supply base.”

“You can’t mean to put it to the torch!” Balthazar exclaimed.

His reaction was warranted; razing the city to the ground would certainly be the fastest method. However, Raul-controlled or not, Reydra was a city of the Empire. If we burned it down, the money and time that would need to go into rebuilding it after the war would come out of our own pockets. More importantly, it would make bitter enemies of the city’s people, and if word spread, damage my reputation. This was one case where I definitely wanted to avoid taking the easy option.

“No. Reydra is imperial territory,” I said firmly. “So that is not on the table. Our intention is simply to demolish its walls.”

Generally speaking, all cities in this world had walls. Demolishing Reydra’s would be a form of psychological warfare; the enemy would be reluctant to establish a supply base in a defenseless city, and even if they did, they’d be forced to leave more of their troops behind to guard it. That, in turn, would lower the odds of them encircling us at Chelán Hill. After all, according to one theory, a sieging force needed to be triple the size of a defending one.

“This is the perfect opportunity,” I said. “We needed to test-fire the cannons anyway, and it can also serve as additional training for the battle mages.”

As for Reydra itself, the city guard only amounted to two or three hundred in total, so taking it wouldn’t be much trouble. It would be a valuable experience for our mages—they’d just be launching their spells at a wall, rather than people—and there were a number of things I wanted to check with the cannons, to see if my knowledge of their Earth counterparts lined up.

“Does anyone else have something to say?” I asked, surveying my lords. It seemed that they didn’t. “Very well, then. Lastly, it seems there is no realistic chance that the work on Mifeux Hill will be finished in time, so we’ll be scrapping it entirely. Construction will conclude with the defenses on Ginaugh Hill. Agreed?”

There was a quick exchange in which everyone voiced their mutual agreement. It would be better to do nothing than make a mistake that could be utilized by the enemy.

“In that case, let us discuss how we will be taking the city of Reydra.”

The Capture of Reydra

The cannon fired its payload with a thunderous roar. Several seconds later, the sound of an equally deafening impact echoed from the city. The stone projectiles shattered against the walls, failing to create any holes, but severely denting them nevertheless. It seemed there was no issue with the cannon’s firepower.

I watched the spectacle from a distance. The Warren and Nunvalle armies had surrounded the city of Reydra, while the emperor’s host—the new recruits, in other words—had been positioned in front of the cannon. When the battle at Chelán Hill came, they’d have cannonballs flying overhead, so it was best to get them accustomed to the sound and the fear while we could.

My own contingent was positioned next to them, consisting of the imperial guard, the mage unit—which had finally arrived from the capital—and the Atúr cavalry under the command of Péter Pál, who had recently linked up with us. Also with me were Vera-Sylvie, who was crouched down with her hands over her ears due to the sound of the cannon, and Nadine, who in contrast seemed entirely unbothered. Clad in armor and with her hair tightly bound, she didn’t look at all out of place on the battlefield, despite being one of the only women present.

In that sense, Vera-Sylvie stood out considerably. For one thing, she was the only person wearing a dress. It would’ve been harder not to notice her.

Apparently, the soldiers had taken a rather dim view of her accompanying us ever since they’d spotted her during the march. There had even been a rumor going around that the young emperor had brought his lover along. I mean, come on, guys, I’m still a kid!

The reason I’d used past tense there, though, was because her reputation had seen a significant improvement as of a short while ago. After all, it was kind of hard to look down on a person who had single-handedly levitated an entire cannon to the battlefield.

If we were talking about carvers—the most commonly used type of siege cannon—then it wasn’t all that hard to move them around. The nonstandard size of the flocks, however, necessitated at least two strong adults to push their carts, and even then their weight would cause the carts’ wheels to sink into and get caught in the ground. That was why there had been meticulous attention paid to packing the earth below the flocks’ gun platform at Chelán Hill as hard as possible.

Since leaving a cannon on a cart would cause it to go flying back from the recoil when fired, it needed to be off-loaded before usage. Generally speaking, this meant creating a dirt mound, which the cannon would lie against diagonally, stabilizing it—this was the origin of the term “gun platform.”

Recent developments in cannon technology had produced models with their own wheeled gun carriages that could be fired while still mounted, so “gun platform” also referred to any location where a cluster of cannons were positioned. But bracing smaller cannons on wheels was one thing; trying the same with flock cannons was another. The excessive recoil of the latter would blow away their braces wholesale, which was one of the reasons they were so unpopular among career soldiers.

Either way, it did nothing to tarnish my appreciation for the wheel; it truly was one of mankind’s greatest inventions. After all, it made the work of moving a flock cannon the work of a mere two people. Well, four, if you wanted to do anything more than nudge it along at a crawl. And, yeah, the wheels often broke under the weight. But still.

Vera-Sylvie, though, had simply floated it all this way without breaking a sweat, no transport cart needed. I’d seen for myself how the look in the soldiers’ eyes had turned from disdain to awe—or even, in some cases, fear.

Incidentally, there was no way I could replicate the same feat. The amount I could lift with magical telekinesis was really nothing worth mentioning—probably because I couldn’t overcome my expectation that heavy things should be heavy. Full disclosure, I couldn’t even understand how Vera-Sylvie was managing it.

Vice versa, though, she couldn’t use my Flamma Lux either. I supposed it all came down to imagination, in the end. No wonder magical research was a slow-moving field.

That aside, when I’d said that Nadine was one of the only women present, I hadn’t meant it was only her and Vera-Sylvie. There were a number of female battle mages in Salomon’s unit too. While this world trended toward patriarchal systems, magical supremacy was king. Not every mage was a noble, but it was generally safe to assume that a noble was a mage.

That was pretty much how society worked here; no one cared if a woman set out onto the battlefield if she could use magic. And powerful mages commanded respect regardless of their gender. A powerful male commoner mage, for example, would like as not be adopted into a noble family and find it relatively easy to raise his station in the world, while a powerful female commoner mage would be inundated with marriage proposals from the lesser nobility.

Also, not to go off on too much of a tangent, but I’d heard that the women in the Belvérian mage unit had been coming to view Vera-Sylvie with something akin to admiration. Since they’d known about her true talents for a while now, it was my understanding that the magical prodigy was already quite popular among them.

Their admiration definitely wasn’t unwarranted; Vera-Sylvie was simply that much of an outlier. For all that she was cowering away from the roar of the cannon, she was also maintaining a magical barrier to ward off all the dust and dirt being kicked up. She only managed to go around in that dress all the time because she had the means to render herself immaculately clean with a fire-and-forget spell.

Though, that did make me wonder why she wasn’t just soundproofing the barrier instead. I was pretty sure I’d taught her that sound was vibration, at some point...

There was another thunderous roar, followed by a crack as the massive stone projectile slammed into the city’s walls. This time, it broke open a hole—which wasn’t to say it’d fully pierced through. One didn’t erect city walls by heaping up a pile of stone and calling it a day; in most cases, they were double-layered, with enough space in between for the defending soldiers to attack back through various apertures, such as arrow slits. The cannon shot just now had only breached the outer layer.

Still, it seemed to have been sufficient to give the city guard cause to panic. I could see a lot of hurried movement. I also noted that the cannon—a carver—seemed accurate enough at this range. The second shot’s impact point was close enough to the first that I would’ve thought it the same, if I hadn’t been paying close attention.

“So this is the might of a carver cannon,” Salomon muttered. He was standing to my side, also observing the proceedings.

“It would have been able to blow straight through, had we been closer,” Nadine said. She seemed to think that Salomon hadn’t sounded sufficiently impressed. “And ordinarily, one would aim higher.”

I wondered for a moment why she was giving me that discontented look, since it wasn’t as if the cannon belonged to Duke Warren’s army, but it was her unit—which was five hundred strong, by the way—firing it at the moment. I supposed that was reason enough to want to defend them.

“My apologies,” I said. “But the city’s residents have committed no crime. We’d rather avoid causing them any undue harm.”

City walls, being subject to the same laws of physics that governed all structures, were less durable near the top than they were at their foundations. The parapets in particular would easily shatter if struck by a cannon projectile. For the record, Reydra’s city walls had battlements—crenellated protrusions that resembled a rook from chess, from which archers could fire from the gaps.

However, aiming higher would’ve increased the risk of the projectiles missing the wall and landing in the city. Maybe that would be forgivable if we’d been at war with another country, but this war was a civil one. I wanted to keep the casualty count as low as I possibly could.

The thing was, the nobility didn’t share my mentality in that regard. Or at least, it was close but ever so slightly out of sync. Reydra was imperial land, and thus deserving of my protection. But the nobility were only concerned with their own holdings. Those of another noble might as well be a foreign country to them.

“No, I truly am surprised,” Salomon said, shrugging. “The Kingdom of Belvére doesn’t have the spare resources to acquire siege cannons.”

It seemed this was Salomon’s first time seeing cannon fire. Well, from this side of things, anyway. I suspected he had plenty of experience on the receiving end.

“I see. So that’s how it’s done,” he muttered to himself. He’d produced a device resembling a spyglass—presumably a magic item—from somewhere and was watching the cannon crew. “They use oil to cool it between shots.”

His calm running commentary reminded me of a birdwatcher having a good time. Its sheer contrast against the deafening roar of the cannon was surreal enough that I had to fight back a chuckle. “That seems to be common practice these days,” I remarked. “It’s less damaging to the barrel over time than water.”

I was fairly sure that water would’ve cooled it faster, though. I remembered learning somewhere that as insulators went, it was tough to beat water’s specific heat capacity. Not that I would’ve bet any money on my own engineering knowledge. I’d been a humanities guy back on Earth. And cooling objects rapidly could create fractures, or something like that, right? Maybe that was why they preferred to use oil.

Incidentally, all the cannons of this age were bombards, which used gunpowder to fire stone projectiles. This was because iron cannonballs were both expensive and difficult to manufacture. Then there was the fact that mass production didn’t exist yet, meaning the caliber of the cannon and the size of the worked stone cannonballs were inconsistent. That was why the barrels narrowed toward the rear and contained a number of linear protrusions within: to ensure they could discharge any stone that was caught on them.

Nadine’s unit operated the cannon with practiced familiarity, probably because Duke Warren’s army possessed cannons of the same model.

That said, we were already in the eighth month of the year, which meant it was hot enough that standing still in a helmet and armor would get you sweating like a pig in short order. The cannon crew were all naked from the waist up.

Incidentally, unlike the main host of Duke Warren’s forces—the three thousand men led by Hervé de Cédolin—the plan for Nadine’s five hundred man unit was for it to garrison and defend Keighamer. Given the scale of the city, that would most likely prove more than feasible if they combined their numbers with the existing guard force.

Their unit would only continue to operate alongside us until the arrival of Marquess Mardrusa and Count Ethaiq’s forces, which would be happening soon. That meant this was Nadine’s first and last chance to demonstrate her leadership skills in front of the emperor. I suspected that was why she seemed so motivated.

A cannon roared, easily the loudest report yet.

“Eek!”

Vera-Sylvie looked like she might keel over, so I reached out and pulled her to her feet. It seemed she’d had the physical strength to stand all along, and had been curled up purely out of fear. I wouldn’t have blamed her for going weak at the knees, though; it had sounded like a bolt of lightning crashing down right next to us.

“Was that...?” I began.

“The flock cannon’s first shot,” Nadine confirmed.

The massive projectile it had fired, as wide as a man’s shoulders, had opened up another hole in the city walls. However, like the carver, it had only managed to smash through the outer layer.

“The sheer heat it gives off is impressive,” I remarked.

“I can’t believe...it reaches...all the way here,” Vera-Sylvie added.

For all its heat and sound, though, its efficacy seemed a touch lacking in comparison.

“The barrel’s too large to cool with oil, no matter how much we use,” Nadine said. “So we’ll allow it to air-cool. Is that acceptable?”

I nodded. “When will it be ready to fire again?”

“In an hour.”

One shot an hour, huh? That just wasn’t worth the effort. I supposed it was no surprise that the flocks had gone out of style. Carvers would more than suffice for siege purposes.

“Still, the sound lends it a certain intimidation factor that could be useful,” Salomon noted. “One that offensive spellwork usually lacks.”

As he pondered the flock cannon’s uses, I issued an order to Nadine. “Reduce the amount of gunpowder for the next shot.”

“We can’t—it won’t reach the wall.”

Our troops were positioned in front of the cannons, to protect them against the enemy if they rushed out of their gates and tried to catch us off guard. Evidently, Nadine was worried that weakening the shots might result in the projectiles falling on our own men.

“We don’t suppose you could fine-tune the...” I began, before reconsidering. “No, we suppose not.”

“Impossible!” she said firmly. “We can’t risk even the slightest chance of friendly fire!”

That was unfortunate. I’d have to ask Vera-Sylvie to move it before we fired it again later, then.

“Are the mages...next?” the magical prodigy asked.

Our objectives for this siege were twofold: capture the city of Reydra, and destroy both layers of its walls. We also had the secondary goals of testing out our cannons and battle mages. Call it a trial run, of sorts. It was particularly important in the case of the mages. While Salomon had run them through their training, our grasp on their specific level of proficiency was still academic.

As the mages began to move out, I noticed that Salomon remained where he was. “Are you not taking command?” I asked.

Nadine had similarly remained nearby as her unit had carried out their role, but as Duke Warren’s daughter, her men saw her more as a charge that needed safeguarding anyway. Salomon, on the other hand, was a tried-and-true commander.

“We are operating under the assumption that this is a real combat scenario,” he explained.

Ah. That made sense. Our strategy for the real deal would have them scattered into several separate units.

The battle—pardon, live exercise—commenced. A unit of around ten or so started it off by loosing a series of spells that, collectively, began drenching the city’s walls in temporary rainfall.

“You’ve split them by their preferred element?” I asked.

This world wasn’t a video game, so there was no such thing as elemental affinities and whatnot. Well, there were, but they were considered antiquated philosophies. Nevertheless, it was just a fact of life that everyone had their strengths and weaknesses. For example, I was pretty poor at water magic.

In that sense, deciding to group the mages by their fortes seemed like a decent enough idea.

“By range too,” Salomon said.

Upon closer inspection, I saw that he was right. Using just the water magic casters to illustrate, the long-range units were creating rain, the medium-range units were launching water projectiles, and the short-range units were firing streams of water from their hands.

“Can you truly call those battle mages?” Péter Pál asked, speaking for the first time. He’d seemed rather apathetic about the cannons, but evidently spellcasting was more worthy of his interest.

“No, I would not say they qualify,” Salomon conceded. “They have, however, managed to reach the standard that His Majesty wished for.”

“We suppose you are right regarding their level of ability,” I said. “But you’ve taken what were previously ordinary citizens with little to no spellcasting experience and brought them this far. That alone is worthy of our gratitude.”

Strictly speaking, those whom this world considered battle mages were few in number and took a significant amount of time to train before they were combat-ready. Still, I’d take whatever we could get if it meant we didn’t have to take the enemy’s magical offensives lying down. In my opinion, it seemed safe to say our mages had successfully taken the first step toward that.

“What does Your Majesty think a battle mage needs most?” Salomon asked suddenly.

I considered the question for a moment. “The awareness to recognize when mana is due to run short?” I hazarded.

“That is also vital, yes. But what one needs the most is to never become overconfident in one’s own ability.”

Battle mages that became intoxicated by their own prowess and ventured beyond the protection of their allied infantry or cavalry would inevitably be hunted down like sitting ducks. In that sense, our mages were pretty safe, since this level of spellcasting was the best they could manage for now.

“Water, ice, and wind spells, as requested,” Salomon said. “Was that display sufficient, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, plenty.” There was a world of difference between them and Salomon’s Belvérian mage unit, but I hadn’t wanted them along for offensive purposes anyway, so that wasn’t an issue.

“Then, to finish, a salvo from the Belvérian mage unit,” Salomon said.

A salvo? Were they going to fire off a volley of flaming arrow spells or something?

When the elite mages began their incantation, I soon realized that I was mistaken. In the span of a few seconds, the ground began to swell. Fifty-odd instances of the exact same spell acted in unison, shifting the earth and sending an undulating wave toward the city’s walls. Then another, then another, the process repeating at constant intervals.

At first, it seemed as if it had no effect. Then, all of a sudden, there was an earsplitting roar as dust, earth, and rubble were thrown into the air. When it was clear enough to see again, there was a sizable depression in the ground and a gaping wound in the city’s walls—the outer and inner layers.

“So digs the mole...” Péter Pál murmured with interest.

Since time immemorial, tunnel warfare had been utilized as a siege breaking strategy. It involved digging an underground passage beneath the enemy’s walls, propping up said passage with lumber pillars as you went. Then, by setting all the lumber ablaze at once, you collapsed the tunnel, thereby creating a sinkhole underneath the walls. The strategy was also called mole warfare in Japanese, and it seemed like it had the same nickname here.

“That was a rather theatrical piece of spellwork,” I remarked.

Looking around, there were mounds of upturned earth everywhere. Dug up from the undulations, I assumed. I was only guessing, but I suspected the Belvérian mages had also cast a spell that solidified the layer of earth directly beneath the walls. Then, after they’d dug the tunnel, they’d released the spell, causing the layer to collapse under the weight of the walls above.

Several weeks of tunnel warfare, achieved in a single moment. So this was what proper battle mages could do.

“Mana expenditure is but another factor of war strategy,” Salomon explained.

Yeah, I’d kind of figured as much. When battle mages fought, they weren’t just slinging spells at one another, but trying to use up each other’s available mana too. Oh—so that was why the strategy involved releasing the solidifying spell last. They could maintain the tunneling magic for as long as it took to completely drain the area of mana, and then physics would take care of the rest. Simple, yet ingenious. Was this how all veteran battle mages fought? I thought I’d been valuing them quite highly, yet evidently I’d still been underestimating them.

“I feel as if I’ve been used as a measuring stick,” Nadine grumbled sulkily.

“The strategy only works on walls without a sturdy foundation,” Salomon said placatingly. “It would have little effect on those of larger cities.”

“One cannot compare battle mages, who cannot cast when there is no more mana, and cannons, which can maintain continuous fire,” I added. “Please, continue your efforts until the barrels are damaged.”

“Very well,” Nadine said, after a moment of peevish silence.

I hadn’t been lying just to soothe Nadine’s ego; once an area was mana-burnt, battle mages really did become no better than scarecrows standing in a field. Well, unless they were like Salomon’s elites, who I was pretty sure were well trained in martial combat too.

“Still, we must think toward the future,” Salomon mused aloud, as he watched his unit withdraw.

“The future?” I asked.

“Yes. Using the mana-sealing wards as mana storage devices,” he explained. “It will revolutionize warfare if we can get it to a practical stage of use. Rather than potency, it will become more important to focus on quick and efficient spells to make the best use of the stored mana before it dissipates. My unit is trained in a degree of antipersonnel combat, in addition to our usual anti-army strategies, but it seems we’ll have to reevaluate the potency and range of our spells.”

“Right,” I said. I was about to say “that makes sense,” when I came to a sudden realization. I finally understood what it was that had bothered me during my conversation with Vera-Sylvie.

Was efficiency the difference between modern magic and that of the long-lost, ruined magical civilization?

In the current era, the most common magic in usage was unoptimized. There was no reason to optimize it. However, in the underground facility that the representative of Ein’s Storytellers had shown me before my coronation, I’d seen what was clearly optimized magic—layers and matrices of countless spells that reminded me of the workings of electronic devices, amalgamated with what I suspected was zero waste.

In other words, could it be that advancements in magical efficiency had been what had led to the demise of that ancient magical civilization?

Ein, who had come to this world at God’s request, had considered it his mission to destroy any remains of that civilization that he could find. And if that was God’s will, did that mean the very act of attempting to optimize magic was contrary to what God wanted?

No, maybe I was making a few too many leaps in logic, there. But if that was the case...no, wait, surely it would have been forbidden in the First Faith’s Prime Tenets, then? Did the fact that it wasn’t mean that it was okay?

Either way, I didn’t want any all-powerful metaphysical beings on my case because of this. Maybe it’d be smart to be proactive about finding and destroying any remains to show that I had no intentions of rebelling.

“Your Majesty?” Salomon asked. “Is something the matter?”

“No. It’s nothing.”

Man. I had enough things on my plate already; I didn’t need to add “don’t cross the line that’ll piss off God” to the list. I didn’t even know where the line was. In fact, if I did ever meet the Creator, I had a thing or two of my own to say about this whole transmigration situation I’d found myself in.

If only I could’ve received a divine revelation out of the blue about what was and wasn’t okay. That would have made things so much easier.

Approaching Footfalls

Reydra surrendered without much fuss. Anyone would have in their position, given their overwhelming numerical disadvantage and the breaches in their walls.

The peace talks were resolved quickly too, with our only condition being that the city would need to allow the rest of its walls to be demolished. No punishment would be levied upon the viscount who governed it, nor its residents.

The terms were relatively generous for a city that had defied the emperor, but the total demolition of the walls had been the sole thing I hadn’t budged on. The viscount had looked reluctant, but had capitulated easily after being presented with the alternative option of a reparations fee, obligatory food contributions, and the confiscation of his noble title. The negotiations only lasted an hour.

Since we’d be vacating Reydra once the enemy arrived, we had the option of poisoning the wells or taking all of the city’s food for ourselves, but while those were viable military strategies, they were poor political ones.

While the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s army could pillage the emperor’s direct holdings, I could not do the same to his due to the difference in our political objectives—he wanted to stabilize his territory and safely inherit his father’s title, while I wanted to unify the Empire. It didn’t matter to him if the citizens of the throne’s holdings hated him, because he had no intention of governing them in the first place.

Meanwhile, any negative sentiment the people had for me would rear its head later on during my reign. Reaping short term gains now at the expense of my people—and my future self—was too shortsighted to be an option. The enemy, however, was not bound by such restrictions, which was the whole point of the defensive encampments we’d set up at the borders of the territory we controlled.

Regardless, we had now received consent to destroy Reydra’s walls, and I likely didn’t need to tell you how we were going to do it. The test firing of the cannons continued, causing a horrible din, but eliciting no protests from the city’s people. This was, after all, the kind of world where it was considered extremely merciful for the victors of a battle to spare the lives of the losers at all.

Reducing the size of the gunpowder charge for each shot with the flock cannon meant it couldn’t damage the city’s walls, although it still barely managed to reach them once the angle was adjusted. However, it did reduce the heat output somewhat, and more importantly, slowed the stone projectile down enough to be useful for what I had planned for it.

Regarding the cannons’ durability, the barrel of the flock cannon developed fissures the very next day, while the same happened to the carver in another two. Both were declared too dangerous for use and discarded. We had spares in reserve back at Chelán Hill, so it wasn’t much of a loss.

Given the extensive damage, the cannons would be unusable even if they fell into enemy hands, but just to be doubly sure, we destroyed them first. The flock was left to the battle mages, who set about the lengthy process of melting the iron body down, while I destroyed the carver in secret, using Flamma Lux to slice through it like it was butter. Since the spell allowed me to fire the heat lasers from any point I designated in the space around me, the work was done in a handful of seconds.

Flamma Lux proved every bit as effective on metal as I had suspected. As a laser, though, I knew it would have trouble with water, mirrors, and fog. That last one was a bit of a crippling weakness; it wasn’t uncommon for battles to be fought in inclement weather.

Incidentally, the official explanation was that Vera-Sylvie had performed the cannon’s dismantling. No one would seek to question that, with the reputation she’d won recently.

As for the sections of the city wall the cannons hadn’t managed to blast to smithereens, we’d demolished them with good old manpower. Well, if the definition of manpower involved a group of coordinated battle mages. Vera-Sylvie had been the star of the show, though, making it look as easy as a child knocking down a tower of toy building blocks. It had been kind of scary to watch. And for posterity, we’d transported the debris of the walls back to Chelán Hill, rather than leave it around for the enemy to use.

Not that I hadn’t been convinced already, but this whole endeavor had really sold me on the value of battle mages. The Belvérian contingent had taken the wall down quickly and easily with a similar tunneling method to the one they’d used during the siege. Their productivity would’ve given Earth’s modern technologies a run for their money—for as long as there was available mana to use, at any rate.

Such grand spellcraft probably wasn’t a common sight in a real battle, though, since distance would increase mana expenditure by exorbitant amounts. The only reason they had been so efficient in taking down the wall was because they’d performed the spell right next to it.

If, hypothetically, this had been a real battle scenario, arrows and other projectiles would have been flying at them from the walls, hence why it was considered a fundamental war strategy to have one’s mages safely behind one’s infantry. Needless to say, that came at the cost of one’s wall-breaking ability, which was why cannon technology had developed over time.

It also bore mentioning that battle mages tended to be better at destruction rather than creation. Magical constructs such as golems, after all, had the weakness of returning to dirt without a mana supply. This was why I hadn’t put any of our mages to work in the construction of our Chelán Hill encampment. Some were probably capable of building dirt walls that wouldn’t crumble after they stopped channeling mana, but others definitely weren’t. Powerful, but subject to many limitations—that was the essence of battle mages.

