A/N:

Blackmambauk: Hi everyone, we are finally here with Peace Sells But Who's buying. Nearly a year after the first chapter of Roanapur Connection was released. Apologies for the length of time it's taken for it to come out. Early versions done either didn't convey what was needed or feel like it flowed or did justice to the characters in question. To which I take full responsibility for as I feel i didn't outline stuff clearly to the commissioners chosen, who worked off what I gave them or what they interpreted from it. Along with my own attempts failing due to writers block on my part for months when it came to this chapter, Which is frustrating to deal with and why writing the chapters themselves is the least favourite part of it all for me.

This is despite writing on other chapters during the last year as well. So that you had something to read and because I needed to seed details and build stuff up for this chapter to land. All of which adds up to a Prolonged Prologue, though thankfully not as long as GRM's Game of Thrones was.

The research, the outlining, worldbuilding, thinking of ideas, characterization, themes, visualizing a location, appearance, commissioning artists to grow their talent. That's what I enjoy most. It's why I relate to George Lucas who felt the same when it came to writing and directing.

All of this has been a good learning curve for me. As all of this is my first writing project I am managing and writing for that isn't part of anyone else's work or lore etc. Every step of the way i'm working on myself, my writing, my ability to handle managing it all. All of which brings both positives and negatives with it.

But I want to thank Waggleton aka Seth Rollins and Vanilla Metal for their time and contributions that are reflected in the final version written by my close friend and writing partner Blackmanaburning.

Who took the outline I had done, added to it as we talked through it and has nailed everything in it with the skill, passion, eye for detail and research that makes it a real privilege to work with her. It's why I cannot wait to continue our partnership with her now co-heading Roanapur Connection.

Which grew to the point where we have put this into two parts so you can read it in edible chunks.

Just wanted to run this by you all, i'm thinking of changing the username for my fanfiction accounts and on Deviant Art to reflect that any projects or writing I do are of a ensemble project and no one person stands out as is the case for this fic. Where I work with a number of writers like BlackManaBurning and VanillaMetal.

So a unique name that represents something that shows it's a ensemble team working on each chapter of not just RC, but other fics people do or projects etc. Quite like how the owners of Rockstar's, the Houser brothers operate in not making anything the studio does revolve around them.

So i'm thinking of what name it could be changed to. As I would like to get a logo done for it and possibly more if there is a level of interest in it and it takes off. Since this could have some legging as a brand and also that if I ever have to drop out or reduce duties over my own projects, then it can be possible for others to continue on with it. This way it would make it easier for other writers or artists etc to post stuff up here. Share it equally etc.

As one of the sources of influence for this idea is the Team DragonStar team on this site Where they have a number of writers who each work on different stuff and help each other etc and there is equal promotion of each fic project. Since I always like helping people out on their writing and getting more people to view them etc.

This is all very much a idea at this point and one that would need a lot of work, people committed to it and to benefit all those that would get involved etc

Any feedback, interest would be appreciated.

But enough from me. Here's Black to give her input working on this chapter. Enjoy the chapter.

Blackmambauk

Blackmanaburning: Hello everyone! This is BlackManaBurning/Mana/The Bird Queen (for those who may know me by my other names haha) writing this as I am just about to finish up the final scenes of the chapter… or I guess at this rate it's more like a mini-novella!

Originally this chapter was planned to be about 10,000 words (sees the nearly 30,000 word tally at the moment), but after talking to Blackmambauk and seeing all the drafts and detail he, Seth Rollins, Vanilla Metal and others put into their initial work to get the chapter rolling, I wanted to make sure to do justice to all the effort everyone put into growing this fic into a real work of art crossover.

No spoilers of course, but this chapter marks a huge transition point in Roanapur Connection, when we leave behind much of the simmering political posturing and preparation so frequently seen in the world of Code Geass and begin to close in on Black Lagoon's characters (and their rather, let's say "rougher" approach to things).

As always, it's been an absolute pleasure working with a visionary like Blackmambauk to help bring the ideas of this crossover fic to life! As an avid Code Geass and Black Lagoon fan myself, it was a wonderful excuse for me to give another look at the anime and manga (while calling it "research," which of course it was *adjusts glasses*) and try to spot new ways for the worlds to cross over and contribute to the fic myself.