But I digress. As the work to strip Reydra of its defenses continued, the armies of Marquess Mardrusa and Count Ethaiq finally linked up with us.

Marquess Mardrusa was the individual the Count Palatine had been wary about. Formerly of the Chancellor’s faction, he’d been second in influence only to the Chancellor himself. His marquessate spread out to the west from the County of Pildee, where the imperial capital was located, and in fact, the pincer it had created with the eastern Chancellor’s faction territories we were currently in could be described as one of the former pillars of the Chancellor’s power.

However, after I had executed the Chancellor during my coronation, that situation had turned on its head, with the Marquessate of Mardrusa finding itself semi-encircled by the throne’s direct holdings and the County of Nunvalle. The marquess had chosen to abandon the self-proclaimed Duke Raul and join the emperor’s faction, and so far, he had shown no sign of any suspicious behavior. The army he had brought—with himself at the lead—numbered three thousand five hundred men.

On to the Ethaiq army, which, as previously conveyed, was not accompanied by its young head. It numbered two thousand soldiers in total—a figure that I took to be a sign of their good faith, since Count Nunvalle, a noble of the same rank, had only managed to scrounge up a thousand. Count Ethaiq had also dispatched two noblemen to act as substitutes: Viscount Tristan le Fourdrain, and Baron Samuel le Bocuse.

Tristan le Fourdrain was the count’s legal guardian, and oversaw all of the county’s domestic affairs. That had surprised me, because I’d been expecting a military officer rather than a civil official. He gave me an impression halfway between Count Nunvalle’s and Charles de Agincarl’s: calm, possessed of presence of mind, and somewhat sickly.

Apparently, Tristan le Fourdrain had come as a show of the comital house of Ethaiq’s sincerity toward the emperor. He wouldn’t be leading the Ethaiq forces, though—he’d outright said himself that he’d only get in the way—but traveling to stay in Keighamer after paying his respects to me. It seemed he handled not only the County of Ethaiq’s administrative affairs, but House Ethaiq’s as well, and he’d offered his services as an adviser-slash-assistant to Nadine, for which I was rather grateful.

The other Ethaiq vassal, Samuel le Bocuse, was a military man through and through—and apparently a rather famous one among the nobility, at that. Our seasoned veterans, like Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray, Hervé de Cédolin, and (to my surprise) Balthazar had already heard of him. They’d described him to me as a gambler: Whenever he took command, the result was always a landslide victory or a crushing defeat.

That seemed less than desirable to me, but further explanation revealed that he wasn’t the type to disobey orders, but rather the type who, if given the freedom, would make risky choices without a shred of hesitation. If we bound him up with detailed orders, he’d apparently be a perfectly acceptable, middle-of-the-road commander.

Incidentally, according to Samuel le Bocuse, Count Ethaiq viewed me with admiration and very much wanted to meet, but had been thwarted by the county’s nobility, who wanted the opposite. What was this, a helicopter parent situation or something?

Anyway, with the addition of another five thousand soldiers to our ranks, our combined force was bordering on twenty-five thousand strong. Neither the new recruits of the emperor’s host nor the commoner laborers were exhibiting any unease. If anything, morale was rather high after the taking of Reydra.

In the tent where I had gathered my lords for a war council, however, the mood was quite the opposite.

＊＊＊

“Fifty thousand?! Fifty?! You cannot be serious!”

I hadn’t meant to shout, but could you blame me? That was twice the size of our army!

It was Péter Pál, the Atúr chieftain, and Count Palatine Vodedt who’d brought the information. The former had acquired it from a captured enemy knight, and the latter from the observational reports of his agents. Unfortunately, since that meant we’d gotten it from two distinct sources, odds were good that the intel was legitimate.

Arnoul de Nunvalle and Fabio, the Marquess Ramitead, chimed in with their surprise.

“The enemy was initially reported to have mobilized twenty thousand soldiers. To go from that to fifty?”

“We knew they were drafting the common folk, but to have conscripted thirty thousand?”

I understood exactly how the both of them felt. Those numbers weren’t normal.

Incidentally, I hadn’t included Péter Pál in our war councils to date because his status as a religious heathen might have offended my other lords. Now that we’d moved to the stage where we had to consider our battle formations, however, we couldn’t exactly leave out the commander with two thousand cavalrymen at his beck and call. Besides, he was proving himself useful in all sorts of ways, from reconnoitering enemy territory to raiding enemy supply lines. I doubted the nobles would object to his presence now.

“The Duchy of Raul produces a great many arms,” Count Palatine Vodedt said. “They will be able to outfit thirty thousand men with little issue. Their provisions stores, however, will be rather more strained.”

I agreed with his analysis. The Duchy of Raul had always been known for its relative wealth and the quality of its soldiers. It was more than safe to assume that they’d have a weapons and armor surplus. Enough food for fifty thousand men, though? That was a lot more suspect, especially since the duchy had had food issues from the get-go. They’d probably made efforts to procure supplies, sure, but things had to be tight.

“So they’re planning on a short, decisive battle,” I realized. In that case, the question was: How did they plan to use their thirty thousand civilian conscripts? “Hand us the map.”

I spread out the map of Chelán Hill and its surrounds, studying it. The crux of our strategy was to lure the main enemy force to the hill and annihilate it there. We assumed they would attempt to seize control of the highway, which was why we had laid a trap on the hill’s southern side.

But what was the enemy’s strategy? After considering the possibilities, four came to mind: two assuming they would try to avoid fighting at the hill, and two assuming they would try to capture the hill.

If the enemy wanted to avoid fighting at Chelán, they would either attempt to take the city of Keighamer, which was our supply foothold, or go straight for the center of my power base—the imperial capital. If they could manage the latter, it would essentially mean the complete loss of my authority. But for either strategy to work, they’d need to dedicate enough troops to pin down our combined forces at Chelán, lest we strike them from behind. In other words, both options involved splitting their army in two.

If they attempted to capture Chelán Hill, there were yet again two ways they could go about it. The first was a brute force attack, in which they tried to overwhelm us. The second was a siege strategy, in which they tried to starve us out.

All up, though, the addition of thirty thousand civilian conscripts provided a big hint as to their intentions.

Even excluding our own civilian conscripts, our soldiers numbered fifteen thousand men. If they wanted to pin us down, then assuming they used professional soldiers alone, they’d have to dedicate twenty thousand minimum, at least by my estimates. In practical terms, they’d want to use a mix of professionals and conscripts, to prevent the latter—whose morale had to be in the pits after being forced along—from deserting at the earliest opportunity. Ballpark, that would mean a force of ten thousand professional soldiers and twenty thousand civilian conscripts necessary to keep us at Chelán Hill.

In other words, that meant the enemy would have ten thousand soldiers and ten thousand conscripts with which they had to take the imperial capital. While dealing with provisions issues and the Gotiroir closing in on their major cities back home. Was it possible? No, definitely not. Part of that was because the capital had Duke Warren defending it, but at the end of the day, it was simply too large. The enemy would be able to invade it, sure, but it would be impossible for them to take it entirely.

Keighamer, on the other hand? Poor, defenseless Keighamer? A twenty-thousand-strong army could take it with ease.

Now, in the event they attempted to capture Chelán Hill? Sieging it would be too big of a risk to take, now that they couldn’t confidently use Reydra as a supply foothold. It would be more realistic to fake a siege while sending another force to take Keighamer.

So, by process of elimination, that left the enemy two possible courses of action...

“They’ll either attempt to take Keighamer, or Chelán Hill,” I concluded. “Either way, they’ll aim for a short time frame.” Given the constraints they were under, the Raul army’s options were actually quite limited. And as it so happened, our strategy from the beginning had been to force a battle at Chelán Hill to prevent the enemy from marching on Keighamer. “Fundamentally, our strategy has not changed.”

“That of engaging in a conclusive battle on the hill’s southern side?” Viscount Cédolin confirmed.

We’d erected our defenses on Byner Hill in every direction but a section of its southern face. It was the only point of entry and egress, meaning we could dispatch sorties from it, and the enemy would almost certainly choose it for their point of attack. It was also, notably, trapped.

“We wish for you to deploy your armies on the hill’s southern side to prevent our civilian conscripts from deserting,” I announced.

“So we are assuming the enemy will not attempt a siege?”

I nodded at the viscount. “Yes. We have no intention of containing all of our forces within the hills’ defenses.”

If the enemy went for Keighamer, we’d need troops deployed outside of our fortifications to cut them off. And if the enemy went for the hill directly, it would be the southern side that we’d need to defend.

“However, the south is no longer the only side we need to defend. Mifeux Hill.” I pointed at one of the three hills on the map. From the corner of my eye, I saw Fabio’s gaze drop. Perhaps he felt responsible. “If the enemy positions cannons here, we will lose the battle.”

It was safe to assume that the Raul army would not have carvers, which were siege weaponry and bulky enough to slow down a march. We’d compensated by transporting ours ahead of time, but the enemy was moving too fast to have any in tow. Naturally, they could be brought in with reinforcements if the battle dragged on, but given the enemy’s provisions situation, chances of that were low enough to be left for later consideration.

The issue was that the Raul army made use of field guns known as pot cannons, which were bombards like carvers and flocks, but with smaller bores and payloads. They couldn’t punch through a castle wall, but outstripped their larger brethren in terms of cooldown time, accuracy, and ease of transport. The last point was especially relevant, as their ability to be pulled along by horsepower meant they could accompany a marching army at pace.

Pot cannons were defined by their primary use—that is, as an anti-infantry weapon. After all, when a stone projectile the size of a human head clipped a human body at speed, there was only going to be one outcome.

Of course, we’d known the Raul army would have pot cannons going into this; it was part of why we’d erected dirt walls and dug trenches as part of our defenses. If they fired at us from the low ground, our fortifications would be able to hold out, as while carvers would have blown through them entirely, we’d designed them with pots in mind. Additionally, the enemy would not have an infinite supply of ammunition, and we would be deploying our forces in a manner that would allow us to counterattack if the opportunity presented itself.

The problem was that there was no way we could complete the work on Mifeux Hill in time.

“There are vantage points around the summit of Mifeux Hill that sit higher than Byner Hill’s northern ridgeline,” I pointed out. “Making it a perfect shooting gallery for enemy cannons. Small-bore the pots might be, but they’ll still decimate our militia from above, sending them into a panic. In short, the moment we allow the enemy to establish their cannons here, we’ve lost.”

We could endure the enemy pots if they fired them from the low ground, but not the opposite. There was no time to prepare any countermeasures either. The fact that we’d specifically constructed our encampment to prevent our civilian conscripts from escaping also made it a kill zone for enemy cannon fire, just like a bear-in-the-hole castle in shogi.

“Ginaugh Hill is of a similar elevation to Mifeux, correct?” asked Baron Bocuse, the Ethaiq commander. Despite being the lowest in peerage of all present, he spoke with confidence as he stroked his mustache. “Then myself and my men shall hold Ginaugh to the last breath. I cannot say that a unilateral holdout suits my temperament, but if necessary...”

Frankly, that was still too uncertain for my liking. Next to provide their opinions were Arnoul de Nunvalle and Deputy General Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray.

“If the enemy were to place cannons on Mifeux...we’d...have no option but to abandon Byner’s northern side,” the former said hesitantly.

“That would make coordination with Ginaugh impossible,” the latter continued. “It’d be as good as condemning our allies on Ginaugh to their deaths.”

Indeed—even if we did manage to hold out on Ginaugh Hill, we’d lose Byner’s northern face to the enemy cannons.

I turned to Timona. “Will the defenses on Ginaugh be completed in time to begin with?”

“It will be tight. But given the difference in force between us and the enemy, the alternative is not an option,” Timona pointed out calmly. To my surprise, he was perhaps the most composed individual in the tent. Maybe he had a talent for command.

“I can ride out to buy time,” Péter Pál suggested.

The Atúr cavalry were characterized by their proficiency in one-sided, offensive retreats. Their fundamental battle strategy was to approach an enemy force, unleash a volley of arrows from horseback, create distance, then repeat the process. It was simple, but potent. They were the fastest cavalry I knew of, able to leave enemy riders helpless in the face of their technique, much less enemy pikemen.

The issue was that the Atúr were vulnerable to gunmen, archers, artillery, and battle mages. My understanding was that the Raul army had little in the way of decent bowmen, but the presence of the other three practically guaranteed casualties on the Atúr side. Péter Pál obviously knew this, yet had made his proposal nonetheless.

“In that case...” Fabio began, before cutting himself off. “No, never mind. Pardon me.”

At a guess, he’d been about to offer his own name up, seeing a chance to redeem himself. The thing was, he would be unable to commit himself to another endeavor, since he was still overseeing the construction work.

Perhaps, given his mistake, I should have transferred the responsibility to another. However, that would only cause confusion on the work site and, more importantly, tank the morale of the Ramitead army—who, judging by their recent work, felt genuinely remorseful for their mistake.

“Then we shall proceed under the assumption that the encampment on Gineaux Hill will be finished in time,” I asserted. Not that that would solve the problems we faced. “Our initial plan was to position the militia forces on each of the three hills, and your armies to the south. However...”

Placing my lords’ armies by the highway would have prevented the enemy from marching on Keighamer and allowed us to lure them into the trap we’d readied. Meanwhile, our northern side would have been secured by a joint defense effort by all three hills. Any attempt by the enemy to circle around to Mifeux would have made them vulnerable to our offensives, meaning they would’ve had to do so at a significant distance. And with the time that would have given us, we’d have been able to clean up the main southern battlefield. That had been the plan.

Now, though, Mifeux Hill was no longer a part of our defensive formation, meaning we had to prepare against attacks from the north.

“Worst case, one of your armies may have to defend Mifeux,” I finished. “With no trenches nor walls to aid you.” It couldn’t be the militia, of course. They’d just run.

“I’m not so certain,” Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray disagreed. “We will indeed be in for rough times ahead if Mifeux Hill is taken, but it is undeniable that we lack the manpower to dedicate toward defending it. Said soldiers could be put to better use elsewhere, such as in a more forward defense effort. In other words, I believe we should devise a proactive counteroffensive.”

The deputy general’s suggestion had merit. In plainer terms, he was saying that counterattacking the enemy from a position that could be supported from our Ginaugh Hill encampment would be a better focus of our resources. The problem with that idea, though...

“We lack the commanding officers...” someone muttered.

“Correct,” I agreed. “The numerical disadvantage we can overcome with our defenses, as well as the final trick up our sleeve. But the lack of commanders—unit commanders in particular—is something we can do little to compensate for.”

If our numbers had been about even with the enemy’s, I had planned to have one of my lords shuffle his troops into the hill encampments and take command of the militia. However, given the disadvantage we were at, we needed all of our professional forces fighting on the outside.

“Your Majesty may have to allow it nonetheless. Moreover, the enemy may be facing the same issue.”

Just as Viscount Cédolin said, the enemy would need the personnel to force thirty thousand new conscripts to fight. And unlike us, who could enclose our militia within our encampments, they would be on open ground, meaning it would be up to their platoon commanders and such to prevent the conscripts from deserting. Incidentally, “prevent” in this case meant executing them. Unceremoniously killing deserters to keep other conscripts in line was common practice in this world.

Given that, though, it was very possible that the enemy was short on commanding officers too. Actually, come to think of it...

“Why conscript thirty thousand militia to begin with?” I wondered aloud.

A larger force was not always better. Apart from the pressure it put on your provisions stores, it also slowed your army’s overall movements. Conscripted militia were a weak addition too, as far as war potential went, and were liable to balk and flee at the first sign of trouble, which would take time and resources to “prevent.”

Timona provided a possible answer to my question. “Perhaps the enemy was working under the assumption that they would be storming a fortress,” he suggested.

True—that was what I had gathered our laborers under the pretext of constructing. And a fortress built to defend a strategic location would by definition be durable, able to withstand a protracted offensive.

“Count Palatine Vodedt,” I said. “To what extent have you hunted down the enemy’s scouts?”

“I have given it the maximum priority,” he answered.

“We’ve been tracking them down whenever we come across a trail too,” Péter Pál added. “Hasn’t been much to do otherwise since we came here.”

Our encampments’ defenses were not sufficiently prepared enough for a protracted battle to call it a fortress. We had wells and a stock of provisions, but not enough to sustain our numbers in the long term. In fact, we were being supplied via the nearby cities and towns, Keighamer included.

Above all, though, we did not have the literal, physical components of a fortress. Small cabins had been erected within the encampments for myself and the other nobility to sleep in, but everyone else had to make do with tents. Even then, we were making them all—with the exception of some of the laborers—sleep outside of the encampments so as to not obstruct the work.

However, if the enemy didn’t know that, it would explain why they had gone to the trouble of conscripting thirty thousand militia.

“Human shields, then,” someone realized.

“Indeed,” I said. “Their purpose is to absorb projectile fire for the main Raul force.”

It was the same principle behind why battle mages used summoning magic. It seemed that the enemy understood that there was no future in store for them if they lost this battle, so the deaths of thirty thousand of their subjects seemed a small price to pay for the head of an emperor. Was it an effective tactic? Perhaps. But it left a bad taste in my mouth. It was as if they didn’t consider commoners to be people.

Ah, wait. That was just how blue bloods thought, wasn’t it?

“The enemy is thinking of what comes after their victory,” I said. “So they’re prioritizing minimal losses to their regular soldiers.”

Still, human meat shields or not, there were still thirty thousand of them, and all would be equipped with weapons. And as low as their morale would be, they still posed a threat. We couldn’t just ignore them. Damn it.

“Count Palatine Vodedt. Continue your counterintelligence and information-gathering efforts,” I ordered.

“As Your Majesty commands. I also have a report to make regarding the Dozran army’s movements.”

According to the Count Palatine’s report, the Dozran army was five thousand strong, but was marching toward Chelán Hill at a snail’s pace. The biggest problem, however, was that it was coming via the County of Voddi.

Gautier, the Count Voddi, had been the former Lord Chamberlain of the imperial court. We’d released him because he’d testified against the perpetrators of the previous emperor’s assassination. Formerly a member of the Chancellor’s faction, he had entered the vassalage of the self-proclaimed Duke Raul immediately after returning to his holdings. In short, the County of Voddi was Raul-controlled territory. And according to the Count Palatine, the Dozran army was passing through it with no conflict to speak of breaking out.

At this point, it seemed safe to assume that Marquess Dozran was very much not on our side.

“At worst, we must assume our enemy has gained five thousand men,” someone mused.

“Those of us here can make allowances for that,” I said. “The issue is the effect it may have on our militia...”

The war council proceeded. We considered the possibilities available to us, reviewed our strategy, and planned our troop deployments. To the extent that we were able, anyway. At the end of the day, it would all depend on the enemy’s movements.

Man. After all that planning and preparation, this was where I was? I didn’t even want to think about what would have happened if I’d done nothing but rustle up some troops and run them into the Raul army head-on...

A Sweeping Blow

Several days later, the Raul army’s vanguard was already at our doorstep. It was twenty thousand strong, consisting half of regular soldiers and half of conscripted militia. Hereon, their numbers would only grow as more detachments arrived. The decisive day was close.

As for other notable events, I had also dispatched Deflotte le Moissan back to the imperial capital. While we regularly sent back messengers with status reports, Deflotte would be carrying with him information of a more sensitive variety—things we didn’t want the enemy getting their hands on. Given his track record so far, I’d judged he was trustworthy enough to undertake the duty.

We abandoned Reydra, having never intended on defending it to begin with, so when the enemy marched in, they did so facing no resistance. A base of operations with no walls was far from reassuring, though, which was perhaps why they’d established themselves in an encampment surrounding the city.

Still, their occupation of Reydra came with advantages too. By now, they would have obtained intelligence on the cannons we had used to destroy the walls, as well as on the abilities of our battle mages. Shame they didn’t know those were traps, though.

Of course, there was no telling how effective said traps would be until we sprung them. More than likely, they’d only provide us a moderate advantage at best. Plus, knowing about our magic didn’t really matter, so long as they didn’t find out about the mana-sealing wards.

In terms of what I’d personally been up to, I’d spent pretty much all my time charging the wards. I did this by absorbing mana into my body, compressing it, then emitting manacules into an active ward. It sounded simple, but that level of fine mana control required a significant deal of focus. Oh, and just in case, I was doing the work out of sight in my private room.

Our laborers had constructed a number of small wooden cabins in our hill encampments, and one had been set aside for my usage, with the others given to the marquesses and counts. They were a far cry from the usual mansions and palaces the nobility were used to, but on the battlefield, one made do.

Incidentally, with the arrival of the Raul vanguard, Nadine and her five hundred soldiers had departed for the defense of Keighamer, accompanied by Viscount Tristan le Fourdrain and one thousand of Marquess Mardrusa’s men. The last words she’d left me with had been “Don’t you dare do anything that would sadden Rosaria!”

I had no idea when Rosaria had managed to win her—and Vera-Sylvie too, for that matter—over so thoroughly, but I was at least perceptive enough to read between the lines and see what Rosaria was doing.

As the first princess of the Kingdom of Belvére, she was distantly related to the Bundarte imperial family, meaning the Empire’s nobility would likely have no objections against the marriage. However, as countries went, Belvére was relatively minor. From a geopolitical standpoint, if I ever married royalty from a greater power, it could push Rosaria out of the position of first wife and down the hierarchy. For the Kingdom of Belvére, this was a matter of life or death.

Thus, it was only natural that Rosaria would take measures to avoid that, such as by making allies of the daughters of influential imperial nobility. She really didn’t have to, though—I had no plans to sell myself cheaply, to foreign royalty or anyone else. Plus, having a first wife with a powerful family seemed like it would cause more problems. Taking a Belvérian spouse would leave me much more political leeway.

By the way, I was exchanging letters with Rosaria on a regular basis. We were both refraining from mentioning anything about the war, though.

Getting back on topic, our forces hadn’t just been sitting pretty waiting for the enemy to amass. The battle mages, alongside detachments from my lords’ armies, were carrying out frequent harassment raids on the enemy’s Reydra encampment. The mages in particular were going all out in hopes they’d manaburn the battlefield before the enemy could use it. Not that it was necessary; it seemed that the Raul mages would be arriving with a later contingent.

Our forces’ action in the field thus far never went beyond the level of harassment, since committing more resources and suffering losses in the process would’ve defeated the whole point, but that was plenty. Being forced to respond to each raid was no doubt wearing away at the Raul vanguard both physically and mentally.

Meanwhile, the work on Ginaugh Hill was close to finishing. So long as nothing went wrong, it would make it in time for the battle.

On to the Atúr cavalry, whose leader had said he would buy us time in the worst-case scenario. We were having them ride around Raul lands east of Reydra, disrupting the enemy’s supply lines. Of course, the enemy, not being morons, had deployed guard details, meaning there were few chances to cause any significant damage.

Still, the important part was that the Atúr cavalry were presenting a continued threat. Hit-and-run tactics were used for a reason, after all: They worked. And the Atúr were good at them—frighteningly so. Their sheer mobility allowed them to be there one moment and gone the next, and if any enemy cavalry came to intercept, the Atúr would simply shut them down with their bread-and-butter tactics.

A major factor of their effectiveness was Péter Pál’s wealth of experience fighting as a mercenary. He had a perfect intuition for gun and spell ranges, and never brought his riders into the enemy’s reach. This meant they suffered little to no losses, allowing them to stand as a persistent threat to the enemy. The Atúr cavalry were formidable enough fighters in a straight up fight, to be sure, but I suspected I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone scarier when it came to hit-and-run warfare.

The Atúr tribe, as they were also called, were the surviving branch of a greater nomadic people who had once been spread far and wide. What was more, they were heathens—believers in a religion separate from the First Faith, which was the state religion for almost every nation on the continent.

What the Atúr religion was, exactly, was something I couldn’t ask. I was an outsider—ostensibly a “believer” of the First Faith—and the emperor besides. If I was somehow proselytized and ended up converting, I’d lose all legitimacy.

Still, I’d nevertheless managed to learn a number of things about the Atúr through my conversations with Péter Pál. To begin with, as you’d expect from a nomadic people, they had no fixed city or village that they called home. But while they had once ranged great distances, traveling to the continent’s cooler northern regions in summer, the warmer southern regions in winter, and everywhere in between, the drastic decrease in their numbers and influence since the establishment of the Empire meant those distances had become a lot shorter.

Now, when I say “nomads,” you probably imagined something like the Mongol Empire, but if I had to pick, I would’ve said they more closely resembled the Romani people: the kind of nomads who were scattered across a wide area.

Additionally, it was common for the Atúr to face persecution for their heathen beliefs. In fact, this was why their population and range had shrunk over time. For them, the Empire, where the First Faith’s hold was still relatively loose, made for safer ground than many other countries on the continent. However, they remained quite wary of outsiders all the same—no surprise, given their people’s history.

The Atúr’s way of life meant that they carried all their daily necessities with them as they traveled, and the innovations in portable goods throughout their people’s history were impressive indeed. The cooking facilities, sleeping tents, and such that my tours had relied upon had apparently been developed using the Atúr’s portable homes as a reference.

The Atúr’s women and children were no exception to their lifestyle either, and also knew how to ride. There weren’t any of them around, of course—the noncombatants were elsewhere. More accurately, Péter Pál’s contingent was an offshoot that had separated from their people’s main host to earn coin working as mercenaries.

From what I’d heard, they were excellent hunters, which was how they’d used to make their living. It was just that in recent years, mercenary work had become the more profitable option.

As for the Atúr religion, its most notable trait was its deification of fire. The term used to refer to it in the common parlance was “fire worship.”

Back on Earth, the most notable religion to feature fire worship had probably been Zoroastrianism. You know, dualistic cosmology of good and evil, historically famous, that one. In contrast, the fire worship of the Atúr seemed more primitive—in the scientific sense of the word, not the derogatory one. That was just my impression, though, since researching its dogma and customs was a big no-no for me.

What was obvious, though, was the clear correlation between their worship of fire and the disproportionate number of adept fire mages among them.

Another point of interest about the Atúr was the fact that they considered mounted archery a fundamental life skill. Their children were instructed in riding and the bow from a young age.

Finally, the Atúr’s horses, which were thought to have originated from the continent’s southern regions, were most notable for having no fear of fire. Apparently, the Atúr also trained into them a tolerance for the sound of gunfire, so their only vulnerability in that regard was the sound of cannons and similar artillery. There was simply a dearth of opportunities to get them accustomed, since the Atúr themselves didn’t use any.

That was a rather long-winded bit of exposition, but hopefully it gave you a better idea of who I was working with. Their chieftain, Atúrusz-Don Pál István-Ló Péter—who went by Péter Pál in accordance to imperial naming conventions—had, at least for the moment, placed his trust in me, and was being very proactive in his duties to secure better treatment for his people.

I mention that because today, he had come to me with a vital report.

＊＊＊

After the Atúr had returned from their guerrilla harassment of the enemy’s supply lines in Raul territory bearing critical information, I called together an impromptu war council.

“All their cannons?” I said. “In one place?”

“Yes,” Péter Pál confirmed. “We sighted eighty-some small cannons being transported by the same unit.”

So the enemy were transporting their powerful, highly expensive weaponry to a single position? Yeah, right. “It has to be a trap,” I decided.

“Quite possible, quite possible,” Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray agreed vigorously. “Nevertheless, we may never come across an opportunity this providential again.”

I could understand his enthusiasm. Our biggest concern right now was the possibility of the enemy setting up their pot cannons on Mifeux Hill. It would all but guarantee our defeat, which was why we’d been racking our brains trying to come up with a solution. But obviously, if we could destroy all their cannons in one fell swoop, we’d eliminate the possibility of that scenario occurring.

Péter Pál pointed at a spot on the map. “I agree with the idea that it might be a trap. There were two other enemy units marching in the vicinity, and one was unmistakably the Raul mage corps.”

It was unclear whether the unit transporting the cannons were also the artillery crew, but in the event a skirmish took place, it would be safest to assume they were. What was clear, though, was their destination: Reydra.

“The mage unit numbers three hundred,” Péter Pál continued. “I recognized their standard—even among the Raul army, they are veterans. The other unit was tenfold their size, a mix of infantry and cavalry. All three units are positioned close enough to provide support to one another.”

Péter Pál was only reporting their position at the time of observation, so the units had undoubtedly moved already. However, it was likely that they were still close enough to support one another in an emergency, which was actually evidence against the idea that this might be a trap.

“Accounting for the time since observation...” Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray considered it for a moment before a note of excitement bled into his tone. “They should not be able to reach Reydra today. They’ll likely make camp in this area.” The implication was obvious: He wanted us to conduct a surprise night raid. “Incidentally, the unit of three thousand—were you able to tell if they were soldiers or conscripted militia?”

“I didn’t recognize their standard,” Péter Pál answered. “But they had a large number of cavalry and seemed well trained.”

So the chance of them being regular soldiers was high. That was quite possibly a cause for concern. “Those two additional units mean our losses would be significant,” I decided. “Even if we were to conduct a night raid, our chances of success seem slim.”

“Not quite so, Your Majesty,” the deputy general objected. “I believe their mage unit will not be camping in the same location.”

“What?”

Bourgault-Ducoudray proceeded to emphasize just how valuable battle mages truly were. Unlike the slapdash rookies we’d picked up for the emperor’s host, a genuine battle mage with combat experience was far more precious than a cannon, which could be produced in abundance so long as one had the materials. As such, rather than expose them to the elements and risk exhaustion or illness, it was common practice for an army to cater to their mages and keep them in peak condition.

It turned out that the Belvérian elites were something of an outlier for their acclimation to harsh living. The Raul mages were a much more typical example, full of the children of lower nobility, knights, and similar middle-gentry types. As a military asset, they were plenty formidable, but there was no denying that they were also coddled as hell.

Thus, the deputy general considered it basically a given that they would be spending the night in the town east of Reydra. Said town was situated by a river, which was far from rare, as settlements went, but it was relevant in this case because geographically, the cannon transport unit would be forced to cross it. And while there was a bridge to facilitate this, getting eighty cannons across would eat up a significant amount of time.

“In addition, the town cannot fit a unit of three thousand,” the deputy general finished. “They will certainly be camped nearby—and the artillery unit will likely be with them—while the mages spend the night indoors.”

“That still leaves three thousand potential guards,” I pointed out. “The force we would be able to dedicate to the endeavor would number...” I considered it for a moment. “About the same.”

“Indeed. And if we mobilize our infantry before sunset, it’s likely the enemy will catch wind of us. However, leaving it for after sunset would not allow our men enough time to make the journey on foot.”

With twenty thousand of the enemy at Reydra, they’d respond to any significant movements we made. In other words, if we were to carry out a night raid, our only options would be to use a small force, consisting of cavalry or Belvérian mages. It wouldn’t even hit four thousand.

“By tomorrow, they’ll have joined the main host in Reydra, and we will have lost our chance,” Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray said. “A night raid—this evening—is our only choice.”

I understood where he was coming from. Destroying all of the enemy’s cannons would eliminate our fatal vulnerability at Mifeux Hill. I wanted this just as badly as he did.

“Is that all of the enemy’s forces in the area?” I asked.

However, if this failed, we’d gain nothing; missing even a single cannon could lead to dire consequences. It didn’t matter if actual casualties were low—being under cannon fire alone would scare our militia out of their wits.

“It is,” Péter Pál confirmed. “As we did, the enemy are sending their cannons ahead of time.”

The most common types of cannon of this age broke down frequently, and if their wheels got stuck in the mud, it could take a whole day to get them unstuck and cleaned. You couldn’t just abandon them either—they were too effective in battle, and expensive besides.

We’d allotted plenty of time for the transport of our own cannons. More might be on the way, of course, in the event that the battle at Chelán Hill dragged on, but there was no point in thinking about that now.

“They may not be camped together, but the mage unit might still come to the cannon unit’s aid,” I reasoned. “Breaking through a unit three thousand strong and destroying eighty cannons before the mage unit’s arrival? We will not claim it is impossible, but neither will it be easy.”

Of course I wanted to eliminate the cannon unit. But this would all amount to nothing if it failed, even by a single missed cannon. And above all, it was precisely during moments of greed like this one that we had to be wary of enemy traps.

“I believe we should still take the gamble,” Baron Samuel le Bocuse said enthusiastically. “The odds are not disadvantageous, given what we stand to gain.”

Arnoul de Nunvalle seemed to favor a more prudent approach. “But if the raid fails...we’ll have lost precious cavalry for nothing,” he objected. “It is far too dangerous.”

Opinion among my lords seemed fairly split. It was all or nothing, but was it best to take the dive? I felt like it would be leaving too much up to chance.

“What about the Belvérian mages?” I asked.

“Around half possess mounts,” Salomon said. “They cannot match the speed of trained cavalry, but they would be able to join the raid.”

Despite his words, his expression made his reluctance clear. He probably didn’t expect the mages to be able to destroy that many cannons in such a short time frame. And if a battle broke out, they could suffer serious losses.

“Even if we contributed the imperial guard to the effort, the raiding party would still be forced to retreat once the enemy mages and infantry arrived,” I mused. “The crux of the matter is that there is too little time to destroy so many cannons.”

As I was mulling the problem over, Balthazar suddenly interjected. “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but may I speak?”

“You may.”

Being only a knight among upper nobility, Balthazar had refrained from saying much during these councils. I didn’t care how vocal he was, personally, but some of the others were sticklers for those kinds of formalities, so in that sense, the imperial guardsman’s reticence was smart.

However, it also meant that he had drawn the attention of every lord present by speaking up.

“A...general I once served favored the tactic of hunting enemy mages.” Balthazar spoke hesitantly, no doubt feeling nervous. “What if we did the same?”

He went on to explain that said general had often conducted night raids on enemy mage encampments out of a desire not to face them on the battlefield. With how valuable—and often well guarded—battle mages were, that was easier said than done, but the general had achieved it by persistently targeting the enemy supply chain in the lead-up, causing the enemy to mistake the night raid for another attack in the same vein. Then, once the ordinary troops had been lured away, he struck at the mages.

“And as it happens, the Atúr have already raided the enemy’s supply lines multiple times,” Balthazar finished. “If we can successfully mislead them regarding our objective, it just might work. At least, in my humble opinion.”

“Would I be correct in presuming you are a former retainer of Viscount Denoy’s?” Viscount Cédolin asked.

“That’s correct, my lord,” Balthazar answered.

Viscount Denoy had been one of the Twin Champions of Crown Prince Jean. Although he’d since passed away, he’d been famous in his military days for his frequent exploitation of his enemies’ weaknesses and adroit maneuvering in battle. Apparently, defeat had been a rare thing for him indeed.

“Mislead them regarding our objective...” I muttered, consideringly. “But will an attack on their provisions spur enough of them into action?”

In the examples set by Viscount Denoy, the persistent attacks on enemy supply lines must have damaged their provisions stores to the point where the enemy had been desperate and afraid of starving. However, the Atúr hadn’t taken their raids beyond the level of harassment. They’d hurt the Raul army’s supplies, sure, but it was still just a drop in the bucket.

“Your Majesty, what if we used them?” Salomon suggested.

“Them?” I repeated.

“Fortunately, we still have a number left over which we haven’t activated.”

“The mana-sealing wards!” I exclaimed, despite myself.

Of course. We could use the wards in the way they were actually intended, and render the enemy mages ineffective! Naturally, they could simply leave the area or destroy the wards, so it didn’t completely remove them from the equation, but it would almost certainly be enough to convince them that they were the objective of our raid!

Just as I’d begun to feel hopeful about the plan, Count Palatine Vodedt turned away from the agent who had just finished whispering in his ear. “I’ve just received new information,” he reported. “It seems the enemy unit of three thousand is in fact a force from the Imperium.”

“The Imperium?!” I shouted. I wasn’t the only one; my lords had raised their voices too.

Granted, the eastern superpower had plenty of reason to interfere in an imperial civil war, as well as the resources to do it. The relationship between our countries was, after all, one of continuous mutual sabotage. However, I had thought their meddling would be on a smaller scale. I hadn’t even expected it to be military in nature, but economic or political, supporting Raul like the Golden Sheep Trading Company were supporting us.

The fact that the Imperium was intervening in such a brazen manner was a major problem. The untraversable Heavensreach Mountains that separated our countries only had a single thoroughfare through which an army—albeit only a small one—could pass through, and it was currently controlled by the Imperium. If they had committed to a full-scale military intervention, it didn’t matter that the amount of force they could project would be bottlenecked; it would still tank our chances of defeating the Raul army.

But wasn’t this too risky of an endeavor for the Imperium to undertake? Their objective was to weaken the Empire—the neighboring superpower—as much as they were able. Yet, if they lent too much support to Raul, they could very well hoist themselves by their own petard by giving rise to a powerful Raul Empire.

Oh. No, that was wrong. The Imperium must have realized Raul’s true intent too! Declaring independence as the Grand Duchy of Raul was only a power play to benefit its eventual position at the bargaining table. What the Chancellor’s son actually wanted was to twist my arm to ensure he could safely inherit his father’s titles and stabilize his holdings.

Yes, the Imperium had to have realized. That, or they’d come to some sort of secret agreement with the self-proclaimed Duke Raul. Either way, it increased the odds of a full-blown Imperium military intervention. But in that case, three thousand seemed like too small a number.

“You’re certain they aren’t mercenaries of Imperium heritage?” I asked. Come to think of it, I recalled hearing that the Raul army had hired Imperium mercenaries. Was this a simple misunderstanding?

“This is partly conjecture, but we suspect it is an Imperium noble acting under a mercenary contract,” the Count Palatine explained. “The individual in question is named Robert von Ménard, and rather than his house’s standard, he is employing his personal coat of arms.”

Ah. So it was like their version of Salomon. A foreign volunteer force.

“Ménard?” someone said. “They are quite influential in the Imperium’s western regions.”

“How does this affect the likelihood of the Imperium intervening with their main forces in the future?” I asked. It was hard for me to come to a conclusion. On one hand, the fact was that there were Imperium soldiers working with the enemy. On the other, the Imperium seemed to be trying to maintain plausible deniability by emphasizing that it was one noble acting of his own accord.

“We believe it is exceedingly low,” the Count Palatine said. “Nevertheless, we will pay the possibility due caution.”

Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray chimed in, a hint of relish in his voice. “Your Majesty! While this might be cause for concern politically, tactically, we can use this to our advantage!”

“Can we now?”

“Would the Imperium be able to ignore an attack on a unit Raul values so highly?” he posited. “One containing noble offspring, no less?”

So that’s what he was getting at. He believed the Imperium unit would be forced to act for political reasons. That made a degree of sense. “But does the opposite not also hold water?” I countered. “An unofficial Imperium force could very well ignore any Raul cries for aid and get away with it due to the power disparity.”

“I cannot deny that possibility,” the deputy general conceded. “However, House Ménard once lost a conflict with a neighboring house, only achieving peace with the mediation and assistance of the former Duke Raul. And to my knowledge, it is reliant economically on its connections to the Empire.”

That was quite revealing. So our resident expert on Imperium military affairs thought this Robert von Ménard had come to pay back a debt? And that, politically speaking, he was reliant on the self-proclaimed Duke Raul? In that case, it seemed highly likely that the Imperium force would rush to the aid of the Raul mages.

With so many favorable factors in place, it seemed we’d have to commit. And while we were at it, why not take a three-pronged approach?

I turned to Péter Pál. “Chieftain. Will your riders be effective without mage support?”

“It won’t be an issue,” he assured. “I’m more concerned by our ability to employ the wards.”

Right, not everyone had the know-how to operate magical equipment. The agents who guarded the imperial demesne, however, would. “Count Palatine Vodedt,” I said. “You’re accustomed to fighting under the wards, correct? What of your agents?”

“Some are not magically capable in the first place, and some specialize in acting under the wards,” he revealed. “But the number I can call upon on such short notice is limited.”

That wouldn’t be a problem; all we needed them for was to deploy the wards. Though, on second thought, they could do more for us as well. “We understand,” I said. “But their numbers should still be sufficient to act as communications and overwatch.”

That only left... “Lord Salomon,” I continued. “Send those without mounts and the unskilled riders among the Belvérian mages toward Reydra to distract the enemy vanguard. Viscount Cédolin, you and your men are to see to their protection. Withdraw as soon as the enemy reacts. The command is yours.”

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

Given the amount we’d harassed the enemy vanguard at Reydra already, they’d see this as nothing more than a routine raid.

“Meanwhile, Count Palatine Vodedt will accompany two thousand Atúr cavalry and utilize the mana-sealing wards to attack the enemy’s mages. Your objective is to reduce their numbers, but prioritize minimizing losses. Note that if the enemy realizes this is a distraction, the entire operation will fail. Péter Pál will take command.”

Distraction or not, it was still a valuable chance to wipe out some enemy mages. The cavalry would need to attack fiercely enough to convince the Raul side that this was our primary objective.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

That only left our true primary objective. “The rest of the Belvérian mage unit will destroy the enemy cannons, assisted by the imperial guard,” I finished. “To all—we have high hopes for your success. Fight well.”

The imperial guard were both cavalry and few enough in number to avoid being discovered by the enemy. They were decently skilled too. By my reckoning, they’d be perfect for the job.

A chorus of acknowledgments went up from my lords.

“Count Palatine Vodedt, Lord Salomon, remain,” I ordered. “Balthazar, prepare the imperial guard for departure. That is all. Dismissed.”

＊＊＊

After everyone I’d given a task had left, I turned to those remaining in the tent. “We will be participating in the raid,” I said. “As part of the cannon sabotage unit.”

Count Palatine Vodedt’s eyes narrowed. “Unthinkable, Your Majesty. It’s far too dangerous.”

“There is no faster and more efficient method of destroying the cannons than our magic,” I said bluntly. “Or are we mistaken?”

The Count Palatine had no response.

“Our Flamma Lux does not require us to make direct contact with the target,” I continued. “It is also capable of producing multiple beams at once.”

“I will admit that is true,” he conceded. “But does that mean you will be unleashing your magic’s full potency? Throwing caution to the wind and bearing the risk of discovery?”

The objective for this plan was to destroy the enemy’s cannons, which were gathered in one place. What was more, we had a tight window of opportunity. This was no time to be miserly with our resources—myself included. “Yes,” I said. “Ensuring the cannons’ destruction takes priority, and our magic is the best option for that. Of course, if you have a better proposal, we are all ears.”

“I could participate myself,” he suggested.

Oh? That meant he considered himself to be capable of at least as much firepower as me. That piqued my curiosity, since he was secretive about his level of skill, but in the end, it wouldn’t change much. “That would only mean we would accompany the Atúr cavalry for the diversion effort instead,” I pointed out. “As we are able to fight within the mana-sealing wards.”

Diversion or not, when you compared a battle against enemy mages to the sabotage of the cannons, it went without saying which was more dangerous. There was a long stretch of silence from Count Palatine Vodedt before he eventually spoke. “Understood,” he said, in a tone that made his reluctance very obvious.

Still, I’d kept my magic a secret for my entire life, saving it as an ace in the hole for if I was ever attacked, or betrayed by the nobility. Making a show of it now would cause all that effort to go to waste, so I wanted to be as stealthy about this as I could.

“Nevertheless, we will not be participating as ‘Emperor Carmine,’” I said. “Count Palatine, we would like to borrow two sets of your agents’ attire and join the raid in secret, as communications and overwatch. Inform only Balthazar of this.”

I was confident I could trust Balthazar. Well, it was more that if I couldn’t trust the guy who headed up my imperial guard, there’d be nothing I could do to prevent the secret coming out eventually anyway.

“Apologies, Salomon, but in the event our presence is exposed, we shall be explaining away our spellcasting as yours,” I finished. “There will be skeptics, but it should at least serve to muddy the waters.”

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

As for Salomon, he was a member of the Belvérian royal family, and would not betray me as long as I did not treat Rosaria poorly.

＊＊＊

Salomon and the Count Palatine departed, leaving me alone in the tent with Timona.

“Ah, right,” I said. “I almost forgot. I’ll be having you relive your days as an agent, Timona.”

The personal attendant had once spent a period of time being trained by Count Palatine Vodedt. It had left him with better swordsmanship than me and movements as nimble as any agent out there.

“Understood, Your Majesty,” he acknowledged. “But, if I may be so bold as to speak out of line...”

“What, are you going to object to my participation too?” It seemed my guardians had had much to protest as of late, springing Nadine and Vera-Sylvie on me when I’d declared my intent to go to the front lines, and now objecting against my participation in the raid.

“No,” Timona said. “Your Majesty may be as reckless as he wishes, so long as I am there beside you. I was simply curious as to your thoughts.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your Majesty is the emperor,” he said, expression as emotionless as ever. “By all rights, you could remain in the imperial capital, where it is safe, and entrust this campaign to your generals. Certainly, there is merit in your presence forcing the self-proclaimed Duke Raul to also make an appearance, but it was not by any stretch of the imagination necessary. He might have attacked the hill regardless. And even if he had not, I believe Your Majesty to be strategically adept enough to devise another plan to pacify his territories, similar to how you divided the Agincarl.”

For some time now, Timona had served as my personal attendant and secretary, and nothing else. It had given him little reason to speak in the presence of my lords. Even despite that, it was rare for him to be so talkative.

“That would take too much time,” I explained. And time was the enemy. Especially as far as the Raul territories were concerned.

In the first place, we were at war with the self-proclaimed Duke Raul because I’d killed the Chancellor (his father, no less), publicly announced his crimes, and declared that I would be seizing his holdings. Sigmund hadn’t taken kindly to that, stirring up a rebellion and proclaiming himself the next duke.

It also happened to be the case that the self-proclaimed Duke Raul was betrothed—via the Chancellor’s mediation—to Maria, my father’s younger sister. The Chancellor had done this to ensure that, in the event that I died, the next sovereign would be born of his son’s wife. Unfortunately, the marriage had not been finalized, and Sigmund currently had no heirs. I mean, there was nothing to say he didn’t have a kid or two born of a commoner lover running around, but going by the Empire’s inheritance laws, they didn’t matter.

I should begin by explaining that the Bundarte Empire—well, the Western Orthodoxy, to be more accurate—allowed polygyny among the nobility. This differed depending on religious denomination, as there were some that pushed for monogamy as a hard rule. The reason for this divide could be traced back to Ein, the founder of the First Faith himself, who had stated that monogamy was preferable, but that polygyny was allowable so long as the concubines were given the same rights as wives.

This had resulted in certain denominations enforcing the ideal, while others made a compromise with reality. Incidentally, my understanding was that, in monogamous countries, nobles still had concubines—they just treated them as mistresses or kept lovers rather than wives.

It seemed that when Ein had first arrived on this continent, it had been common for the nobility to keep slaves as concubines, with all the human rights violations you can imagine that entailed. I suspected that he’d decided the unfaithfulness of polygyny was preferable to the inhumane treatment of slave concubines and, possessed of his knowledge of Earth’s history and a more advanced set of morals, had made several compromises in order to better spread his teachings across this world. No wonder they’d caught on like wildfire on this continent.

That being said, there were still nobles who kept unmarried concubines. After all, marriage for the nobility was a contract between two families. If the house of a nobleman’s wife was in trouble, he was expected to help them, and both families were expected to treat each other more favorably than they did other nobility. That was why wives were given various rights and privileges—Rosaria’s new quarters in the imperial demesne being an example.

The fact that married concubines held actual power was the reason the regent had felt forced to imprison Vera-Sylvie and Lady Norn of House Mardrusa. In contrast, mistresses were not a part of contractual marriages, meaning fewer strings attached for the husband. It was far less restrictive than multiple marriages.

For the record, having unmarried concubines was forbidden in the Empire, so everyone just called them “lovers” to nudge it closer toward the gray zone. Um, Western Orthodoxy? Are you sure you’re cool with that?

But I digress. My point was that even if the self-proclaimed Duke Raul had a mistress, he would be unable to recognize any child born of that relationship for as long as the Western Orthodoxy had any say. Thus, it didn’t matter how many illegitimate half-common children he did—or didn’t—have.

Additionally, since he was betrothed to a member of the imperial family, he would have no other choice but to make her his first wife. He couldn’t take any other wives before finalizing the marriage with her either, or he’d be insulting the imperial family—something his own father, the Chancellor, had forbidden him from doing to prevent giving the regency political ammo.

All of which was why, currently, the self-proclaimed Duke Raul had no children. And since he had no siblings either, the ducal house of Raul would end with his death. I wouldn’t even have to seize his title; I’d be the natural inheritor. If that happened, House Raul’s vassals would lose their entire justification for the civil war.

In other words, my objective for the battle at Chelán Hill technically wasn’t to defeat the Raul army, but to kill the self-proclaimed Duke Raul. I had briefly considered assassination, but discarded the idea: There was no guarantee of success, and it could severely damage my reputation. And since killing an enemy general often meant you had to get through their army anyway, a victory was what I needed—and an overwhelming one, at that. Hence all the planning and preparation I’d put into this.

However, if I took too long settling this civil war, it was possible that the self-proclaimed duke would marry another noble’s daughter and conceive a child, resulting in a lawful heir to the Chancellor’s titles. They wouldn’t be legitimate in the eyes of the throne, but the Raul faction nobility would be able to maintain their justification for rebellion.