If you would like to support this fic and the work being done by the many people involved (and perhaps see more than one chapter every several months) be sure to give Blackmambauk a shout and perhaps consider supporting our growing group on our soon-to-be new account! You'll get to see art WIPs, previews of chapters, have the ability to chat with other avid followers of Roanapur Connection and its creators/writers/artists, and also will get to participate in polls, and anything else we come up with to keep the fanfic going for hopefully years to come!

So without further ado, I hope you enjoy this newest chapter/installment to the "main" storyline of Roanapur Connection!

-Mana


[Date: 06/04/1995 ATB, Time: 5:40 p.m., Hunan Province, China]

Nestled amid mountains to the east, south, and west, as a babe in arms of Kwan Yin, vast fields of young rice stalks stretched their green shoots toward the glittering sun.

Only a truly resilient people could eke out a living in this veritable wilderness, surviving as a spotty union of villages and towns divided by vast expanses of untamed land. It was in this place many throughout east Asia could find their oldest roots: a place essentially untouched by modern civilization, and a place where war had little reason or opportunity to reach.

'This too, may soon come to an end.' Emperor Xiang Qing peered down upon his country from the high perch of a helicopter. His thin lips cracked into a narrow grin. These nostalgic moments happened frequently as of late, which he gradually came to terms with in these final days of his great and magnanimous rule.

"This is S7. We have visual of the Magnolia. Proceeding to landing site," a voice crackled over the CB radio.

Xiang's dark eyes followed the single dark line streaking the countryside, that of the Imperial Railway which carved through the land's jagged mountains and cut through its dense forests. The railway kept to a path with little variation, insisting the land suit the railway's purposes unlike the abodes of commoners which sought to blend into the landscape with little distinction.

Resting upon the tracks in a narrow breadth of flat land was the Royal Train, the fastest engine in all of continental China—in no small part thanks to the sakuradite secretly employed alongside a more conventional gas engine—unabashedly emblazoned in vermillion and gold.

Xiang folded his hands in his lap and waited to alight. Several of the attack helicopters part of his entourage touched their skids down in the open swath of land alongside the train.

The soldiers operating the helicopters remained within their cockpits while a handful of red-coated guards disembarked and precisely swept the area, leaving not so much as a single pebble unturned.

"Area clear. The Phoenix is cleared to land..."

With the grace of a crane swooping down for a landing, Xiang's helicopter found easy purchase on the barren gravel. The remaining helicopters hovered above, their guided missiles and heavy machine guns clearly visible to those below.

The door to Xiang's helicopter slid open.

"Your Majesty," a guard draped in red and black robes said. Foregoing a bow for the sake of expediency, the bulky guard quickly assisted Xiang out of the protected cabin.

Xiang no more than toed the ground before a sea of red enveloped him, obliterating his view of the magnificent landscape

The Emperor's golden ceremonial robes flickered in the wind crafted by the helicopter's spinning rotor blades. His elite guard ushered him toward the awaiting train, in perfect step to the monarch's stride, the same as they might escort the world's largest and most valuable gold nugget.

A door to the rear of the central train car, a windowless car with notably sturdier wheels to withstand the weight of the large container, popped out of the seamless metal shell. The door slid open, making a 4 inch thick bump on the outside of the car. Specially made to safely transport the most precious of cargoes through even the most uncertain terrain, the car was made using enough metal to craft several war tanks.

Once Xiang was securely within, the door slid shut and bolted behind him. The only source of light inside the car emitted from several dull yellow bulbs which dotted the ceiling of the narrow corridor Xiang and two of his guards found themselves in, a corridor no more than a quarter of the car's overall thickness.

"... stabilised, so we can resume travel at any time," a stout old nǎinɑi in a spotless doctor's uniform said to the red emblazoned guardsman stationed in the car.

Xiang strode with his back straight, planting his feet firmly with every step, toward the pair. Upon sighting him, the guard bowed deeply to his Emperor, carefully so as not to disturb his loaded gun.