That being the case, I didn’t want to give the self-proclaimed duke any more time than I already had. If I could remove him from the board in one battle, then—at least by my reckoning—it would be easy to get the Raul territories to fall in line. But if I let him slip from my grasp, the civil war could drag on forever, a constant drain on the Empire’s national power. You can see why I’d want to avoid that.

Incidentally, the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s betrothed, Maria, was currently in the imperial capital under close surveillance. It was house arrest in all but name, really. She had also been quite stubborn about refusing to meet with me. It seemed she hated me—not that I could blame her.

“Perhaps it would,” Timona said. “But it would be a far safer alternative to Your Majesty coming to the front lines. If you were a more foolhardy sovereign, or one who sought the glory of standing on the battlefield, I would understand. But Your Majesty is neither. Yet nevertheless, you seem harried, as though great haste is demanded of you.”

Harried, huh? That was a sharp observation. “I can’t help but feel as if I’m being admonished,” I mused.

“Not at all. I simply wish to understand what Your Majesty is thinking.”

He just wanted to understand? I supposed I could tell him, then. “Timona,” I said. “Do you believe that a single country is capable of conquering the world?”

There was a brief pause before he asked, “Is that your objective?”

“No. Personally, I believe it’s impossible.” At least, it was impossible with this world’s current level of technology. Although even back on Earth, many had tried and failed. Perhaps it would have been possible here, if I had been the only transmigrator, but that wasn’t the case. Even if I made the attempt, the others would surely seek to obstruct me. “However, even if a nation ever does manage to accomplish such a grand feat, it will not be long before its unity begins to collapse.”

It wasn’t just a matter of unity either. I was of the opinion that, fundamentally, there was a hard limit to the amount of land and people that a country could successfully govern—a governance capacity, if you will. And if countries exceeded those capacities, that excess would inevitably come back to bite them in the ass. However, I believed there was another reason superpowers collapsed even before that point.

I continued. “As for why, it is because I believe that a nation that loses its potential rivals—any entity that could serve as a potential threat—is a nation that will perish to its own corruption and internal strife.”

The ancient Roman Empire, the Islamic Caliphates, the Mongol Empire—any hegemonic power, once its neighbors ceased to pose a threat, immediately fractured due to enemies within. Put another way, as long as an outside threat existed, it was difficult for a power to fracture completely. The best example of this was perhaps my own existence.

“I was allowed to live on as a puppet because the Imperium—a superpower on the same scale as the Empire—exists across the Heavensreach,” I explained. “The threat it represented prevented the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony from resorting to all-out war. Instead, they fought their conflict behind closed doors, with my survival a product of their compromise.”

That was no more than conjecture on my part, to be fair, but I did remember hearing supporting evidence for it during one of the few actually decent tutoring lessons I’d had. “The Teiwa Imperium underwent a dynasty change around the same time the Rotahl Empire fell—or the Bundarte Empire was founded, however you want to put it,” I explained. “In other words, doesn’t it seem as though when the threat represented by one of our nations is lessened, the other experiences civil conflict?”

The idea was simple: If the Imperium was no longer a threat, we’d find ourselves occupied with internal strife. However, if it was a threat, we would have better things to do than fight among ourselves. And the same went for them.

A look of realization dawned on Timona’s face. “His Divinity Helmut II’s Ordination Feud...” he murmured.

“Yes. We discussed it with Fabio once, if I recall. One could attribute that debacle to the Empire weakening. However, now I’ve seized control, and by my will the fractured Empire will be reforged. Our status as a threat is on the rise once more.”

Ordinarily, when a major power weakened, it would be invaded by another powerful player and overthrown, like how the Yuan Dynasty had conquered the Song Dynasty. However, due to the Heavensreach Mountains providing a natural bulwark, it was difficult for either us or the Imperium to send troops into the other. That was why our two countries had repeatedly fractured and reformed throughout history, rather than invade and overthrow one another.

“So Your Majesty expects the Imperium to make a move?” Timona asked.

“It’s likely,” I said. “But at least from what I’ve heard about him, it doesn’t seem as if Helmut II will be undergoing a dramatic personality shift like I did. So it will either be his child at the reins, or a talented usurper.”

There was also the possibility that the Imperium’s smaller neighbors would band together to take it over. If I remembered right, the Imperium had gone to great pains to bring its neighbors under its rule as dukedoms or counties. Its geopolitical situation differed from the Empire’s in that regard.

“Either way, the Imperium’s sure to undergo major change,” I concluded.

“So Your Majesty wishes to achieve a certain degree of unity in the Empire before the Imperium once again becomes a threat.” Timona summarized. “And you are in such a hurry because you wish to achieve that unity as a consequence of your rule, rather than it happening as a compromise to the Imperium’s ascendancy. Is that correct?”

“That’s part of it. But much depends on what becomes of the Imperium.”

My sights weren’t set on a few scant decades of prosperity. No, I wanted to build a foundation strong enough to give the Empire the chance to prosper for centuries. The Imperium collapsing would only worsen those odds; likewise if the Imperium became too strong or too weak. It needed to remain somewhere in between—at least until civilization developed to the point where the Empire could start seeing countries across the ocean as potential threats.

If the situation in the Imperium developed to suit my needs, all the better. But if it didn’t, I’d have no choice but to give it a little...outside stimulus.

“To ensure the best options remain available to us, the Empire must anticipate the Imperium,” I said. “So if I seem to be in a hurry, perhaps that is why.”

Whether what I considered to be the best options were the right answer or not was a different question. Still, I at least knew what the wrong answers were. My knowledge of Earth’s history—and the many failures throughout it—ensured that.

“You see, Timona, I have very little trust in whoever will reign after me,” I said. “Whether it’s my child, my grandchild, or an unrelated usurper, it’s all the same—at the end of the day, they’re all other people. Which is why I won’t be ‘entrusting the next era’ to them or anything of the sort. I’m going to do everything I can for the Empire in my era.”

I meant every word of what I’d said. I couldn’t do anything about the actions of others after I died, so that wasn’t where I’d put my hopes and expectations. I’d do this myself.

“So perhaps that is why I’m in a hurry,” I finished. “The life of a single person is short, all told.”

For over a decade, I had been a powerless puppet, unable to do anything but watch as my country fell to pieces around me. That was over a decade gone with nothing to show for it. I wouldn’t let another day go to waste.

I slipped back into the mantle of an emperor asking a question of his attendant. “Do you understand our thoughts now, Timona?”

“I believe so,” he said, bowing deeply. “Thank you, Your Majesty. My deepest apologies for my impertinence.”

The Eighty-Cannon Battle

One hundred riders from the imperial guard, twenty battle mages, and two imperial intelligence agents, all on horseback, departed from Chelán Hill under the cover of a moonless night.

This operation hinged on the Atúr cavalry, who had ridden ahead to strike at the enemy’s battle mages. Meanwhile, our contingent would depart after them, taking a large detour to slip by the enemy before conducting our raid on the cannons. In all likelihood, we’d only have a window of opportunity of tens of minutes to perform our sabotage before resistance arrived. Once it did, we would scatter and withdraw before the first light of dawn appeared in the sky.

The Count Palatine had prepared two sets of standard intelligence agent attire as I’d requested. They were dark in color from top to bottom, possessed an abnormal number of pockets, and came with a hooded black cloak, a face scarf, and shoes that muffled the sound of one’s footsteps. One look at them and anyone would be able to tell they had been designed for tradecraft.

Well, the number of intelligence agents who actually wore these clothes was rather low. After all, if you stepped out in broad daylight in them, it would be no different from screaming to the world that you were a suspicious individual.

In reality, agents dressed for the occasion. If they needed to mix in among farmers or townsfolk, they wore their attire. Likewise, they dressed as coachmen when they needed to mingle with traveling peddlers, or as wealthy merchants when they were investigating the nobility. The clothes Timona and I were wearing were meant for nighttime infiltration and espionage.

Thanks to the concealing nature of my attire—only my eyes were visible—my identity as the emperor would go undiscovered. Most intelligence agents were of short stature too. Under the mantle, at night, I doubted anyone would even realize I was a child.

Timona was similarly concealed, but often eyes alone were enough to reveal a human’s emotions. When he’d told me he had my back before we departed, I noticed a hint of a good mood in his. It seemed that the old adage that the eyes were more truthful than the mouth was true.

After what seemed like an age of riding, we located the enemy encampment where we believed the cannons to be. To avoid our horses giving us away, we alighted at a distance and approached on foot. Fortunately, there was little wind. I say fortunately because I’d heard that it could carry smell, which could have revealed us.

Midnight was long past, and all but the soldiers on watch should have been asleep. Instead, there was much commotion. Had they been informed of our approach?

As we crouched in the tree line, awaiting our opportunity, an allied battle mage shuffled over.

“Sir Balthazar,” he whispered, and I realized it was Salomon. “It appears the diversion unit had a greater effect than we anticipated. There are no Imperium men in sight, and the remaining soldiers appear uneasy, but not on alert.”

It seemed that Count Palatine Vodedt and Péter Pál were wreaking a healthy bit of havoc. I began to worry that the Atúr cavalry might have pushed too far, risking a counterattack.

“Your M—” Salomon cut himself off. “Sir Agent. We’ll be approaching as planned, with the imperial guard making the first strike. Is that acceptable?”

Good lord, man. Way to almost give the whole thing up. I placed a hand on Salomon’s back and nudged him forward. Didn’t want my voice giving me away.

Our contingent slowly and silently crept up to the enemy encampment, with me positioned somewhere relatively close to the rear. I was dripping with sweat—this was nerve-racking.

There were two scouts on watch near our location. When we’d gotten close enough to be able to barely make out their faces, a pair of icicles suddenly sprouted from their necks. Evidently, this encampment wasn’t under the protection of mana-sealing wards.

That was the signal from an allied battle mage. All at once, the imperial guard charged forward, surging into the camp. They scattered the enemy, the mages acted as support, and the destruction of the cannons began.

It was commonly held that in night ambushes, friendly fire ran rampant. Fortunately, however, there was little confusion on our side. The flames of the campfires and sparks from the wrecks of the cannons gave us just enough light to work with. Of course, our enemy was in utter shambles.

I entrusted Salomon—who at some point had come to me—to keep watch in front while I kept Timona at my back as I began invoking one of the most familiar spells in my arsenal.

“Flamma Lux. Viginti. Perdere.”

With much more care than I usually dedicated, twenty spheres of light manifested in the air, from which blazing beams of flame simultaneously erupted. In the span of five seconds, two cannons became smoking heaps of metal scrap. The small pot cannons proved to be easier to destroy than I’d expected.

For some time afterward, we searched every corner of the encampment, destroying every cannon we came across. On multiple occasions, enemy soldiers broke free of the fracas and charged us, but Timona and Balthazar disposed of them handily.

Near the end, I conducted a final overhead sweep of the camp, using my Custor like a magic carpet. Once I was satisfied that we’d destroyed all the cannons, I alighted near Salomon and Balthazar.

“The area’s nearly mana-burnt,” the former reported. “Have we achieved our objective?”

I nodded wordlessly, and Balthazar retrieved a whistle, blowing into it forcefully. At once, the imperial guardsmen and battle mages throughout the camp began to withdraw.

We’d finished earlier than we’d planned for, since the enemy had received no reinforcements and had barely even been able to muster up a decent counteroffensive. The victory was so thorough that I almost felt silly for feeling so paranoid going into it.

It seemed that Balthazar had deemed it unnecessary to buy time for our retreat, because under his command, we fled back to where we’d left the horses and immediately made our escape, splitting off into small groups. The camp we’d just raided lacked the ability to pursue, but if we’d moved as a group, there was a chance we’d get caught by enemies coming from the other direction. Thus, we fled in twos and threes, just as we’d planned.

＊＊＊

Timona, Balthazar, and I rode at full gallop until we believed we were at a safe distance. Just as the sky was beginning to lighten, we stopped by a creek to rest.

I was only covered in dust from the night’s endeavors, but Timona’s and Balthazar’s clothes were stained in blood. It didn’t stand out much, on account of the darker colors they’d worn for the night raid, but the smell was a different story.

“Balthazar,” I said, as they were washing it off in the creek. “Is there anything you wish to say?”

Although the darkness would have obscured much, Balthazar had been fighting right next to me, and thus would have seen me doing combat with my magic. And unlike the others in our raiding party, he knew I wasn’t an intelligence operative but Emperor Carmine.

“Your Majesty fought with all the ferocity of an ancient dragon,” Balthazar said, bowing. The fact that he was in the middle of washing his jacket in the water detracted somewhat from the formality of the gesture, but whatever. “I was deeply impressed.”

“We would rather our cards remain close to our chest,” I stated.

He picked up on my meaning quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you for granting me your trust.”

“Good answer. Know that if word spreads, you will be the first person I suspect.” Having said that, if it did leak, it would be impossible to pin it down on Balthazar. I’d used magic during coronation too, albeit I’d passed it off as my sword’s ability. Still, I’d be forced to suspect him regardless.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I understand.” Balthazar went quiet for a moment. “Your Majesty—there is a request I would make, if it pleases you.”

What, now? Given the timing, I wondered if he was about to try and haggle for benefits in exchange for his silence or something. “Speak it,” I allowed.

“Thank you. Then, I realize this may be impertinent of me, but I would like Your Majesty to address me as ‘Bally.’”

Given what I’d been anticipating, his request turned out to be pretty anticlimactic. “A nickname?” I asked. From “Balthazar” to “Bally,” huh? There had to be any number of other ways you could shorten his name, but if that was the one he wanted, I didn’t see a reason to refuse. “Very well. We look forward to your continued service, Bally.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

From how pleased Balthazar seemed, you’d have thought I’d conferred him a second knighthood. I got the distinct impression that we’d crossed a threshold of some sort, and he’d finally fully recognized me as his liege lord.

Ever since we’d left the capital, he’d been brimming with confidence—a marked difference to how he’d been in the imperial demesne—and as lively as a fish thrown back into the water. Despite that, he showed no sign of being a battle maniac either. During the raid, he’d balanced command of our unit against his personal skirmishes with impressive dexterity. I had originally entrusted him with the imperial guard because he’d seemed both skilled and trustworthy, and he was proving me completely right. In fact, he was actually exceeding the expectations I’d had for him.

The fact that I’d only had to pay attention to the enemy at the very start of the raid was testament to that; his steady command had ensured I could remain unbothered for the rest. The only enemy soldiers that had slipped past our men and managed to get near me had done so by complete chance, having lost their bearings in all the chaos and darkness. In most cases, a single sword stroke from Balthazar had been enough to ensure they hadn’t been a problem.

Timona’s presence had also been a contributing factor to why I’d been able to focus solely on destroying the cannons too, of course, but in any case, Balthazar’s sheer reliability had been a happy miscalculation.

Actually, given how capable he was, I wondered if the imperial demesne felt claustrophobic to him. My suspicion was that he himself considered fighting on the front lines to be his principal occupation, and his guard work to be outside of his field of expertise—even if he was perfectly competent at the latter, in my opinion.

All in all, he was definitely better at the helm than your run-of-the-mill platoon commander, and his individual combat skills were among the best. Even now, he seemed full of energy in the aftermath of the raid. No wonder he carried himself with such confidence.

Whoever had mentored him must have been a hell of a guy. A general, if I recalled correctly, and also his liege lord at the time. Maybe that was why Balthazar preferred serving a lord who fought on the front lines himself instead of holing up in the imperial demesne.

All of a sudden, Timona, who’d thrown his cloak back on at some point, uttered a warning. “We have company,” he said. His cloak was free of bloodstains but also completely dry. I had so few opportunities to see him use magic that sometimes I almost forgot he could. “Riders, several of them. They’re approaching our location.”

“What?!” That didn’t bode well. At all.

Although the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, it was still dark out. The riders came from the direction of the road, lamps in their hands. Even if they weren’t pursuers from the raid, anyone from the Raul side would have good reason to view us with suspicion. Moving about without any light sources at this hour broadcast that we were up to no good. We kept our eyes fixed on the riders as they approached. I felt more nervous than when we’d conducted the raid; my whole body had broken out into a cold sweat.

When they were finally close enough that we could see each other’s faces, I released the breath I’d been holding in a long, deep sigh.

“That’s a scary...expression...” said the girl at the front of the group, no doubt oblivious to how I felt. “Is everything...okay?”

“Vera,” I greeted. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Indeed, it was none other than Vera-Sylvie, accompanied by several intelligence agents. Real ones.

“How did you know we were here?” I asked.

“The spymaster...told us to...pick you up,” she explained.

Count Palatine Vodedt did? Timona seemed to process that faster than me, because I heard him click his tongue. “Our clothes,” he said. “He must have had magical trackers sewn into them.”

I sighed, exasperated. “Does he really have so little faith in me?”

Upon closer inspection, Vera-Sylvie’s lamp differed from the agents with her—it resembled a magical tool. That must have been how they’d tracked us down. I didn’t know whether the Count Palatine truly doubted that I would keep my word or was just being overprotective, but he probably hadn’t done it out of malice, at least. He could’ve easily tracked us without sending Vera-Sylvie and his agents, and we would’ve been none the wiser.

Our groups merged, and we rode swiftly back to Chelán Hill without further incident.

The Armies Take Positions

The sun finally rose, shedding light on what we’d achieved.

Our night raid had been a complete success. Our objective, the cannons, had been destroyed down to the last. As you’d expect, we had a number of people who were MIA—dead, in all likelihood—or injured, but our losses were a drop in the bucket compared to the enemy’s.

We’d eliminated the threat presented by the Raul army’s artillery, and that had broadened our field of available strategies. News of the victory had also visibly improved the morale of our soldiers and laborers.

As for the Count Palatine, we quickly learned upon our return the reason he’d sent Vera-Sylvie to fetch us in his stead.

“It appears that Siegbert Wendelin von Frentzen-Orengau, the Imperium’s Mayor of the Palace, was assassinated,” he reported. “This has sent ripples through the nobility, and has resulted in a cessation of the monetary backing the self-proclaimed Duke Raul was receiving from the Imperium. We believe this to be the reason the Raul army mobilized far quicker than we anticipated.”

Apparently, our unit that raided the enemy mages had managed to capture and interrogate several Imperium soldiers who had come to reinforce their allies. I questioned whether that sort of torture might cause a diplomatic incident, but the Count Palatine reassured me, telling me that the captured soldiers were already under several layers of earth. I supposed this world’s espionage specialists had it pretty good, not having to worry about pesky things like international law.

“So they didn’t suddenly find their gumption all at once—they’re feeling cornered,” I summarized. Having lost his backing due to the Imperium’s political upheaval, the self-proclaimed Duke Raul had realized he was running out of time. “But for matters in the Imperium to be moving already? That’s faster than I expected...”

I’d just discussed the situation with Timona yesterday. Why was it that these things always happened when you least expected it? “Can your agents gather more detailed information?” I asked.

“Quite possibly, yes,” the Count Palatine answered. “But it will take some time.”

Yeah, that figured. Couldn’t do anything about that.

The reigning Divinity—not exactly a dude of steely resolve, I’d gathered—had failed to use the Ordination Feud from a while back to strengthen his position, which gave me a vague idea of how this was all going to turn out. But matters regarding the Imperium could wait for now.

What was more relevant was that we’d learned our enemy was quickly running out of grace. With nothing to lose, they’d attack us with everything they had in order to kill me or take me prisoner. In other words, chances were low that they’d attempt a protracted siege.

Ah, there was one more point I should mention: Over the past few days, the overall circumstances of the civil war had seen some changes. First up, it seemed that Marquess Arndal, who was being besieged by the Raul faction nobility, had chosen to resist until the bitter end. According to our information, he was overwhelmingly outnumbered and indeed might have already fallen. Foreseeing this possibility, he’d smuggled his children out and sent them in the direction of Chelán Hill. Currently, they were under the protection of Lady Nunmeidt—the transmigrator’s liege.

Speaking of, it bore mentioning that Lady Nunmeidt had defeated her older brothers and restored order to most of her county’s major cities. However, since those cities were concentrated in the county’s north, and she had Raul faction neighbors to her east and west, it was up in the air whether her forces would make it here in time for the battle. I hoped for her sake that they did—even a few hundred would do. Otherwise, it’d be difficult for me to give her preferential treatment after the war.

As for the Agincarl, their infighting had gotten so chaotic that our information on them was all over the place. However, while it was a three-way brawl to the south of the County of Chamneau, it seemed the nobles to the north of the county had settled into a standoff. It appeared my read on the situation had been correct; the nobility outside of Raul and Agincarl wanted to avoid fighting if they could get away with it.

Lastly, there was the Dozran army, which had almost arrived at Chelán Hill. Given their position and marching speed, they’d probably arrive around when the Raul army did—which, come to think of it, was probably exactly what they were aiming for. The conniving bastards.

＊＊＊

Thus, in order to realign ourselves with the shift in circumstances, we convened another military council.

“I would suggest our forces be arranged as follows,” Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray proposed. It was his lead we’d be following for our armies’ formation.

Following convention, as the defensive party, we would complete our deployment first, after which the attacking party would deploy reactively. Attempting the reverse would only lead to the possibility of us scrambling to get into position against a prepared enemy, which could result in gaps in our defenses.

Conversely, the enemy probably thought that since we were on the defensive, it was unlikely that we’d attack them while they were forming up. Which was true. Partly.

“The Atúr will remain on standby to the north,” the deputy general continued. “If the enemy heads there, rather than south as we’re anticipating, they’ll use their mobility to buy us time. Our goal will be to use that window to break through the enemy’s left flank with our primary forces.”

For reference, our front faced east, meaning the south was our right flank and the north was our left, and vice versa for the enemy. As for our primary forces, it went without saying, but those were the armies of my lords. Their domain would be the southern side of the hill.

The question at hand was where the enemy would deploy their strongest force—left flank, right flank, or center? If they followed convention, they would deploy it on their left flank, to match ours. But there was no guarantee they would choose to follow convention, which meant the best we could do was make an educated guess.

As per our initial strategy, the basic idea was to lure the enemy to deploy at our southern side. If they refused to take the bait and concentrated their forces at our left flank—the hill’s north—then the Atúr cavalry would buy us enough time with their retreating fire tactics for our right flank to go on the offense. That was the gist of it, at least. Though, with this strategy, the sheer difference in numbers would make it a difficult fight.

“That would be more than possible, if they were given enough open ground to work with,” Viscount Cédolin said. “But they’ll be restricted by the geography near Mifeux Hill. Isn’t it somewhat unrealistic to expect them to divert the enemy alone?”

It was Salomon who provided a solution. Although he was Belvérian, he was playing a proactive part in this council as an allied commander. “What if we deployed Count Nunvalle’s army to the north, then?”

“Count Nunvalle’s army... So you mean to use the archers?”

Count Nunvalle’s army, led by Arnoul de Nunvalle, only numbered a thousand. However, it was notable for being composed almost entirely of archers. Apparently, while House Nunvalle was more known for their civil officials than their military exploits and had few skilled cavalry or pikemen in their service, they had something of a specialization in the art of the bow.

There were probably some people of the opinion that bows were just an inferior, outdated version of guns, but that simply wasn’t true in this world. After all, firearms had a number of glaring shortcomings.

To begin with, sudum guns and archers had roughly the same effective range—that being the maximum distance at which you could expect to hit an enemy and actually cause some damage. The matchlocks of Earth had been good up to around two hundred meters, if I remembered correctly, but I was fairly sure sudums couldn’t boast the same. I couldn’t give you an exact number, since the units of measurement were different, but let’s say ballpark one hundred and fifty.

In other words, firing a sudum gun from any range over 150 meters was likely to be pretty ineffective. And this was after technological improvements and such—this world’s last generation of guns had been far inferior to bows in terms of effective range. If we were simply talking maximum range, then the sudum’s numbers tripled, but that didn’t mean much, since the bullets would lose a great deal of potency the further out you got.

Then we came to the biggest shortcoming of matchlock firearms, sudum included: their inability to perform repeated fire. Compensating for this was the precise reason why volleyed fire was a fundamental technique for musketeers to learn. The idea was that a platoon would fire all at once, and then allied pikemen would buy enough time until the next volley was ready. As such, when it came to battles on open ground, you needed pikemen robust enough to withstand the enemy’s offense, or your musketeers wouldn’t be able to exhibit their true value.

Archers, on the other hand, were capable of continuous fire. Moreover, due to the curved trajectory of their fire, standing on elevated ground could extend their effective range to beyond that of sudums—and thanks to gravity, the potency of the arrows wouldn’t diminish much either. All in all, it was no wonder why so many people still believed archers to be superior to musketeers.

Of course, that begged the question: Why, then, had firearms become so widespread? Well, it was a matter of skill. Bows were more difficult to use, and archers took more time to train than musketeers. Far more time. To give you an idea, the list in that regard went battle mages, cavalry, then archers.

Incidentally, the trade-off with a crossbow was that it was far easier to handle at the cost of a shorter effective range. Essentially, in this world, bows beat guns for range, which themselves beat crossbows, but for ease of use, crossbows beat guns and guns beat bows.

Getting back on topic, the point was that a detachment of archers was both valuable and costly. The idea of using the high ground to further leverage the advantage provided by bows was worth considering.

“Word of the Nunvalle mage archer corps reached even my ears during my time in Belvére,” Salomon said. “Their philosophy differs from ours in that they are a coordinated unit of ‘individuals.’”

Salomon went on to explain that the mage archers used magic to enhance the potency and effective range of their bows. This was done with spells that affected the wind, spells that hardened their arrowheads, or a personal favorite of mine, infusion magic, just to name a few. Each individual mage archer had their own forte, but the end result was the same: a more powerful bow.

That was indeed a different approach from Salomon’s mages, who were split according to their specialties. Perhaps that was why he had an interest in them.

Only a fraction of Nunvalle’s archers were mages, of course, but their ability to fire from what the enemy would assume was beyond an archer’s effective range would be a formidable asset nonetheless.

“But magic will be—” I began, before cutting myself off. “Ah, no. We suppose it will be no issue.”

“Indeed,” Salomon said. “Our test firing from the other day revealed that the barrel will break before the...‘magical device’ is exhausted. The surplus should allow us to make full use of its capabilities.”

“Very well.” I nodded, then moved on to another major concern. “Then, what of the area between the Byner and Ginaugh hills?”

There was a valley between the aforementioned hills where we’d dug a ditch and erected chevaux-de-frise akin to the rest of our defenses, but hadn’t added earthen walls or trenches because it hadn’t seemed necessary. The narrow breadth of the valley and exposure to projectile fire from both hillsides meant that the enemy wouldn’t be able to develop a significant portion of their forces through it, and even if they did, all that awaited them was a patch of low ground surrounded by the higher elevation of the hills.

From the Raul army’s point of view, that meant the valley was a choke point that could have any number of enemies on the other side. Coupled with how easy it would be to surround them, it was unlikely that they’d put much focus on attacking the valley.

In reality, it represented a weak point for us. If they broke through there, we simply wouldn’t have the numbers to stop them; every one of our soldiers was needed elsewhere. Should the Raul army take the valley, it would mean they’d be able to flank around to the rear of my lords’ armies deployed outside of the hills. But while such a pincer attack would mean certain defeat for us, we also couldn’t leave men in there. It was a good thing the likelihood of the enemy attacking it seemed fairly low.

“What of the mercenaries?” Salomon suggested. “They should be capable enough of defending a stationary position.”

The mercenaries? Right, Fabio had supplemented the numerically lacking Ramitead army by contracting a thousand sellswords. Mind you, that wasn’t a single mercenary band of a thousand, but a thousand scraped together out of a few different crews. In plainer terms, unity of command would be difficult to ensure, making the mercenaries a real grab bag of skill.

That didn’t exactly make them the most reassuring force to watch our backs, but we couldn’t spare any of my lords’ forces for a location where the enemy only might show up. I supposed our hands were tied.

“Will we be able to lure the enemy to our south?” I asked.

“We will have eight thousand men total deployed—the enemy will find it difficult to justify not committing their main force there. It’s the limit of what we can muster, especially if we also wish to account for Dozran.”

The Dozran army was approaching from the south, and since we didn’t know whether they would be friend or foe yet, we had to prepare for the worst. Quite honestly, it was extremely annoying of them.

However, in the event that the enemy saw Dozran the same way, they would likely deploy the bulk of their forces at the south too, in order to avoid showing any openings.

“Very well,” I said. “Then this shall be our formation. We have placed our trust in you all. Ensure you deliver us—all of us—a victory.”

“Victory for the Empire!” came a chorus of voices. “Victory for His Majesty the Emperor!”

And with that oath spoken, the formation of the emperor’s faction armies was finalized.

＊＊＊

Two days later, the Raul army arrived with the coming of daybreak.

From north to south, the Raul army’s formation consisted of five thousand regular soldiers, thirty thousand militia, and then another fifteen thousand soldiers. In addition, there were Imperium mercenaries visible behind the militia, to the tune of three thousand or so. As for the enemy’s battle mages, it seemed they’d been scattered among the militia rather than centralized into a single force.

In other words, the Raul army’s strength was concentrated in its left flank—exactly according to our plan. Though to be fair, from their point of view the only path to a quick victory was taking Byner Hill from the south and capturing me. To them, the fact that the hills were difficult to escape from within was a boon.

However, there was another major reason the enemy had chosen the formation they had: While they’d been forming up, the harassment efforts of Péter Pál’s Atúr cavalry at their northern flank had seemingly convinced them that we were trying to lure them into a trap. As a result, they’d purposefully concentrated their forces on the opposite side.

Honestly, the Atúr were such reliable allies that it almost felt scary.

With our two armies now barely outside of each other’s striking distance, the final tally was as follows: 24,300 for the emperor’s faction coalition, and an estimated 53,000 for the Raul army. Put plainly, we were fighting a force twice our size.

Combined, there were a total of over seventy thousand combatants on this battlefield—a rather abnormal scale for a civil war, by this world’s standards. In the context of the Empire, though, it didn’t seem all that strange. Particularly since forty thousand were merely conscripted militia.

Being frank, it was an incredible sight to behold. If only I’d been in the position of an admiring onlooker. Instead, it was almost enough to give me a stomachache.

We’d given our militia within the hills’ defenses crossbows and forbidden them from leaving, telling them that it was safer inside. Quite callous, as methods went, but it was true that their chances of survival were better that way. They likely understood this well, having built the earthen walls and dug the trenches with their own hands.

They were positioned along the internal trenches, with eight thousand at Byner Hill and two thousand at Ginaugh. The construction of the latter’s defenses had finished in time, thank goodness.

As for who would be commanding them, we’d entrusted that to the platoon commanders of the emperor’s host. It clearly went beyond their command capacity, since they still had their regular soldiers to direct, but it was the lesser of two evils, since we couldn’t afford to weaken my lords’ armies.

The result was the emperor’s host being spread evenly across the battlefield: five hundred at Ginaugh Hill, then the same number again spread across Byner Hill’s north, Byner Hill’s south, and right next to our troop headquarters. Most were equipped with sudum guns, while the rest were spearmen. But while we’d drilled the latter in the basics of how to handle their weapons, we hadn’t trained them in the finer points of spearmanship, because our intention from the very start had been to have them fight from within the defenses. So while they might not have been capable of holding against an enemy charge, they could at least charge the enemy as a coherent unit.

Incidentally, troop headquarters—where I and my coterie were positioned, in other words—was located at the southeastern section of Byner Hill: the highest point in all of Chelán Hill. In regard to our chain of command, on paper the commander in chief was me, Emperor Carmine. In practice, it was Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray, peer of the Twin Champions. The caveat was that the isolation of Byner Hill made it difficult to transmit orders to Ginaugh Hill and the right flank of my lords’ armies, so the only commands coming out of HQ would be in the form of simple smoke signals. To give you an idea of how simple, the entirety of our range was “fight as usual,” “charge,” and in the event we won, “pursue.” There was an argument that we should’ve established a signal for “retreat,” but we hadn’t really seen the point. A loss here would mean the end for all of us.

In light of that, it had been decided that command of each troop would lie with its on-site commander. That meant Péter Pál for the Atúr cavalry, who I’d given permission to act according to how they saw fit; Arnoul de Nunvalle for the three thousand five hundred men at Ginaugh Hill; and Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray for those here at Byner Hill.

Viscount Cédolin had command over the lords’ armies that made up our right flank, afforded to him by his position of Duke Warren’s legate. From north to south, those units were deployed in the order of Duke Warren’s army of three thousand, Marquess Mardrusa’s army of two thousand, Marquess Ramitead’s army of one thousand, then Count Ethaiq’s army of two thousand. While Marquess Mardrusa’s and Count Ethaiq’s forces hadn’t made any suspicious moves yet, they were still relative newcomers to our cause, which is why I’d placed Fabio’s troop between them.

Still, the problem with that was that the Ramitead army wasn’t all that formidable skill-wise, since their house had only recently been restored. They had veterans in the chain of command, certainly—surviving retainers of the old House Ramitead—but many of their boots on the ground were freshly conscripted. Overall, they weren’t all that different from the emperor’s host.

Despite my concerns, however, we could only do the best with what we had. We’d done everything we could to give ourselves the best odds; all that was left was to see which way the chips fell.

Okay. Honestly? I was incredibly worried. If we lost this battle, I’d be branded an incompetent emperor and put on the express train to the afterlife. Sure, I’d exhausted every option I’d had to ensure we had the best chance of victory, but the fact that the outcome would depend on my lords and our soldiers—people other than me—terrified me beyond words.

I looked down on the battlefield from our command center, feeling like my breath was caught in my throat. It was a shame not everyone could read the mood.

“What a glorious sight!” exclaimed a carefree voice. “Does it not get one’s heart a-thumping, Your Majesty?”

I bit back a reflexive, scathing retort. This idiot was Viscount Orlon, from Keighamer. Despite being entrusted with one of the major cities of the emperor’s direct holdings, he was an incompetent who’d bent over backward to toady up to the Chancellor, and ever since I’d established control over the imperial capital, had been doing the same to me.

Why was he on the front lines, you ask? Well, we had more soldiers here than in Keighamer. Plus, our forces in Keighamer belonged to Duke Warren and Marquess Mardrusa, meaning Viscount Orlon could do nothing about them, and Nadine—who, as a duke’s daughter, was above him in station—was playing host to the merchants and other nobility. Bored, the viscount had cooked up the perfunctory excuse that he needed to “hasten to the emperor’s side to assist him.”

I knew this because Nadine had included a thorough explanation—as well as a profuse apology—in her letter. Also, this was unrelated, but despite her usual haughty tone, her penmanship was exquisite, just as one would expect from a member of the upper reaches of the aristocracy.

Incidentally, it was apparently no issue that Viscount Orlon had left Keighamer, because his subordinates were the ones doing all the governing anyway. On the contrary, without his incompetent nosing about getting in the way, our supply line from the city was actually running more efficiently than before.

It might seem hard to believe, but despite his incompetence being one step short of actively colluding with the enemy, an investigation by our intelligence operatives had revealed that nothing of the sort was going on. I supposed that was why he’d been dumped in a throne-held territory, though, rather than having been headhunted by either the Chancellor or Minister of Ceremony. I’d come straight to Chelán Hill instead of making a stop at Keighamer for a reason, but it seemed the idiot was too oblivious to get the hint.

Honestly, if Viscount Orlon had hired even a handful of mercenaries as part of his excuse to come assist me, I could’ve dispensed some praise and forgotten about him. Instead, he’d only come with a single attendant, and in a mood that reminded me of someone excited for a sports match.

The most depressing part of it all, though, was that he wasn’t the only one. Our troop headquarters were packed with people like him: knights of the Empire who possessed no land, barons in name only who’d purchased their titles with coin, and so on. None of them had brought any significant amount of force with them, and all seemed excited to spectate the coming battle. In fact, according to the Count Palatine, most of them had tried to join the Raul army before being chased off. I had considered giving them the same treatment, but figured that letting them stay here where only myself, several others, and the imperial guard were present was better than having them loitering around elsewhere and affecting my forces’ morale.

“I wonder if we’ll be able to see Duke Raul’s battle mages soon?” speculated one.

“I’ve heard the fireballs they produce are quite impressive,” remarked another.

Unfortunately, that meant they were here, affecting my morale. I was regretting not kicking them out a little more with every passing moment.

Still, there was a reason the rubberneckers were so carefree. In ordinary circumstances, civil conflicts like these were never all that bloody, since the participants were countrymen. What usually ended up happening was that the involved parties would commit to an initial clash, then move onto reconciliation negotiations the moment it looked like anyone had gained the advantage. That was just how things worked in this world. Even with the Agincarl conflict, which I had described as a quagmire, things were only fierce between the would-be successors vying for headship—the rest of the nobility were exchanging the equivalent of rude glares.

Anyway, my point was that the rubberneckers were completely oblivious. They had no idea that I had set all this up to take the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s head, nor that he had his back against the wall and would be coming at me with just as much intensity.

At last, the battle began. It would be my first step toward beating this putrefied Empire back into shape.

The Battle of Chelán Hill, Part 1

I didn’t know which side commenced the battle. All I knew was that the enemy’s left flank had just engaged our right, their militia in the center was advancing, and we were firing our carver cannons in response.

We had thirty carvers in total, but the enemy probably thought we had twice as many because of how we were using them, as well as how they were positioned.

After you fired a carver, you ordinarily had to cool it—usually using oil—repair any fissures, reload it, and adjust its angle of fire and orientation before being able to fire again. The cooling in particular was vital, since you couldn’t even touch the cannon until that was done, lest you suffer severe burns.

However, we were forcibly cooling the cannons with water, ice, and wind magic, which allowed us an ordinarily impossible rate of fire. The thing was, we weren’t firing at that rate. Instead, we were exploiting the extra time it allowed us to wheel the cannons to a different gun platform before firing again.

There were two reasons for this. The first was that, in the event the enemy had intel on the number of cannons we’d brought, this would mislead them into thinking we’d deployed all of them on the eastern side of Byner Hill. After all, there was a chance that they’d gauged how many we’d brought during our taking of Reydra, even if they didn’t know what model we were using. Naturally, this would be wasted effort if the enemy had spies among us feeding them the intel, but there was no harm in going to the extra effort.

We’d gone to all this trouble because we were wary of the enemy’s cannons. Our initial plan had assumed defenses on three hills—having to work with two instead made us more vulnerable to the enemy pinpointing our gun platforms.

Of course, our strategy had its own issues. For one, the rapid cooling would more easily lead to fissures in the metal, and cannons were expensive pieces of ordnance. They were ordinarily cooled with oil to preserve them for as long as possible.

However, I intended to finish this battle today. And even if we won, the cumbersome siege weaponry wouldn’t be able to keep up with our advance regardless. Every last one of them could break, for all I cared.

Another potential issue was that unlike oil cooling, water cooling created steam, which could obstruct the view of our other units. This wasn’t a concern for us, though, since our militiamen and fresh soldiers weren’t capable of precise shooting in the first place.

Thus, we had our freshly recruited battle mages cooling the cannons, while the veteran Belvérian battle mages protected them from the enemy’s spells with barrier magic. In other words, we weren’t responding to the enemy’s magical offensives with our own.

The enemy must have believed this to be a lucky break, because they advanced aggressively. The militia in the center of their formation began a charge on the hill, while the mages behind them used them as shields, approaching as close as they dared to further unleash their arcane might.

Our defensive force on the hill—composed of militia and new recruits—replied by rolling leftover logs from the construction and stone that hadn’t been worked into cannonballs down the side of the hill. For good measure, they also threw bricks that had once made up Reydra’s walls.

You might wonder whether such makeshift munitions could actually kill a person, to which I would say: Yes, of course they could. The existence of weapons tended to make people forget, but humans were surprisingly fragile creatures. If you looked at the history of humanity, thrown stones had a fair claim to being our kind’s chief weapon of choice, and were quite possibly what had claimed the most lives in total.

Altogether, it was the final nail in the coffin that served to make the eastern slope of Byner Hill unassailable. Any enemy soldier that slipped into the dry moat we’d dug would find themselves impaled by the stakes within. If they were lucky enough to survive and attempt to climb out, they’d only be crushed by the rocks and logs falling from above. And if they survived that, they still had a despair-inducing steep hill slope awaiting them, with more falling rocks to deal with during the climb. It was nothing short of hell.

Nevertheless, the enemy’s militia continued to advance, and continued to die.

If you were wondering why they kept charging to their deaths, it was because they literally couldn’t stop. They were being pressed forward by those behind them, who were being pressed forward by those behind them, and so on and so forth, until all the way at the back, there were soldiers with their weapons ready to execute any deserters.

The point of this charge by the enemy was to wear away at our defenses. And since they weren’t losing any of their career soldiers, they likely didn’t give a damn about the casualty count. Wave after wave, they sent the militia to their deaths.

Unfortunately, this was just how things worked in this world. You put your militia in the front and made an example out of any deserters to keep them in line. I’d ordered for these encampments on the hill expressly to avoid that, but it seemed that in the end—even if it was technically the enemy’s fault—many citizens of the Empire would be dying today.

Such was war.

Of course, the enemy’s charge was far from pointless. It achieved its objective of providing cover for their battle mages with flying colors. While our men were focused desperately on the enemy militia climbing up toward them, the enemy’s mages were slowly but steadily wearing away at our defenses: filling our dry moats, destroying our chevaux-de-frise, and working the hill slope to make it easier to scale. On top of that, they were also periodically firing offensive spells to keep our soldiers’ heads down.

In response, we were concentrating our cannon fire on the enemy mages’ suspected positions. No matter how good their barrier magic was, it wouldn’t stop a full-velocity cannonball at this distance.

All in all, it resembled a repeated game of cat and mouse, with the enemy battle mages evading our firing lines as they assaulted us, while our cannoneers did their best to track them. But that was fine with me. We didn’t need anything more than that out of the eastern slope cannons.

Incidentally, the enemy mages also fired periodic spells at our command center. I mean, it wasn’t exactly hard for them to figure out that the emperor was probably here, what with the raised flag and all. However, Vera-Sylvie and I were enough to shut down those attacks. It wasn’t too hard; the only spells that could reach us at this height came by their range in the first place by giving up much of their stopping power.

Meanwhile, oblivious to everything, the gawking lower gentry cheered at every cannon shot or enemy spell offensive. I was this close to kicking them down the slope.

Those wasteheaps in human skins weren’t the only ones in a good mood, though. As the battle progressed, our men at the front began to cheer with every enemy wave they eliminated. Even the militia, who had looked so nervous to begin with, were going out of their way to kill any enemy unfortunate enough to catch their attention now. That was the effect of good morale, I supposed.

As for the battle outside, the right flank of our forces had begun a slow retreat, pushed back by the enemy’s left. It was all according to our plan, of course, but there was no denying how formidable the Raul army was. Even if you didn’t factor that in, it was their fifteen thousand men—all career soldiers to boot, rather than militia—against our eight thousand. It would’ve been stranger if they weren’t pushing us back.

Nevertheless, it seemed we were giving as good as we got. Of considerable note was how we were managing to successfully avoid the Raul army’s cavalry charges.

You might think that the propagation of firearms would make cavalry obsolete, but it was actually the exact opposite: The interval created by matchlocks needing to reload represented an excellent opportunity for a cavalry charge. You only had to look at the battles of the Sengoku period as an example—despite the rapid popularization of guns across Japan, they only became usable in battle when one also had anticavalry palisades and spear lines.

In this world, each force—whether it belonged to a noble or not—fought against cavalry in its own idiosyncratic way. There were those that equipped their musketeers with their own anticavalry stakes, those that relied on allied archer fire while their musketeers reloaded, those that preferred dense spear formations, and even those that met an enemy cavalry charge with one of their own, just to list a few examples.

In any case, those were the kinds of tactics my lords’ armies employed during their fighting retreat, deftly fending off the Raul army’s shock tactics as they slowly backed toward the hill. It was a classic case of “easier said than done,” but they were performing as well as our plan could have hoped for.

As for the other side of the battlefield, where the Atúr cavalry made the tip of our left flank, I had no idea—the geography made it difficult to see anything that was going on. There were only two thousand of the Atúr against five thousand of the enemy’s regular soldiers, but all I could really do was have faith that they’d handle themselves.

What was more clear, though, was that the mercenaries we’d stationed in the valley between Byner and Ginaugh Hill were under more pressure than we’d anticipated. Given the narrow environs and projectile support from both sides, they should have been fighting at an advantage, but the Imperium force they were up against—knocking on the door of three thousand in terms of size—was forcing them back at a considerable pace.

It was the same Imperium unit that had been baited by our distraction unit during our night raid on the cannons. Apparently, the Atúr cavalry had practically toyed with them. It seemed that might have come back to bite us, because the Imperium unit was pressing our mercenaries with all the ferocity of men who’d been forced to suffer the bitter taste of humiliation.

“That’s sellswords for you,” Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray said with a hint of cynicism. “Supple as a young branch.”

Had he forgotten that he’d deployed them there? No, I supposed that was the exact reason he was bad-mouthing them.

The mercenaries of this era could best be described as a mixed bag. In general, though, they were accustomed to weapons and combat, so there wasn’t much to complain about when it came to their pure offensive potential. However, they had a reputation for being riddled with command issues, or quick to shy away from a hard fight. In that sense, our mercenaries were typical examples of the stereotype.

“Still, we never expected the enemy to charge straight in without regard for potential traps,” I mused aloud. “Did they acquire intelligence that there are none, somehow?”

If the enemy broke through the mercenaries, they’d reach the low ground between all three hills. Ordinarily, one would assume that would make them vulnerable to our forces surrounding them. In truth, it was actually our weak point, where he hadn’t been able to allocate additional defenses.

“Or perhaps one of their commanders instinctively senses that it could be the key that leads to their victory,” Balthazar suggested, looking ready to sortie out at any moment. “The last man I served had such a sixth sense.”

The imperial guard, for the record, did not have a standardized set of equipment they adhered to. Perhaps it was because the current iteration was a gathering of relatively skilled individuals, but each was equipped with the arms and armor of their choice. For Balthazar, this apparently meant a lance. He’d used a sword during the night raid—presumably for the maneuverability—so it seemed his preference was to switch things up according to the circumstances.

“So what shall we do?” I asked Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray. The implied question was obvious: Shall we send reinforcements?

We did have soldiers in reserve, that was true. Five hundred freshly “recruited” militiamen, to be exact. Their morale was low, though—being trapped in our encampment and having a weapon forced into your hands would do that. The same was true for pretty much all of the militia on our side, save the ones raining death down on the enemy at the front of the defenses. Either way, I doubted sending them to reinforce the mercenaries would change much of anything.

And unfortunately for the seemingly motivated Balthazar, I wouldn’t be sending the imperial guard either. Although there were only a hundred of them, they were valuable cavalry assets. It’d be a waste to deploy them for this, and above all, they didn’t have ranged weapons—sending them to reinforce troops outside of the encampment didn’t make much sense.

However, it seemed that Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray didn’t intend to send reinforcements at all. “No,” he said. “It’s almost time.” Evidently, he’d decided the mercenaries would be able to hold.

Before long, the enemy’s magical offensive finally ceased, and our cannons went silent. The area had become mana-burnt.

From a distance, we watched as the Raul battle mages retreated to a safe distance, followed by the militia who’d committed so many reckless charges against us. A raucous cheer went up from our own militia within the encampment as they saw the enemy withdraw.

It seemed that Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray thought the mercenaries would be able to manage on their own, because he gave the order to proceed to the final stage of our strategy. “Get a message to Sir Barbetorte,” he relayed to a messenger. “Inform him to relocate the battle mages to the hill’s south, as planned.”

Perhaps the deputy general even thought that it would be fine if the enemy broke through the mercenaries, so long as we could seize victory before they circled around to join the attack on our right flank.

Personally, I wasn’t so sure. Maybe he saw the mercenaries as an acceptable loss, but even if they were only on the back foot because of issues of their own making, I had the feeling that leaving an allied force to die would hurt the morale of our troops in the encampments.

However, having passed Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray the baton of command, it would be a major faux pas for me to publicly contradict him. What to do, what to do...

“Timona,” I said, after some thought. “Lead our five hundred reserve troops from the emperor’s host to the north side of Byner Hill. Take Vera-Sylvie and the spare mana-sealing wards with you.”

Since the area was mana-burnt, Vera-Sylvie’s role was complete; after all, unlike me, she couldn’t emit her internal mana. But the makeshift batteries would allow her to make a significant impact. The issue was, I didn’t want to send her out alone. The deputy general needed to maintain overall command, the imperial guard needed to protect the command center, and judging from my exchange with him before the night raid, the Count Palatine seemed reluctant to leave my vicinity. By process of elimination, then, the only person I could turn to was Timona.

“Is this...necessary?” grumbled a discontented Bourgault-Ducoudray.

“Our attendant, being constantly at our side, has never had the chance to experience the mantle of a commander,” I explained. “Yet, it’s due time that we begin considering his promotion, so we’d like to give him a share of the glory. Do forgive us this little bit of opportunism.”

Timona seemed to pick up my thoughts from the look I shot him, because he backed me up. “I am deeply grateful for Your Majesty’s favor,” he said.

Naturally, that was a complete lie. He was still the same weirdo who preferred tasting my food for poisons to accolades and laurels.

Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray looked unconvinced but eventually relented regardless. It had been a while since I’d played the self-indulgent emperor card. And honestly, if you took just this part out of context, I would be the very picture of a foolish sovereign who stuck his nose where it wasn’t needed.

I made some distance from the deputy general so that he couldn’t hear and gave Timona his real orders. See, I’d come up with an idea for how to bolster the parts of the battlefield where we were at a disadvantage.

I offered Timona an apology in my thoughts as I saw him off. For the record, he didn’t look the least bit happy to have been put in command of his own unit.

I’d kind of figured that would be the case, though.

The Battle of Chelán Hill, Part 2

For a while afterward, I simply watched the battle unfold, waiting for the execution of our strategy. Without a unit to command myself, the majority of my time was actually unoccupied. Though, granted, that was probably a more accurate representation of what an emperor’s usual role on the battlefield was.

Still, it was impossible for me to enjoy my period of respite. Not with the amount of death happening before my eyes. It didn’t help either that today’s outcome would all but determine my future—or lack of one.

As for how the battle was progressing, our right flank was still in the process of being pushed back, with the Ramitead and Ethaiq forces resisting fiercely for each inch of ground they were forced to concede. The former fought with particularly stark fervor, likely out of desperation to make up for their failure with the construction, while the latter, despite my misgivings about its commander, was clearly well trained and a force to be reckoned with. In contrast, the Mardrusa and Warren forces appeared to be under considerable pressure.

Elsewhere, a chunk of the enemy militia in the center of their formation had skipped past a mere withdrawal and into a full-blown rout. There were enough of them that their momentum had become unstoppable, like an avalanche smashing through a dam.

I chalked it up to the untrained militia being unable to differentiate between an order to fall back and one to retreat. The former was a strategic maneuver to reposition, or make distance between one’s forces and the enemy, and it was no doubt what the Raul commanders had wanted to achieve. Conversely, a retreat was a call to cease fighting and withdraw from the battlefield, usually because one recognized their forces were losing.

With untrained militia, though, it was difficult to get them to pull any kind of maneuver off outside of “go forward” and “go back.” Upon receiving the order to fall back, some of them must have mistakenly seen their allies retreating as a sign they’d lost the battle and cut and run because of it. If the movement was allowed to gain momentum, and go on for long enough, it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy, and the battle would end in a loss in truth. This phenomenon wasn’t limited to militia, however—even trained soldiers could fall prey to it.

One only had to look at the famous Battle of Fei River from Chinese history to see how devastating it could be: It was purported that the Jin army had managed to defeat a Qin force ten times its size using the chaos.

Soldiers on the ground could hardly see past the rank in front of them, much less the overall battlefield. If their allies around them began to rapidly back away, it wasn’t much of a leap to assume they’d lost. That was why commanders directed orderly retreats, assuaged the fears of their men, and executed any who tried to desert.

As a matter of fact, the Raul army was doing just that, with the soldiers who’d been monitoring the militia from behind mercilessly cutting down those who were trying to flee. If they didn’t manage to stem the tide, defeat would become inevitable. After all, once the dam broke, nothing could stop the torrent. And to my eyes, several of the enemy’s militia units had already reached that point.

On the other hand, there were other militia units still charging at our defenses. Perhaps they felt bolstered by the Imperium force’s determined offensive. The situation was particularly bad at Ginaugh Hill, where it seemed our side only had the breathing room to focus on defense. It gave the Imperium force further momentum, which was a very much unwanted development. I’d given Timona directions on how to counter it, though, so I could only hope that he’d pull through.

Before long, our right flank began to fall back even further, which was when the Dozran army finally showed up. It numbered five thousand men, which was far too large for a marquess, but I knew why thanks to a report the Count Palatine had given me.

Since the Dozran army’s allegiance was as yet unknown, its arrival forced the tip of our right flank—Count Ethaiq’s forces—to pull back a substantial distance. It stung, because they’d been holding out relatively well so far, but they couldn’t expose themselves to a potential second front. Emboldened by this, the enemy’s left wing began to launch repeated, ruthless assaults.

The Dozran army’s positioning made it glaringly obvious that they favored Raul. But while they began to deploy their forces across the hill’s southern side, they refrained from explicitly joining either side’s cause, instead choosing to monitor the situation. I suspected they were going to wait for the victor to become obvious before committing.

That meant that if Raul kept pushing our right flank back like this, there was every chance the Dozran army would make up their mind and join the fight on their side, causing my lords’ armies massive losses.

But as the situation balanced on a knife’s edge, it seemed our battle mages had finally reshuffled and reached their new positions. The time had come to unleash the plan we had been sitting on for so long.

Multiple thunderous roars echoed throughout the hills, the rumbling so loud it seemed the earth itself was shaking. Moments after each one, holes blasted open in the enemy’s ranks, large enough that they were obvious even at this distance.

“So it’s begun,” Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray said.

I hummed in affirmation.

Our flock cannons—all thirty—had started their fusillade. The stone cannonballs, each the width of a grown man’s shoulders, rained down upon the enemy without mercy. And just like we’d done with the carvers earlier, the flocks were being rapidly cooled with magic, allowing them to fire again before even five minutes had passed.

By all rights, flocks weren’t capable of rapid fire; they simply weren’t designed for it. Well, calling it “rapid fire” was a stretch, since there was a several-minute cooldown time between shots, but that didn’t change that we were achieving what this world’s standard military doctrine would consider impossible. Despite the distance, I could easily see the enemy’s distress in their movements.

“I suspect it’s the first time in history they’ve been used this way,” the deputy general remarked.

Flock cannons had three fatal flaws. The first was that they weren’t capable of precise aiming. The second was the time it took to dissipate the staggering heat they generated when they fired. And last of all, the recoil from firing alone could cause fissures in the barrel. As such, they had a reputation for being defective weapons that couldn’t hit anything, could only fire a shot every hour, and broke down after only a few rounds.

From another perspective, however, if one didn’t care about those flaws, they were perfectly serviceable pieces of ordnance. The aim issue we could solve by creating a situation where the cannons didn’t need to aim. Case in point: There were fifteen thousand enemy soldiers on the battlefield, creating a target-rich environment. All we had to do was aim in the vague direction of their formation’s center.

Next, we could solve the cooling issue with magic, which in turn could be guaranteed even in a mana-burnt environment through the use of the mana-sealing wards we were using as makeshift batteries. Our water, ice, and wind magic created great swathes of steam that blanketed the southern side of the hill in a white veil that impaired visibility, but our forces there—cannons included—weren’t engaging in precision fire to begin with, so it wasn’t an issue.

Finally, we could somewhat alleviate the issue of fissures developing in the cannon barrels by reducing the amount of gunpowder we used. The heat shock from the rapid magical cooling would inevitably damage the flocks beyond repair regardless, but I had fully committed to the plan. We didn’t need sustained, periodic fire—we needed a one-shot, veritable storm of cannonballs. It seemed the artillery crews were getting used to the work too, because the time between the shots gradually became shorter and shorter.

“As we suspected, a percentage of our shots aren’t reaching the enemy,” Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray pointed out. “They’re rolling down the slope.”

“Unfortunate, but enough are reaching that it’s no issue,” I said.

Our cannonballs blasted hole after hole in the enemy lines, staining the battlefield crimson. At first, the idiot rubberneckers had cheered with each roared shot, but they soon began to fall silent. They weren’t the only ones—everyone on our side of the hill had gone quiet. It was hard not to, bearing witness to the sheer, overwhelming firepower of the flocks and the terror and chaos they caused. Parts of the enemy’s left flank had already begun to fall back.

“One can hardly even see them as cannons,” I mused aloud. “Rather, they are mere accelerative devices, their only purpose being to impart an initial velocity to stone cannonballs the width of a man’s shoulders.”

This was part of why we hadn’t dug a dry moat or installed chevaux-de-frise on Byner Hill’s southern side. Aside from wanting to lure the enemy here, as well as use it as the entrance and exit for our own forces, the slope made it the perfect terrain for the flock-fired cannonballs to crash a trail of destruction through the enemy.

After all, a cannonball didn’t only cause damage upon impact. It bounced and rolled across the ground, leaving further damage in its wake. Enemy soldiers fell almost like bowling pins. Many of the projectiles broke apart, since they were stone rather than iron, but the shrapnel was lethal in its own right.

“It’s doubtful we would’ve been able to expect much from the flocks on level ground,” I continued. “But at this elevation? Even a rolling log can reap its toll.”

The gravity assist only added to the cannonballs’ velocity. Whether they fell short and continued their journey, or crashed into the enemy directly, the result was the same: dead Raul soldiers.

“All it takes is a heavy stone and a little speed, and people die.”

As each cannonball struck, it left a hole in the enemy’s forces, the crimson visible even from our vantage point atop the hill. It was the kind of spectacle that could only be met with silence from the onlookers, even those who had been so boisterous such a short time ago.

＊＊＊

Hardly thirty minutes later, the battle had turned dramatically. Where the enemy’s left flank had once held an overwhelming advantage, the ball was now in our court.

“Your Majesty, the final flock has broken down,” the Count Palatine reported. Incidentally, his intelligence agents were being run ragged, acting as messengers between all the far corners of the battlefield.

I nodded. “They performed well.”

Contrary to our expectations, however, the enemy had not fully broken into a rout. Despite having their formation shattered, they seemed to have scrounged up enough grit to hold on. It was a bit of a surprise—no matter how formidable the Raul army was, I hadn’t anticipated them to be able to endure such a brutal shelling. I mean, there was a reason soldiers tended to call artillery support their “divine salvation.”

Moreover, Salomon had shown some initiative by going beyond his base directives and getting his mages to launch a magical offensive—apparently, they’d had a number of spare mana-sealing wards. It hadn’t created much of a physical dent in the enemy’s numbers, but it should’ve given them a nasty shock regardless, given that the area was mana-burnt and they must’ve assumed nothing magical would be coming their way.

Nevertheless, the enemy hadn’t broken and fled. They maintained their order and fell back at a gradual pace. It was puzzling, at first, but the reason became clear soon enough.

“That’s Duke Raul’s flag,” I observed. “To think the commander in chief himself would be fighting on the front lines...”

My lords’ armies had taken advantage of the chaos in the enemy’s ranks by launching a fierce offensive. Not far from the border of where they clashed, a standard fluttered in the air, declaring the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s position to the world. No wonder the enemy had been able to maintain order—their top dog was basically acting as rear guard.

From the beginning, my objective had been the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s death. However, he was the commanding general of his forces. Opportunities to strike at someone in his position weren’t exactly common.

However, there was one exception, a time when it was much easier to get a shot at the enemy’s general: during a pursuit. One army chasing down another put the former in the position to do the most damage, and the latter suffered the most losses. To prevent this, the retreating side left behind a rear guard, who were ready to fight to the death to secure their allies’ retreat. In my opinion, this window of opportunity was our best chance to kill the self-proclaimed duke.

Having said that, the current situation was a double-edged sword. Despite how vulnerable he was leaving himself—or rather, because of it—his troops were rallying around him. There was a clear uptick in morale in the area around his standard. It was just like Oda Nobunaga at the Battle of Nagara River; once the self-proclaimed duke’s forces completed their withdrawal from the battlefield, we’d lose our opening.

If I failed to take his head here, all of my preparations—all of the sacrifices I’d made—would amount to nothing more than just another battlefield victory. I wouldn’t have achieved my objective—I wouldn’t have truly won.

“Send out the order to our militia and new recruits on the southern side!” I shouted. “All forces, charge!”

There was only one more move to make, but it was the most crucial of them all. We needed to shatter the enemy’s morale because they could finish regrouping. It was do or die.

The Battle of Chelán Hill, Part 3

I had given the order to charge, I was sure of it. And both our militia and new soldiers were all equipped with melee weaponry. We had even drilled the latter on the basics of spearwork. Sure, they’d been using guns and crossbows from within the defenses, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have their close combat equipment still on them. Hell, they could charge with their guns and crossbows in hand, for all I cared. All they had to do was run down the hill, and the enemy would break.

Yet, nothing was happening. I ground my teeth in frustration. I’d admit that we’d focused too much on the idea of fighting from within the defenses, causing us to leave the soldiers’ melee weapons training by the wayside. But the enemy general was right there. One simple charge, and his forces would break. The chance to take his head and present it to me, earning glory and accolades, was right before our men’s eyes.

And no one was running toward it. Had we been too soft on them? Had we paid them too adequately? Or was it just that cowardice had won out over the promise of glory?

Killing the self-proclaimed Duke Raul wouldn’t only win this battle; it would rid the entire Duchy of Raul of a successor, making me the rightful inheritor by law. In other words, it would put an end to the Raul rebellion, right then and there. It would also likely guarantee that the Dozran army threw their lot in with us. Victory was within our grasp. Why wasn’t anyone taking it?

“What is the meaning of this?!”

“The battle between your lords’ forces and the Raul army is fierce,” Count Palatine Vodedt informed me. “The soldiers lack the nerve to join the fray.”

But the exposed flank of the enemy commander in chief’s unit was right before their eyes!

The enemy’s militia had at least been capable of following basic orders: “go forward,” and “go back.” The former had taken the form of a hapless charge, while the latter had devolved halfway into a rout, but they’d still done it. It seemed ours weren’t capable of even moving when we told them to. Instead, they were standing around like scarecrows with no purpose.

To make matters worse, the actual trained soldiers we had on the southern slope weren’t moving either. Sure, they were new recruits, and there were only five hundred of them, but what had been the point of all that training if they weren’t going to follow orders?

“We lack the adequate number of officers,” the Count Palatine continued. “The order isn’t disseminating, leaving our men in a state of paralysis.”

I sighed heavily. “One can have all the numbers in the world, but troops that don’t mobilize when ordered to are less than useless. I knew this, yet for it to happen to this extent...”

At this rate, the worst-case scenario would happen. After all the time and resources I’d invested to get us here, Sigmund would get away.

If we could just rout the enemy, my lords’ armies, battered as they were, would still be able to regroup and launch a pursuit. Any more fighting, though, and their losses would become too great. Fatigue and exhaustion would build, and they’d lose the strength to pursue.

Somehow, some way, we needed to dismantle the enemy’s orderly withdrawal.

Heck, the Dozran army could do it for us, for all I cared. I’d forget about every shady move they’d pulled and welcome them with open arms if they did. But they didn’t.

Should I follow the example set by the Battle of Sekigahara and attack the Dozran army? I thought. No, that would be a fool’s endeavor. I was pretty sure the exact maneuver I was thinking of was a work of fiction, anyway, rather than historical fact.

“In the end, it seems the only choice is to ride out myself,” I muttered, low enough that no one could hear me. If the enemy was holding out thanks to their commander’s presence, well, two could play at that game. “Bally!” I shouted. “Prepare the imperial guard! We intend to ride into battle!”

“Your Majesty!” Count Palatine Vodedt protested. “You cannot!”

It was rare for him to raise his voice like that. And evidently he wasn’t the only one of the opinion that I shouldn’t go, because Keighamer City’s Viscount Orlon was quick to butt in and agree. Given how silent he’d fallen earlier, I hadn’t expected to need to deal with him again. Had the soldiers’ fear spread to him too?

“The good Count Palatine is right, Your Majesty,” he said. “I understand that you are yet young, and eager to pursue the chance to seize glory. But your very presence on the battlefield is merit enough, given your station. Might not any additional prestige be somewhat excessive?”

I wanted to tell him that if he was going to go so far as to lecture me about it, he should ride out to seek Sigmund’s head. It wasn’t like I wanted to charge the enemy. I was well aware that it could result in my death. Even now, a part of my thoughts was dedicated toward convincing myself this was a good idea, while another part was obsessing over which barrier spell would protect me the best while still being mana efficient, as well as the probable range and accuracy of the enemy’s firearms.

I didn’t know if Viscount Orlon was trying to curry favor with Count Palatine Vodedt or what, but I certainly didn’t appreciate him interjecting. In fact, I was just about sick of him in general.

“Glory?” I growled. “Prestige? Since when did we state our desire for such trivialities?! Do not project your base desires onto us, Viscount! Do not forget that it is we who decide who receives such laurels!” Not that I’d be giving any to him or any of the other moronic noble rubberneckers.

“Do you intend to fight, Your Majesty?”

I turned to Count Palatine Vodedt, dismissing the viscount whose mouth was flapping open and shut like a fish now that he was caught at the epicenter of his emperor’s ire. Judging by the calmer note in the Count Palatine’s voice, he’d regained some of his composure. Nevertheless, the edge to his gaze was far sharper than usual.

I knew what he was asking me: Did I intend to make a full display of my magic, like I had during the night raid? Was I going to expose the fact that I could use it in a mana-burnt environment before everyone on the battlefield?

“We do not,” I answered. “We shall rely on you and our other loyal servants.”

Of course, the answer was no. I didn’t need to go all out with my magic; I just needed to ensure that our forces charged down the hill. Besides, if I wanted to fling spells about, I’d need to pull mana from my internal reserves, which were limited.

“This is too reckless an endeavor,” Count Palatine Vodedt insisted.

“Will you do it, then, Count Palatine? We know you are a skilled actor—the men will heed your command. If you go, though, you must make sure you take the self-proclaimed duke’s head.”

After seeing how he’d fooled the emissary from the Adventurers’ Guild, I had no doubt that the Count Palatine could play the part of a general if he so desired. Personally, as long as the militia charged, I didn’t care how it happened. It was just that out of all the options presently available, me going was the best choice.

Sometimes, a commander had to fight from the very front, because where they went, their soldiers would have to follow. Moreover, I was the emperor, and a child to boot. No self-respecting adult would allow themselves to stay quivering in their boots as a kid charged ahead of them toward the fight. And once the ball was rolling, the rest of the soldiers would be pushed forward from behind, forced to advance whether they liked it or not. The end result would become a headlong charge straight toward the enemy.

“You are the inheritor of Rotahl’s legacy,” the Count Palatine said, emphatically. I understood where he was coming from, of course. I didn’t have any heirs yet, so if I died, my bloodline died with me.

Everyone was watching our exchange, from Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray, who had evidently chosen to refrain from interjecting ever since I’d given the order to charge, to Balthazar, to the rubbernecking nobility. Silence hung over the terrain as they all waited for my next words.

My true thoughts on the matter was that I didn’t give a damn what happened after I died. But such a mentality was unbecoming for an emperor. It could be taken as an abandonment of my duty to produce an heir. Thus, I would never speak of it. I locked it away in the depths of my heart, and donned the emperor’s mantle.

“We are,” I said. “And you are our guardian. If we set foot on the front lines, you shall be there to defend us to the death. For is that not a guardian’s duty?”

I didn’t need this generation to revere me or sing me praises. If all that later generations thought of me was that I was surprisingly capable and nothing more, that was fine too. But I had come here from a world whose grasp of science and history was more advanced. So if I had any say in it, then at the very least, I wanted to be seen as someone with foresight. Someone with ideas that still held up generations into the future. Call it ambitious, call it vain—that was how I felt.

Of course, the thing about future generations was that they came after my time. I would never know what they thought of me, because I would be dead.

“There are no guarantees on the battlefield, Your Majesty,” Count Palatine Vodedt argued. “You could be struck by a stray bullet. Something might startle your horse, causing it to throw you off. A desperate enemy counterattack might meet with success. If you go, Your Majesty, nothing is certain.”

I wanted to be an emperor who was appreciated by future generations. I wanted my reign to be fair and prosperous for as long as I was in power. I wanted to repay the citizens who had placed their hopes in me. I wanted to make my country—the Empire—a wealthy and powerful nation. I found joy in being needed by others, and unlike my previous life, where I hadn’t been able to become anything of note, I saw value in my life as the emperor. All of this was true. All of it was from my heart.

Yet, more than any of that, I wanted to live. Not once had I ever even considered the thought that I might prefer being dead. Before I’d decided to live as the emperor, ever since I’d been reborn into this world, that core part of me had never changed. When I’d opened my eyes as a baby and realized who I was in this world, the fear of death had driven me to tears. The threat of assassination looming over me was why I’d planned to escape. It wasn’t that I was after immortality, or eternal youth, or anything like that. It was just plain old survival instinct. I wanted to live, and keep living. That was all there was to it.

I had pledged in my heart to give my life for the sake of this country as its emperor. But that wasn’t the same as throwing my life away. From the very beginning, I had become the emperor to survive, damn it!

All of which was to say, Carmine the transmigrator very much did not want to charge at the enemy. Obviously, it would be far safer for me to stay here. But Carmine the Emperor knew that taking the lead would be the best course of action in this situation, so that was the decision I’d made.

I wasn’t going to go into the fight planning to die. I’d choose the best option for an emperor to make, and the best option for my own survival. And if I wanted to do that, I needed to drag the Count Palatine out of here with me!

“Then take that stray bullet in my stead,” I told him. “Pacify our horse, and cut that desperate enemy down before he reaches us. Guard us with your life, Count Palatine. No, guard us even after your death. Become our shield, and die for our sake.”

The Count Palatine had been my first ally in this world. I knew all too well that he wasn’t someone I could give my full trust. Even so, I had to make use of him.

I had chosen both to be emperor, and to survive, and ever since the day I’d made that decision, I hadn’t shirked from my duty even once.

“You ask if we have renounced our role as the successor to Rotahl’s legacy. You ask if we have fled from it. This we say to you, Count Palatine—we are fulfilling our duty. It is you who has forgotten what it means to be a guardian.”

Once, the Count Palatine had told me that I must never forget that I was the inheritor of Rotahl’s legacy. Well, I hadn’t forgotten. As the inheritor, I had judged this to be the best course of action.

After several beats of silence, all the tension seemed to drain from the Count Palatine’s expression, as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Very well,” he said. “If that is to be my duty as Your Majesty’s guardian, then I shall see it fulfilled.”

I almost envied him. All that protesting, and now he’d had the gall to work through his internal conflicts while I was busy trying to keep everything together? Well, whatever. So long as he was willing, I supposed.

“Bally, head the imperial guard and follow our lead,” I directed. “You’ll guard my flank, and the Count Palatine will take the other. Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray, you have command of the remainder of the forces in the encampments. Now, onward to the militia.”

I arrived before our militia in a hurry, bringing my mount to a sharp halt. In my hand was a standard—my standard, the one that signified my position—which I’d taken from our command center.

“Soldiers!” I shouted out. “Our loyal servants!”

The standard was pretty heavy; I’d had to rest it against my shoulder during the ride. Now, I stuck it into the ground.

“We are Carmine de la Garde-Bundarte, eighth emperor of the Bundarte Empire!” If I wanted to achieve a perfect victory, first I needed to get my soldiers motivated. This would have to be the rallying speech of a lifetime.

Among the ranks of militia, there seemed to be some who knew my face. They were the first to kneel, dipping their heads in respect, and were quickly followed by their peers when they realized who I was. These were the people we’d originally brought to be laborers and construction workers—they were far from soldiers by trade. Even so, soldiers was what I called them.

“We bid you raise your heads, our soldiers. Our comrades in arms. Today, we are with you.”

The militia were equipped with spears—specifically, relatively short ones that were easier to handle—because this southern slope of the hill lacked a dry moat, and there had been a possibility that the enemy would make a push up toward us. If they had, the plan had been to form a spear wall to buy time while the cannons kept firing. As such, compared to the militia we’d stationed in the other encampment, the men here were more equipped to perform a charge.

Being honest, I had lost faith in the new recruits of the emperor’s host, who, despite their training, had failed to obey my orders. However, it would be wrong of me to direct my anger at the militia here, who hadn’t received any training at all.

Nevertheless, if I was able to spur the militia into a charge, the soldiers would surely follow. Hence, my speech.

“We do not desire heroism!” I declared. “We do not desire glory! We have but one wish, and one wish alone! Do you know what that is?”

Finally, the militia began to raise their heads. I slowly scanned their expressions. There was no anger there, nor contempt nor incredulity. All that was present was fear and unease.

The flock cannons had probably been too successful. Rather than exult in seeing the enemy dying in droves, the militia were terrified to see so much death. Then I had shown up, and my presence had driven them to shame. It was no wonder none of them could look me in the eye. Their gazes wavered, drifting between my feet and my chest.

“You there.” I indicated toward a random man in the mass. “Do you know what it is we wish for?”

“N-No, Your Majesty.” The man shook in fear as he answered. “I beg forgiveness for my ignorance.”

I spoke calmly, in order to allay my audience’s nerves. “Victory,” I said plainly. “All we wish for is victory.”

My words echoed through the quiet. A strong breeze blew past, sending my standard audibly rippling in the wind. The soldiers’ eyes were drawn to it, then back to me. This time, their eyes met mine.

So I raised my voice, shouting with all the breath in my lungs. “Look for yourselves! The enemy is nearly surrounded by our forces! They are confused, panicked, and on the verge of flight! One more blow, and they will break!”

The truth was that our forces only formed a semicircle on this side of the enemy, who were performing an orderly withdrawal. But the militia didn’t understand that. They didn’t even understand why letting the Raul forces escape would be bad. But that was just fine.

“Again, we shall say it! It is victory that we desire! And that victory is before our very eyes! Thus, there is but one thing to do!”

Stuff like this was all about momentum. If I could just set things in motion, the rest would take care of itself. The fear had gone from the militia’s eyes. This was the moment.

“We stand before you all! Follow our lead!”

Run like hell toward the emperor’s banner! Follow me into battle!

“God is on our side! We are by yours! And victory is within our grasp!”

I ripped the standard from the ground and raised it high into the air. Now there was only one thing left to do.

“Chaaarrrgeee!”

The Battle of Chelán Hill, Part 4

I charged down the hill with single-minded intent, not bothering to look back. If the militia hadn’t followed, then the enemy would no doubt swallow up myself and the imperial guard with ease.

But I believed in my people. They had been the same citizens who, years ago, had cheered for a powerless child with hope in their hearts. I believed that as long as I strove to be a good emperor, they would never abandon me. Besides, I had seen the way they’d gripped their weapons when I’d shouted my rallying cry.

Balthazar and Count Palatine Vodedt were at my sides, and I knew the imperial guard were right behind us. We charged down the hillside and plunged straight toward the heart of the enemy lines. Once we collided, the killing would be all that remained. Life against life in a struggle for survival.

“Your Majesty!” I could hear Balthazar’s voice from slightly behind me. “Please, Your Majesty—slow down!”

I ignored his plea, focused solely on the charge. “Keep up, Bally!” The Raul soldiers were bloodied and beaten. They’d already expended everything they had. “Forward!” I screamed. “Charge! Scatter them to the winds!”

Balthazar’s lance was unerring in its accuracy, clearing the path before him of enemies. Count Palatine Vodedt’s saber moved faster than the eye could follow, stabbing, slicing, killing.

As for myself, I focused everything I had into my barrier magic. My back straight, I kept my standard flying high as I spread my defenses seamlessly over my body like a second skin, trying to make it look as if I’d done nothing at all. I even dropped the antipoison spell I kept constantly active within my body. It meant that I would have to rememorize every single poison from scratch, but I had to prepare for the possibility that I would need to spare a healing spell or two for myself. Small sacrifices had to be made in the face of more pressing issues.

The caveat was that my healing magic wasn’t instantaneous. My barrier was my only defense against any immediate killing blows, so I concentrated its strength around my vitals, such as my head, neck, and heart.

“Get in front of His Majesty! Hurry!”

With Balthazar’s desperate commands and the militia’s war cries at my back, I set my eyes on the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s standard and continued my charge. “Death will not come for us!” I shouted. “No blade nor spell shall land upon our body!”

Don’t get me wrong; I was as eager to avoid dying as the next person. That was why I was digging into my internal mana reserves to cover myself in barriers. But I knew that they wouldn’t be able to stop a bullet at this range—at least not fully—and even an unlucky arrow could spell my doom. Still, it was far better than nothing, so I allowed the drain on my mana to continue.

My fear of death, the rush of adrenaline, the feeling of mana leaving my body—it all mixed together in a chaotic mess as I urged my mount yet forward, screaming out the remaining breath in my lungs. But just as I was about to reach the self-proclaimed duke’s standard, it fell.

Was he dead? No, I couldn’t be sure yet. Perhaps he was only hiding. I couldn’t relax until I’d seen his corpse with my own eyes. Just a little further.

“Don’t let him escape!” I screamed, over and over. No matter what, I would kill him here and now. “Find him! Find the false duke!”

＊＊＊

We spent the next indeterminable amount of time lost in our search. Even as I maintained my defenses and bellowed orders, I felt outside of myself, like it was all a dream. By the time the reverie broke, the Raul forces had completely broken—every soldier that still remained had made clear their surrender.

“Please lower your standard, Your Majesty. It’s over.”

It was Timona speaking to me. He hadn’t been part of the charge. When had he joined us?

“Where’s Duke Raul?!” I cast my eyes about. “Is he alive?! Dead?!”

We had searched the corpse-strewn battlefield like ravenous zombies. The Count Palatine seemed fine, but Timona and Balthazar were clearly exhausted. Pushing them any further would risk their collapse. Even so, I remained. I needed to know if I’d felled the so-called duke.

Word had yet to arrive of him giving an official surrender, so he had either perished in battle or fled. The possibility of the latter was why I’d immediately ordered my lords’ forces—when they’d joined us—to pursue the routing Raul army. If the false duke had gotten away, this battle would be a strategic loss for us, even though it had been a tactical victory.

That was when I heard a familiar voice—albeit one I hadn’t heard in some time. “Your Majesty! Over here!”

When I turned to look, I saw the other transmigrator I’d once encountered: the man who’d worn a butler’s garb. Approaching, I saw that he stood by the remains of something that might have once been a corpse, before countless feet and hooves had reduced it to its current state.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I believe it is the false duke. The cloak matches.”

There wasn’t enough shape to the once-corpse to make a judgment either way. It looked like it had taken a direct hit from a flock cannon, and that was before a crowd of people and horses had trampled over it. As I studied it, Count Palatine Vodedt began sorting through the remains, separating it from the rest of the debris.

“It might have been a body double,” Balthazar reasoned. “In this state, there’s no way to tell.”

He was completely correct. There was every possibility that it was the self-proclaimed Duke Raul, but neither could we rule out the possibility it had been a stand-in.

However, as I was wondering what to do about this, Count Palatine Vodedt retrieved some kind of leaf from his inner chest pocket and placed it in his mouth. He stuck a finger into the once-corpse and, after a brief pause, popped the gore-smeared digit into his mouth.

I heard the sound of someone nearby throwing up, and I hardly blamed them. To someone who didn’t know better, the Count Palatine actions must have seemed like those of a depraved madman. But I did know better. He wasn’t the kind of man who acted without reason. For him to do such a thing could only mean that it had been necessary.

Most revealing of all, though—I hadn’t missed his moment of hesitation. Even he considered this to be disgusting, on a physical level.

The Count Palatine remained still for some time, eyes closed as though he were praying. Finally, he opened them and spat out the contents of his mouth. “Water,” he said.

I took a canteen from a nearby soldier and gave it to him. As he rinsed and gargled, I noticed that his brow—completely dry throughout the earlier fighting and searching—was now beaded with sweat.

“Have you learned something?” I asked.

“It’s the false duke.” His voice was hoarse, but firm. “Of that, there is no doubt.”

“Is it? That is good news.”

All of a sudden, I had a much better idea of how his bloodline had held the position of the emperor’s spymaster for so long. Was this power of his why he knew that the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony had been behind the assassinations of my predecessor and the crown prince? No, that still left too many—

I caught myself mid-thought. This wasn’t the time for that. I’d believe in his judgment for now. Given the state of the remains, it was clear that the self-proclaimed duke had been killed by cannon fire from the hill. Thus, he likely hadn’t had the time to prepare a double, much less anticipate his death.

I let out a long, deep breath as I finally allowed relief to wash over me. When I breathed in, the air was thick enough with the smell of blood that I almost choked.

The confirmed death of the self-proclaimed Duke Raul would grant us the greatest prize of all: an easy pacification of the Empire’s eastern territories. It was a pity that we hadn’t been able to secure his head; in this time period, displaying it would have been the most effective method to spread the news. That was impossible now, though—there was no way to tell where it even was amid all the death that surrounded us.

Our soldiers’ spirits were high, uplifted by pride in our victory. I desperately fought down the urge to throw up as I faced them with a smile.

“Men! Shout our victory to the skies! The day is ours!”

＊＊＊

Since the south side of the hill was where the fighting had been fiercest, we moved to the east, away from the field of corpses. The militia and newly recruited soldiers had begun looting the Raul army’s armor, weapons, and various other accoutrements—evidently this was common practice in this world—and letting them continue would as good as ensure that they’d be too distracted to listen to my commands.

Even so, we ended up with only about half of the emperor’s host—about a thousand—and I knew for certain that we hadn’t lost that many during the fighting. It disappointed me that so many would ignore orders in favor of looting, but this was the reality of my personal force. Depressing, really.

That aside, we set about herding the remaining soldiers into formation. My lords’ armies were afield, pursuing Raul’s routing forces as far as possible. In the meantime, I had to think about our next moves.

“So they continued to fight even after the death of their general...” muttered Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray, who’d come down from the hill.

We’d left our damaged cannons where they were. There wasn’t time to rebuild our fortifications, so I would decide whether to do that later or abandon them entirely.

“According to the prisoners of war in our custody, it seems the self-proclaimed duke did not hold command over this battle to begin with,” Count Palatine Vodedt explained. “However, there are multiple conflicting testimonies regarding who did. It will take some time to ascertain the truth.”

“Very well,” I acknowledged.

It seemed the Raul soldiers hadn’t realized that the false duke had perished during the battle. No wonder they hadn’t broken into a rout until we’d charged them. That suggested their actual commander had been at the front lines and possessed more charisma than their lord—at least enough to maintain an orderly retreat, for as long as that had lasted. Ideally, we’d eliminate that person during the pursuit. Otherwise, if he escaped back into the Raul territories, it could mean a spot of trouble down the line.

“What of our losses?” I asked.

“Unknown. The numbers are too large.”

Evidently, the amount of death on both sides had made pinning down exact figures too difficult for anything short of a full postbattle accounting. My lords’ armies in particular had suffered heavy losses, to the point that if they chased too far during the pursuit, there was a chance the enemy could actually turn around and crush them. I’d sent runners to call them back the moment we’d confirmed the false duke’s death.

We had significant numbers of injured as well, who I was having transported to Reydra. With the departure of the Raul army, the city was once again under our control. The viscount who’d governed it had apparently fled, convinced that he wouldn’t receive my leniency a second time.

As I was thinking about how I needed to draft up a plan to pacify the Raul territories, Timona approached. “Your Majesty, I have brought the three individuals you requested.”

“Let them in.”

Three people stepped into the tent we’d hastily erected, joining those of us who were already present: myself, Timona, Count Palatine Vodedt, Balthazar, Salomon de Barbetorte, and Deputy General Bourgault-Ducoudray. I had summoned everyone I could for the makeshift audience I was about to hold.

The three newcomers knelt as soon as they entered. “It is an honor to finally be in your presence, Your Majesty,” began one. “I am Anselm le Van-Dozran.”

“We will speak with you last,” I said bluntly.

The sole woman of the trio was the next to speak. She wore full plate armor, although she had removed the full-faced helmet. “My deepest apologies, Your Majesty, for intruding upon your presence in such ill-suited attire.”

“We do not mind.” I wanted to show her she was in my good graces, so I played things up a bit. “Speak frankly, brave warrior. Raise your head and give your name.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I am Charlotte de Darrieux, eldest daughter of... Of the criminal, Joseph de Darrieux.”

Joseph de Darrieux was the Count Nunmeidt, who we currently had under lock and key in the imperial capital. We’d already delivered his sentence: life imprisonment.

“And you are most welcome!” I said. “The child bears no guilt for the crime of the parent. We express our sympathies for your long years of patience and tolerance. Know that your efforts will be rewarded.”

In the brief lead-up before this audience, I’d gotten an update on Charlotte’s affairs. In her capacity as the count’s eldest daughter, she had crushed the Raul nobility who’d invaded her lands and made double time to Chelán Hill. However, recognizing partway that her forces would not make it in time, she left them behind, riding ahead with only a small contingent of cavalry. Then, when she had come to understand Marquess Dozran’s intentions, she rode toward his army rather than Raul’s.

Apparently, that had proven to be the final straw on the camel’s back that spurred Marquess Dozran into committing to a side. His force had attacked the Raul army shortly afterward—around the same time as our charge down the hill.

“Your Majesty speaks far too highly of me,” Charlotte de Darrieux demurred.

I turned to the man beside her, whose head was still bowed. “And you, what is your name?”

He was equipped lightly, relatively speaking, in a set of leather armor, and lifted his head upon hearing my question. However, Charlotte de Darrieux was the one who spoke.

“I beg forgiveness for the oversight, Your Majesty. He is—”

For her to speak up like that knowing it would be considered rude had to mean the man wasn’t of a status that would allow him to speak in front of the emperor.

“It’s fine,” I interrupted. “He shall have our express permission. Speak.”

We lived in an age where any old wannabe whose predecessors had purchased a title called themselves knights and strutted around like they were nobility. I preferred straightforward honesty any day of the week.

“It is an honor, Your Majesty,” said the transmigrator who’d once worn a butler’s garb. “My name is Reiz Krommler.”

A long time ago, during my first tour of the Empire, I’d gone all out in a magical battle against this man and asked him to be my ally afterward. Today, finally, he was making good on that agreement.

“We welcome you, Reiz Krommler!” I declared. “Valor cares not for social standing!”

Moreover, he was the only other living person I knew for sure was also a transmigrator. The fact that I’d been able to get a message to him through Ein’s Storytellers meant that he was surely under their surveillance. Regardless, though, I was confident I could count on him to be reasonable. I had a lot I wanted to ask him about his past life, but first, I needed to welcome him as my new vassal.

“Lady Darrieux, Sir Krommler, we shall not forget your contributions. But for now, rest. You have done well.”

Charlotte de Darrieux spoke for both of them. “Your Majesty is too gracious. On behalf of my retainer and me, I swear unto you an oath of our allegiance. Your Majesty’s cause shall be our own, and our services shall ever be at your disposal.”

“We acknowledge your oath, Lady Darrieux, and accept it wholeheartedly.”

Now, then. That was the reliable ally dealt with. Next was the man who was only a step removed from an enemy.

“Anselm le Van-Dozran.” I looked down upon the man. Not only did he not seem the slightest bit apologetic, there was a smug defiance to his bearing that hadn’t faltered since he’d walked into the tent. My smile dropped, and my expression became flat. “By our count, you have committed three crimes against us.”

I more or less understood his motives. He’d wanted to use the Battle of Chelán Hill to see which side of the fence he committed to. Which wasn’t to say he’d started out neutral; I was fairly certain he’d been leaning toward Raul from the beginning.

“You repeatedly failed to answer our summons to the imperial capital,” I began.

If he had been truly neutral, then he should’ve picked a side the moment a significant advantage became apparent. In other words, when our flock cannons had thrown the bulk of Raul’s forces into disarray. Even an amateur could have spotted that that was when the tide had turned.

“You mobilized a force of your own accord, sowing confusion within the Empire.”

Yet despite that, he had failed to commit. Only when he’d seen the Nunmeidt cavalry riding toward his forces had he finally relented.

“And on top of failing to apologize for your lateness to this battle, you did not commit your forces until our victory was certain.”

In other words, the slimebag had only sided with us once it became clear that he literally had no other option.

“If you have an excuse, we would wish to hear it.”

“It seems there has been a misunderstanding, Your Majesty,” Anselm le Van-Dozran drawled. He stood up, despite me not yet giving him permission, and even had the nerve to wear a smile. “Firstly, I am not the Marquess Dozran, and as such, I was uncertain whether it would be appropriate for me to answer the summons.”

“The right of inheritance lies with you,” I pointed out. “Barring exceptional circumstances, you will be the next Marquess Dozran.”

“But, Your Majesty—it has always been custom that His Majesty the Emperor would formally acknowledge the new marquess.”

So he was claiming that he hadn’t wanted to step on my toes by assuming the title? Yeah, right. If I had possessed such absolute power that I could strip the nobility of their titles willy-nilly, I wouldn’t be having so much trouble in the first place.

As a general rule, the inheritance of lands and titles was ironclad law. The only time an emperor could seize a vassal’s titles was when they had committed a major crime—open treason, in other words, against him or the imperial family. That was how I’d been able to justify doing it to the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony.

In contrast, I could give and take governmental positions, such as the Minister of Foreign Affairs or the Minister of Domestic Affairs, with complete freedom.

“Then why did you not simply come to the imperial capital and request acknowledgment of your succession?” I asked.

“Ah, well, I was occupied at the time, maintaining a period of repentance at a church,” he explained. “While it may have been in self-defense, the sin of killing family is not an easy one to bear.”

Unfortunately, I knew from a prior investigation that he was speaking the truth. Partly, anyway. He’d definitely done a stint at a church, but I suspected there wasn’t a penitent bone in his body.

“And regarding the mobilization of a private force?” I asked. “What is your excuse for that?”

“I had to use my wits, you see.” The grease practically dripped from his words. “Since I am not the Marquess Dozran, I could not very well mobilize my house’s forces, so I personally contracted a number of mercenaries.”

This, too, was the truth. All of the soldiers he’d brought to the field were sellswords, rather than the formal Dozran army. However, that was actually a bigger problem.

“Apraada, Benima, Rocourt,” I listed off. “Five thousand mercenaries from foreign nations.”

“Oh? Is that truly the case? Why, I had no idea.”

No doubt this was where the bastard’s confidence was coming from—he was implicitly threatening me with his connections to the Empire’s three southern neighbors. In other words, he was a dyed-in-the-wool turncoat. I’d taken the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony out of the picture, but it was only inevitable that birds of a feather would rise to take their place.

“Indeed? We had taken you for a more scrupulous man,” I said, not bothering to veil the sarcasm. “So? What of the matter of the battle? Why wait until so late to act?”

Anselm le Van-Dozran let out a boisterous laugh. “Strategy, Your Majesty—it was all part of my strategy!”

I scoffed. “What strategy? We saw very little to speak of.”

“But then, Your Majesty must be laboring under a misunderstanding. It was the presence of my force that prevented the enemy’s central bloc from moving.”

He was talking about the enemy’s militia, who’d pulled back from their assault once the area became mana-burnt. Evidently, he wanted to claim his presence was the reason they hadn’t resumed their offensive.

“It appears a misunderstanding is right,” I said. “For we do not consider that to be the result of any effort on your part.”

Naturally, he was completely talking out of his ass. The thing was, though, that he could spew weak excuses until the metaphorical cows came home and I couldn’t do anything about it. With the Empire still divided, we did not have the resources to dedicate to an open war against our three southern neighbors. Moreover, antagonizing this man risked the Duchy of Warren becoming besieged.

Above all, I didn’t even have enough force at hand to be a match for the five thousand foreign professional soldiers he had waiting a stone’s throw away. It was frustrating, but my only option was to let the rat bastard get off scot-free.

“Nevertheless, we shall recognize your succession to the title of Marquess Dozran,” I finished. “In that light, and to reward the meager contribution you have provided to our cause, we shall formally demand that Apraada return the former Dozran lands it has seized.”

“Ah, but how fortunate I am! A thousand blessings for your graciousness, Your Majesty.”

As he bowed, he didn’t bother to hide the naked ambition in his eyes.

There would only come more times when I would have to spare those who sought my head. I was the emperor, the crab at the top of the bucket, and that meant I needed to crush anyone who sought to undermine me from below.

What a pain in the ass.

Pacifying the Raul Territories

It was generally acknowledged that the Battle of Chelán Hill ended in a complete victory for the emperor’s forces. We had slain the false Duke Raul, and I had announced my claim to his duchy.

On the other side of the fence, the nobility of the self-proclaimed “Grand Duchy of Raul” spiraled into a rapid collapse, having lost their “Archduke” and any kind of valid justification to refute my claim. Some had already offered me their allegiance, while others had abandoned their lands entirely and fled into secrecy.

Meanwhile, we regrouped and prepared our forces to march into the Raul territories.

We had suffered horrific casualties during the battle, losing forty percent of the lords’ armies who’d made up our right flank—a number that jumped up to fifty for Marquess Mardrusa’s troops in particular. In other words, we could only mobilize half of what we’d started with. Thankfully, the losses to Marquess Mardrusa’s force weren’t as bad as they initially seemed: The one thousand men we’d left in Keighamer were fresh and unbloodied, meaning the army was still two thousand strong.

My understanding of Earth’s battles was that a thirty percent casualty rate was considered as good as complete annihilation, but I believed that number took noncombatants into account as well. In this world, however, classifying noncombatants was a little more tricky. Even a noble’s mount attendant, for example, would sometimes take up arms and participate once the battle started.

In addition, while it was soldiers who escorted the supply chains that kept armies fed, the actual convoy workers were merchants or day laborers, who weren’t counted in the army numbers to begin with. All up, when I accounted for the fact that our fifty percent losses were only pure combatants, I could convince myself that we’d barely fallen short of qualifying for “complete annihilation.”

Still, it seemed it was quite rare for such losses to be suffered by the winning side of a single battle—and civil conflict, at that.

Regarding the newly recruited emperor’s host, we had lost five hundred from their original count of two thousand. Incidentally, only about half of the missing five hundred had been confirmed injured or killed; the other half’s whereabouts were unknown. Surprise, surprise; we’d pinned them as the same individuals who had been looting the enemy’s corpses after the battle. No doubt they had run off somewhere to pawn their spoils. Honestly, it was enough to give me a headache.

One thing was for sure: I wouldn’t be giving the order to have them dragged back. After all, the emperor’s host’s salaries—as well as the bonus for the battle—were to be paid afterward. In that sense, they’d saved me a bit of money by running off.

They were idiots, to be frank. The armor and weapons they’d looted would be damaged secondhand goods worth little, especially compared to the bonus I would’ve given them. Then again, even that sort of simple math was beyond the capabilities of a lot of people in this world. Education was definitely an issue I’d have to sort out down the line.

Once our allied forces had regrouped and everything was in order, we finally set out to pacify the Raul territories.

To get into the weeds a bit, there was technically no official holding in the Empire by the name “Duchy of Raul,” only the “Duchy of Lower Raul.” To learn the reason for this, we’d have to dig into the Empire’s lengthy history.

During the era of the Rotahl Empire, the country’s territories had been divided into nine duchies: Aphoroa, Trodau, Headoix, Agincarl, the Duchies of Upper, Central, and Lower Meschen, and the Duchies of Upper and Lower Raul. Later on, the Empire’s prosperity had led to the establishment of further territories under the governance of the Teyanave margraves and Bundarte landgraves, but we’ll leave those aside.

The collapse, revival, and subsequent second collapse of the Rotahl Empire brought us to the era of the Bundarte Empire, and as you can imagine, a whole heap of redistribution and reclassification happened in regard to the nine duchies. The Duchy of Lower Raul, however, had remained basically untouched, which was why it still bore its original name. In contrast, the Duchy of Upper Raul had lost its name during the reshuffling, and no such noble title existed today. This had resulted in everyone coming to refer to the Duchy of Lower Raul as simply the Duchy of Raul—the former was still its official name on paper, but no one called it that in practice.

This, in fact, was connected to why members of the Chancellor’s faction had referred to the Chancellor as Twice-Duke Raul, because he had controlled pretty much all of the territories formerly or currently of the upper and lower duchies. Incidentally, the terms “upper” and “lower” referred to the distance of the duchy from the imperial capital, with the former being closer and the latter being farther. It was a similar deal to the provinces of Echizen and Echigo of ancient Japan.

Getting back on topic, though, there were three noble titles once held by the Chancellor and self-assumed by his now deceased son: the Dukedom of Lower Raul, the Marquessate of Etruscharl, and the Marquessate of Lufini. However, since addressing him by all those titles would be tedious and long-winded, people had stuck to “Duke Raul” for convenience.

One unique characteristic of the Raul territories was that each domain had its own major city, and there was no one location that could be called a capital, like Cardinal was for the Empire. Instead, the successive generations of Duke Raul had possessed their own residences where it pleased them and rotated between them at periodic intervals. Naturally, our aim was to occupy all of them.

In the last third of the eighth month of the year, we divided up our forces and began invading the territories of what was once known as the Duchy of Raul, one after the other.

＊＊＊

The pacification effort went so smoothly that it scared the hell out of me. Having lost their main fighting force and any legitimate inheritance claim, the Raul territories put up little resistance to our occupation. Part of the reason had to be that, unlike the Agincarl region, much of the nobility was ethnically Bundartian. I had expected things to be easy if we eliminated Duke Raul, but not this easy. There were some nobles who put up a fight, of course, but only on a per-city basis—nothing on the scale of a coordinated rebellion.

It was worth mentioning though that they still fiercely resisted the Gotiroir incursions from the east, even when the Gotiroir informed them that they were acting under the emperor’s banner. The fact that said resistance capitulated immediately once our main forces arrived was telling of the Raul region’s deep-rooted views on the ethnically foreign tribe.

Either way, we finally succeeded in linking up with the Gotiroir, and the complete pacification of the Raul region followed soon after. I stayed a short while with the Gotiroir, enjoying the traditional hospitality of their culture, renewing our alliance, and reaffirming my recognition of their autonomy.

With my gratitude expressed, I returned to the imperial capital before the coming of winter.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

No matter the world, winter snows put a damper on matters. That was no less true here.

In this period of reprieve, I doled out the military honors earned during the pacification of the Raul region and divided up some of the territories from a few of the noble houses involved. Those whose loyalties had lain with the former Duke Raul had surrendered quickly upon the heir’s death, and my rulings on them were exceptionally generous; the smaller houses in the region also enjoyed a great deal of lenience.

Still, it wasn’t as if my “harsh” penalties were particularly severe, as I only exiled the head of household at worst. I couldn’t handle the power vacuum if I were to go any further: Getting rid of all those who’d opposed me would have left me with no one to run the territory.

As far as the Raul domain itself, it was to be split into pieces and managed by lower lords. For example, I planned to turn the Duchy of Lower Raul into five to nine counties. I didn’t want to hold on to them myself—the nobility would get antsy if the crown were to keep too much—but seeing as a haphazard division would only lead to border disputes in the future, it would remain under my control for a year until I could get a proper report on the land’s productivity.

But what was most important of all was the coinage...and the minting equipment that I needed to recover. I would not be making any compromises on this front—what kind of emperor couldn’t print his own coins?

I also took the opportunity to poach some talent from the duchy. The former chancellor had used his position to nab a great many competent workers, and I wasn’t going to let them wander off.

Furthermore, I enacted some reformations. Well, more precisely, I introduced a few laws to reform our system, and as all but one had no ill effect on the aristocracy, they met little resistance.

The lone law that caused trouble was my formal ban on selling governmental positions, which also abolished posts invented solely to be sold, like unearned knighthoods and the like. I wasn’t totally heartless, though, and decided to allow the current generation of purchased titles to be grandfathered in so long as they came to the capital to file their status within a year’s time; their heirs would not be inheriting those positions, however.

That said, legally, I couldn’t take away a title without just cause. That was another factor in why I’d chosen to simply reclassify their titles into “uninheritable” ones, and the yearlong window to finish their paperwork was to give me an excuse to say, “Well, I dunno if you’re alive, so let’s just assume you aren’t,” and cross out their noble claim in the books. This wouldn’t have been possible if we had census data like modern Japan did, but we didn’t. Even if they were alive somewhere, the official records would reflect their presumed mortality by voiding their title. The classes who’d come to enjoy their purchased positions—merchants, mercenaries (who were frankly closer to bandits), failed knights, and the like—flew into a frenzy at this.

However, higher nobles were completely unaffected, and I went out of my way to confer new titles to those of my vassals who had fought on my behalf—titles not given during the usual ceremony of military honors. It wasn’t that I wanted to get rid of all conferred titles, after all: Those who would work for me would find me an eager employer.

Even those who’d opposed me were unlikely to resist the change, as I offered them and the nobles captured in the capital clemency in exchange for their backing. As a result, I was able to push the law through in all lands under the crown.

As the snow finally began to thaw, I gathered all who had sworn me their fealty at Chelán Hill to pass down a new decree: conquer the region of Agincarl. They seemed to understand that this was a test of allegiance, and while the campaign was far from perfect, five months was enough to subjugate most of the domain. The few holdouts would fall in a matter of time.

Convinced of our impending victory on that front, roughly a year from the Battle of Chelán Hill, I once again raised the imperial banner in the name of subjugating rebellion. This time, my army marched to the Teyanave Confederation.

The only resistance left on the Agincarl end came from the main fortresses held by August and Phillip, and a small pocket of nobles tracing their lineages back to the old Agincarl Kingdom. Neither group had enough men to call themselves an “army” at this point, but I knew their morale would be unmatchable with their backs against the wall. Not wanting to compromise, I elected to leave a siege force behind to subjugate them as I turned my attention to Teyanave.

Allied with the nearby Gaeweigh and Aeri and backed by the Golden Sheep Trading Company, I led a combined force seventy thousand strong into Teyanavi lands.

The Teyanave Confederation had unilaterally declared its independence while I had been a mere puppet. Although they had left the Empire de facto, the official imperial stance was that such an allowance was the folly of the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony; Emperor Carmine acknowledged no such thing. Naturally, that put them in the same category as the rebellious factions of Raul and Agincarl, and I could not let them roam free.

This campaign was notable for being personally led by My Imperial Majesty. Truth be told, I was just tagging along at the back of the march, but that meant I was technically in charge of twenty thousand elite troops from the Gotiroir and Atúr peoples.

There were a few reasons I came in person.

The first was that the Empire itself was significantly smaller than it had been even a generation ago. Part of that had been settled before my birth, with cessions to the Kingdoms of Apraada and Rocourt, and the other part was the secession of the Teyanave region. As emperor, my performance was naturally going to be compared to my immediate predecessor, and reclaiming our lost territory was an absolute must to maintain my standing.

However, invading Apraada or Rocourt was not a smart move. They, along with the Kingdom of Benima, were allied together. I didn’t want to pick a fight with them...until I had a chance to break that bond, that is. As such, the only realistic target left was Teyanave.

Furthermore, this was my way of currying favor with the Kingdom of Belvére, Rosaria’s motherland. Beyond the northern borders of the Confederation lay the state of Tomis-Ashinaqui, who fiercely antagonized Belvére. Once we finished Teyanave with an enormous imperial army, the presence of our troops would become a check to deter further action in the region; Tomis-Ashinaqui would not be able to advance their troops so easily with us at their doorstep. By leading this campaign personally, I was emphasizing that warning.

My presence also made it easy to meet with the King of Aeri and Duke of Gaeweigh. I planned to hold an audience with them in Teyanave once the fighting was over. My choice to travel all this way was a symbol of compromise and a show of good faith, but since the region would once again be part of the Empire after we conquered it, I could maintain the dignity of a superpower by hosting the meeting on imperial soil.

There were also the logistical benefits of my presence, such as how it would speed up reintegration. Giving orders from the capital would have been a tedious task in too many ways to count.

But most importantly of all, the quantity and quality of our troops meant my own person was not in danger.

Or, at least, not from the Teyanavi.

On Day 11, Month 10, Year 469 of the New Calendar, as my armies across the realm reigned victorious, I received a message: Count Kushad, Count Baylor-Torei, and Count Baylor-Novei had just kicked off a massive rebellion.

＊＊＊

“What are you saying?” Unable to accept reality, I reflexively pressed Timona for an explanation.

Of course, I had an idea of what had happened. I’d been eating dinner in a manor we’d captured in Teyanavi territory, but my better judgment compelled me to send the food away and to call for my weapon and armor in exchange.

“The Teyanave Confederation have coordinated an attack with the help of the nearby counties to cut off our supply lines.”

Yes, the rebellion was in the regions nearby. Just as I’d thought I was done putting down uprisings...

“We are ‘fish in a barrel,’ Your Majesty,” an already fully armed and armored Reiz Krommler sighed. “Is this really the time to be staring off into space?”

Why are you so calm about all this? Oh, right, you can get away with magic. Spatial magic is downright cheating.

As I wordlessly cursed the man, Count Palatine Vodedt arrived with even more bad news.

“Marquess Ramitead was intercepted en route to the eastern reaches of the Zaveaux county, and his army of ten thousand has been routed. The intercepting force is unknown, but we suspect they hail from the Garfure Republic.”

Fabio, you’ve drawn the short straw yet again. But more importantly, if the Garfurians were invading now, of all times...

“Ugh, they got us.” I couldn’t help but react as Carmine, and not the emperor. It was too late to panic—the opportunity to do so had passed by long before I knew it was even an option.

“The intel we received from the Grand Duchy of Gaeweigh regarding the Republic clearly proved to be incorrect,” he went on. “There’s a possibility they had a stake in this operation.”

That’s right: For all these catastrophes to coincide, our enemies had to have been plotting this for months. Forget being pincered, we were about to be boxed in on all sides.

“And here I thought we were being careful,” I said.

“We did consider the possibility that this might happen, but it was still hard to see coming,” Reiz said. “Speaking practically, there isn’t much reason for the counts to revolt.”

Indeed, we’d written off a potential uprising as illogical, which had gotten us into this mess. How could I have forgotten? History was moved not by logic, but emotion.

They were merely dragging me down. It wasn’t as though they’d become emperor if only they could take my head; the next in succession was Charles de Agincarl. They hadn’t mustered a larger army either, so they couldn’t do any real damage...except in this exact instance.

“Two steps forward, and one step back...and my foot slipped while we were at it.” I’d overcome an army twice the size of my own at Chelán Hill, finally becoming an emperor around whom the Empire could revolve. I was one step away from reunifying the lands under an imperial banner. “That’s one way to turn the tides on a guaranteed victory.”

This was not the time to slow down—but maybe that was exactly my problem. I’d rushed to this point, choosing the shortest path, and probably leaving holes in my wake. Nobles who’d only recently laid down their arms were at risk of re-revolting; glimpses of the Imperium’s machinations were always dancing just out of sight; the cornered Agincarl would take the chance to bounce back. They got us.

“Now isn’t the time to be impressed.”

True. Reflection can come later. I ignored Reiz and began to don my armor. Hmm? Where were my servants, you ask? They themselves were in a rush to get equipped, Timona included. In the worst-case scenario, this very manor could become a target within minutes. I had no doubt the mastermind of this scheme had plotted at least as much.

One day, I would crush them. Whoever it was, however many of them there were, I would make them pay.

But first...

“How are we going to survive this one?”

First, I had to live. The rest would have to wait.

＊＊＊

Carmine de la Garde-Bundarte, eighth emperor of the Bundarte Empire, first took center stage following his infamous Bloodsoaked Coronation. After subjugating the self-proclaimed Duke of Raul in a mere three months, he succeeded in reclaiming most of the Agincarl region the following year. His swift offensive led the emperor to personally march his troops toward the final holdout of resistance in the Teyanave region.

However, he would soon find himself faced with a difficult predicament: the Three Counts’ Rebellion. No one at the time would have imagined the major war that would ensue.

The early stages of Emperor Carmine’s rule were anything but smooth sailing. Uprisings from within the Empire and invasions from without plagued the nation. His triumph at Chelán Hill would serve only to raise the curtains on the nearly decade-long Reunification Wars that would follow.

Extra Chapter: The Emperor’s Right Hand

Generally speaking, Timona le Nain did not wear his emotions on his sleeve. What little he did show also tended not to appear on his face, so outside of a few rare instances, it was impossible to precisely tell what he was feeling. At the moment, Vera-Sylvie thought he looked angry. The squire to whom he’d only just introduced himself thought he looked discontent.

Truth be told, neither of those estimates were wrong. Timona was angry and discontent. But those kinds of trivial emotions would ordinarily have been hidden underneath his iron mask. No, what had gripped his heart was an anxiety that was difficult to put to words.

I have a bad feeling.

His liege, Emperor Carmine, had entrusted him with a pivotal mission: to take the five hundred men who’d been stationed at their headquarters in reserve, and support the parts of the army who were strategically weak. Timona was, at this very moment, leading those five hundred men up to the northern part of the hill.

However, the anxiety he felt was not in regard to this mission. But what, then? That, he couldn’t answer. He just had a feeling in his bones—some shapeless sense of foreboding.

“They say temporarily commanding a unit like this is the first step to promotion. What are you so displeased with?” This squire had been assigned to be Timona’s attendant by Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray, who had insisted that “a commander won’t look the part without an attendant at his side.” Clearly, though, the knight-in-training envied the younger Timona’s position and had no intention of hiding it.

Timona understood that the purpose of this assignment was less to “attend” and more to “oversee.” However, the oversight wasn’t because Bourgault-Ducoudray was unhappy with the emperor, but because he was wary of Timona.

Their long shared history had informed Carmine’s order to send Timona out, but to Bourgault-Ducoudray, Timona was just “the emperor’s servant.” Nothing more, nothing less. Sticking one of his men to Timona was his way of making sure nothing fishy went down.

Timona accepted the arrangement without fuss. Had the decision been an implicit attempt to resist the emperor’s will, that would have been a problem, but being the object of doubt didn’t bother Timona at all. Rather, it was the logical reaction.

“If I had to say,” Timona answered, “it’s the idea of being commander.”

Indeed, it was a common story for those who’d done well leading in battle to then formally become platoon commanders to replace those who had fallen. If Timona were to become a platoon commander, he might cease to be the emperor’s personal aide, which was anything but desirable.

He had to stop himself from sighing. It wasn’t that Timona objected to Carmine’s orders, and he understood that there wasn’t really any better way.

Emperor though he was, Carmine did not yet have absolute authority. Most notably, he had to be careful with how he interacted with Duke Warren.

At present, over half of the total loyalist forces holding down imperial territory traced their allegiance to the duke. His armies were said to have been on par with Raul’s on their own, and as such, he was the de facto head of the loyalist faction. The combined forces of the other absent loyalist nobles were under the command of Viscount Hervé de Cédolin, Duke Warren’s trusted confidant; those taking part in the battle at the hill were led by Joel de Bourgault-Ducoudray, who’d been recommended by the duke personally.

Thus, Carmine couldn’t simply ignore his stated intent to entrust the matter to the deputy general on the ground by sending out a reserve force from their headquarters. Instead, he’d done so under the pretenses of earning his servant greater honors.

If this didn’t work out, then it would naturally be the emperor’s weight to bear. But even if Timona’s reinforcements found success, theirs was a superfluous mission, and Bourgault-Ducoudray would not face criticism for failing to move those reinforcements himself. Further, the general in charge was not an imperial noble, and it was hard for him to stop a mission that was based not in military strategy, but noble posturing.

In essence, Carmine was painting his order as a selfish whim to ensure it would be carried out without damaging his general’s reputation.

Timona already had his marching orders to enact upon getting into position. He was less of a commander and closer to a dutiful messenger.

“Hmph,” the squire grunted. He evidently couldn’t understand Timona’s way of seeing things, nor did he notice the delicate balance of power around him.

In fairness, it was easy to tell from within the army’s ranks that Carmine was competent, but it was not so easy for those outside looking in. For example, the prevailing wisdom on the Northern Continent was that Duke Warren had purged the Chancellor and Minister of Ceremony, and it was his empire to rule—that the idea that Carmine had turned a new leaf was the duke’s attempt at propping up the imperial heir’s image, in honor of his old friend, the last emperor.

There was some truth to the notion that this was becoming Duke Warren’s empire. The man himself was not rallying more troops to jockey as the man in charge; he was actually letting his own numbers bleed specifically to distance himself from that image. There was no question that the majority of loyalist casualties came from his troops.

However, he had a powerful reputation and true merit to match. The lesser nobles feared him and tried to suck up to him as a matter of course. Other nobles who saw such deference fell into line so as not to stick out. This snowballed into a feedback loop that led people to honor Duke Warren more than the emperor.

Evidently unaware of any of this, the squire snapped his finger in epiphany and, without any ill will, stepped directly onto a verbal land mine.

“Oh, right. I forgot that you’re His Majesty’s ‘partner.’ I can understand why being apart would make you—”

“That is a slight on His Majesty’s honor,” Timona said, his voice dripping with murderous rage. “Say it again, and I will cut you down where you stand for your insolence.”

There was no mistaking the intention behind the squire’s euphemism. The emperor was famously reserved and gentlemanly around women, particularly considering his age. This fueled all sorts of talk about his potential “dysfunction,” or perhaps his “differing preferences.” Combine that with Timona’s reputation for being “perfect save for his scar,” and the rumors wrote themselves.

Carmine scoffed at gossip and never bothered to refute such claims, citing the fact that “They’d come up with something new anyway.”

The same could not be said of Timona. Owing to childhood trauma, the very thought filled him with disgust—enough to point his hatred outward.

“I-I’m sorry, sir!” The squire on the receiving end of this oozing malice shivered uncontrollably and apologized. It was in this moment that the power dynamic between them solidified.

As an aside, Vera-Sylvie, who had done nothing but watch the exchange, was getting misty-eyed.

＊＊＊

Once Timona and his men reached the northern peak of the hill, they were in a perfect position to witness Imperium forces pushing back the friendly mercenary lines. As Carmine had predicted, the lay militia and new conscripts to the east had failed to remaneuver after routing their enemies.

As soon as they arrived, Timona gave his orders.

“Drop everything you have down the slope. Take apart any nearby carver cannons you can find and throw them down too.”

“We’re dropping the cannons?!”

The squire resisted Timona’s orders. But it wasn’t just him—the platoon commanders were thinking the same thing. Once their men had brought over the cannons, they too came over to object to the plan.

“We can still use these cannons! Do you know how expensive these things are?!”

Timona did know. He’d personally processed the paperwork to procure these weapons by the emperor’s side. He couldn’t not know.

“These are His Majesty’s orders. Obey them.”

“But...”

Faced with the unrelenting officers, Timona asked himself what his master would do.

“First,” he started slowly, “we can’t use the cannons in this kind of melee. Any shot will hit our allies. A cannon that can’t be fired has no purpose. So, we may as well use it in any way we can. This is His Majesty’s plan. Also, he won’t mind the cost. He knows very well that siege weapons are resources to be expended.”

Figuring that Carmine would have explained the reasoning behind his decision, Timona inferred the emperor’s intent in doling out his orders and passed it down to the officers.

This was all conjecture. Timona hadn’t been told why he was doing what he was doing—only that he was to do it. However, from years of watching Carmine by his side and listening to his thought processes, Timona had managed to completely reverse engineer the emperor’s plan.

“But...do we have to?”

Still, the platoon commanders resisted. They had apparently been charmed by the carver cannons’ wiles.

“Our enemies don’t have cannons. That’s why they’re putting up with the casualties that come from fighting in hand-to-hand combat. His Majesty would say, ‘Then let them have ours.’”

Timona was confident that he’d chosen precisely the turn of phrase his liege would have resorted to.

“B-But wouldn’t that help the enemy?”

At the squire’s hesitant retort, Timona shot him a look before answering.

“If they piece them back together, yes. And we’re only taking them apart, not destroying them, so they surely will in a matter of time.” Down below, the mercenary formation was nearing its breaking point. Deciding that time was up, Timona sighed, cursed his lack of persuasive talent, and gave his final notice. “They will not have that time. His Majesty is saying that the fighting ends today. Do it. Stall any longer and you’ll be tried for insubordination.”

＊＊＊

With Timona’s orders, bits of deconstructed cannons and other miscellaneous junk went tumbling down the hillside, ripping through the enemy flank. Though the Imperium’s daring attack had pushed back the mercenaries significantly, it had been at the cost of their own defensive formation.

The forces across from Timona’s on Ginaugh Hill saw the attack and commenced one of their own on the other Imperium flank. Their frontal assault thwarted, the Imperium’s army retreated.

As the once-struggling allied forces put themselves back together, a spy came with urgent news for Timona.

“His Majesty is personally leading his troops into a charge?” Timona asked incredulously.

“Yes. He intends to lead the militia in. The spymaster tried to stop him, to no avail.”

All who were present to hear the news were in shock, save for one: Timona finally knew what that bad feeling of his had been.

“If I recall,” he said, “your memory was exceptionally good even among our spies. Please recite His Majesty’s exact words, as he spoke them, when he spoke to the Count Palatine.”

Having trained as a spy himself, Timona remembered this messenger and his strengths. Recalling that the man had a keen enough memory to accurately steal secrets without a paper trail, he made the spy recite the conversation word for word.

His Majesty spoke formally throughout.

In Timona’s eyes, Carmine was a strange person. Despite being born an emperor, it felt as though he was always merely acting the part. When he was particularly distraught or emotional, he often dropped the royal pronoun from his speech, switching to the informal “I” instead. Only a select few people, like Timona or Count Palatine Vodedt, knew of this quirk.

As an aside, Timona had only recently discovered that his speech pattern also changed when speaking to someone heart-to-heart.

His Majesty is of sound judgment. He would have slipped otherwise. Considering the time it took to deliver the message, he’s likely already left the encampment. It’s too late to stop him.

The emperor’s participation was not just for a chance to win the head of the self-styled duke. It would solve all sorts of issues—chief among them the consolidation of authority under Duke Warren. If he could directly lead his army to success and wipe away his reputation as a puppet emperor, he could break the cycle that was pulling more and more weight toward Duke Warren.

Good was the victorious monarch, but heroic was he who led his men himself. There was no better opportunity for glory.

Timona’s mind was made up in an instant. “Light the smoke signal. The one for ‘pursue’ after our victory should be the red one.”

“W-Wait! Only the deputy general can authorize that signal. This is clear overreach!”

The squire tried to dissuade Timona; anyone thinking normally would have agreed with him. But Timona reasoned that he ought to force the issue regardless.

“I know that I’m overstepping my bounds. The deputy general will light the red signal himself at any moment now. But a signal from base camp won’t be visible to the Order of Atúr on the northern side of these hills—we have to light them here. Besides, doing it now won’t be much different from doing it after we confirm the deputy general’s. It’s a rounding error. So light it.”

“But sir,” one of the remaining platoon commanders said, “the signal flares are magical devices. Only a select few people know how to work them as a contingency against our enemies trying to use them.”

Looking around, no one here fit the bill, including the newly arrived spy. Or so it would seem to all but Timona.

“Miss Chapelier, do whatever you must to light the fuse.”

Among the resources Carmine had provided for this man-made avalanche scheme had been Vera-Sylvie and a fully loaded mana-sealing ward. However, Timona had kept these in his back pocket, instead leaving the cannon tossing to the burliest of his men.

“I’m not...good at it...but, um...I’ll try.”

“A-Are we seriously doing this? Why are we taking this risk?”

If it really were a rounding error of a few minutes, there was no point in ignoring the chain of command and risking punishment. A good executive decision could make a career, but a bad one could break it.

Yet Timona saw it differently. By his estimation, those few minutes could alter the state of the battlefield—not for himself, but for the Order of Atúr. The Order’s military strategy revolved around firing arrows from a safe distance, but once it was time to pursue a fleeing foe, they drew their blades and charged with reckless abandon. It was precisely this phase of battle that offered the most glory to be gained.

Rather than allow the enemy to get a head start on the horse archers, it would be better to have them prepare for the chase before the enemy could fully switch gears. That way, they’d be ready to hunt as soon as the enemy turned heel, and would rack up more honors.

But most importantly of all, Timona was not a man looking for a promotion. Unfazed by the prospect of punishment, he gave his orders.

“With His Majesty on the front lines, our success is guaranteed. Light the signal of victory!”

Little did anyone know, these words would go down in the history books as the most famous phrase from the Battle of Chelán Hill.

＊＊＊

Upon confirming the billowing cloud of red smoke, Timona walked over to Vera-Sylvie.

“Well then, Miss Chapelier, I’ll leave things here to you.”

“Huh?” Vera-Sylvie opened her eyes wide. Timona was usually the kind of person to tell her she’d done a good job, and she didn’t understand what he was saying. “Um, are you...g-going somewhere?”

Timona “borrowed” the spy’s horse, answering from atop the saddle in a tone that suggested he was about to go for a nice walk.

“My work here is done. I’m going after His Majesty.”

The man kicked his steed and rode off into the horizon.

Left behind, Vera-Sylvie and the spy turned to one another, commiserating each other’s confusion with blank stares.

Afterword

Thank you very much for purchasing volume 4 of Imperial Reincarnation. I’m the author, Masekinokatasa.

The majority of this fourth volume is about the Battle of Chelán Hill, and the events that led up to and followed it. This is the big showdown between Carmine, who’s finally come to power, and the Duchy of Raul, which was once one of the top four houses of the Empire. It’s a battle between old and new power, where the winner will rule the Empire and the loser will vanish into history...and it took a lot of preparation to make sure the protagonist wouldn’t lose a fight like that.

In the future, I imagine this battle will come to be considered part of a set with the Bloodsoaked Coronation. I think it would only be natural to link the cleaning out of traitors, grasping of true power, and momentous first victory as connected events as the emperor reclaims vast swaths of imperial land. If this were a story about Emperor Carmine as opposed to Carmine the transmigrator, then this probably would have been the opening act.

As the ruler of an empire, Carmine wanted to end the infighting within his nation as quickly and as painlessly as possible, and he succeeded. He had to lay a lot of groundwork to be in this position to begin with, so from his perspective, victory was a matter of course.

However, that wasn’t how those around him saw it. Those who didn’t know he’d been acting the fool saw a failed emperor suddenly awakening to enough talent to topple the largest military in the Empire. That’s enough to make waves in any nearby country, which is what leads into the ending of this volume. Our hero managed to quell his rebellions successfully, but maybe a little too successfully.

These dire straits are where volume 5...will aim toward, but I think it’ll start a little ways back, rewinding to the Battle of Chelán Hill itself and detailing the year or so that followed. There’s lots of character development in that year, after all.

I also hope to pick back up on the relevance of the reincarnation plotline. For example, Carmine doesn’t remember his old name, but that isn’t necessarily true of all reincarnators. The only through line for those reborn to Ein’s bloodline is that they can’t remember the moment of their death. I figured that I wouldn’t be able to fit that into the main text anywhere, so this would be a good opportunity to drop a tidbit of lore. Consider it a token of my appreciation for bothering to read this afterword.

To wrap up, let me grovel in apology to TO Books for causing them yet more problems. And Kaito Shibano-sama, thank you as always for your wonderful illustrations. The cover and color illustrations are so powerful and exciting—they’re just up my alley. Thank you so much.

And, of course, from the bottom of my heart: Thank all of you who decided to pick up this book.

December 2022, Masekinokatasa