"I would like to see the Empress," Xiang spoke with a voice strong and weathered as the oldest mountains.

Only now noticing her Emperor, the doctor fell kowtow with her foreheads upon the spotless steel flooring. However, she kept her hands a hair's breadth above the floor out of consideration for her duty to the Empress.

"Please, rise," Xiang said with a gentle, almost fatherly tone to the woman whose years were much beyond even his. He waved his arm with a regal air, the gold of his robes glittering in the dull yellow lighting.

The doctor rose, a lifetime's experience etched into her face in the form of countless wrinkles and crow's feet that scratched deep into the corners of her eyes.

Keeping her face reverently bowed to her Emperor, a gesture all the more exaggerated thanks to the slight curvature of her backbone after years spent tending to the sick and the dying, she turned and faced the innermost wall. She lifted the lanyard hanging around her neck and slid an ID card through a near-imperceptible card slot in the wall.

A small red light lit up in the wall, and a sliding door wheeled open.

Xiang's personal guardsmen—a duo whose bodies perfectly balanced strength and flexibility in their athletic builds—took up positions on either side of the door. Xiang turned toward the guard originally stationed in the car.

"Contact Chen and Hui Ying. Tell them both the Empress and I will be late," Xiang ordered. He brought his hands together beneath the billowing sleeves of his robe. 'They will simply have to make due on their own power, for now.'

"Yes, Emperor!" The soldier lifted his head at the order. He made for the forward end of the car and a private communications line that formed the sole connection between the interior of the Empress' closed-off car and the outside world.

Xiang raised a hand and motioned for the doctor to stop before she followed him into the inner room of the car.

"I'd appreciate some time alone with the Empress, if you determine she's able," Xiang requested.

"The Empress at present is resting, but able," the doctor responded without hesitation. "However, I must be beside her once the train resumes motion."

"I trust your judgment." Xiang parted his hands and musingly stroked his lily-white beard. Turning to the doctor, Xiang gave her a slight bow which was outdone only by the two men stationed at either side of the door. "You have my eternal gratitude, Xiaojian Eng."

"It is an honor," the doctor chokingly responded with a bow of her own, her words barely making it to his ear before the door slid shut between her and Xiang.

Inside the car was silent, save for the steady beep…beep…beep-ing of a digital heartbeat. Xiang turned around to see the interior. His eyes quickly locked on a hanging IV bag and monitors, which connected via wires and tubes to an ornately decorated, gold-gilt bed that'd been firmly bolted to the floor.

Xiang could've wept at the sight of his wife, Wu. Dressed in plain white robes, her thin, pale body was nearly invisible beneath her thick white bedding.

Not even the sickness that stole the ruddiness from Wu's cheeks and the liveliness from her step could reduce the emotion Xiang felt to see her again. It was always like this, even in his youth, the two never knowing when some plot or other might result in Xiang or Wu's death. But Xiang never felt it more acutely than now between Britannia baring its ravenous fangs at China and Wu's taking ill.

'We agreed it would be best if we travelled separately,' Xiang's tight shoulders slumped. 'Forgive me, lăopó, but when I heard you'd taken a turn, I could not bear to stay away.'

Xiang padded silently over the sterile floor. He knelt down at Wu's bedside, crushing the embroidered red phoenix pattern on his robes beneath his knees. Xiang listened to the steady beeping of Wu's heartbeat, and watched a stray silver-grey hair joyously twirl at the tip of her nose with her every breath.

Xiang leaned toward Wu's ear, and clasped her icy fingers between his warm hands.

"Magnolias wish the gods gifted them with beauty and strength like yours," Xiang whispered.

The words no more than escaped Xiang's lips before Wu shot up from her pillow, her sallow almond eyes stretched to their utmost size in panic. Wu's heart rate monitor skipped and jumped, the tempo increasing along with Xiang's boyish grin.

"Xiang! What are you doing here?" Wu sputtered on sight of him. "Unless I've arrived at Vermillion City already…." Her eyes turned around her windowless cabin for some sign of confirmation before eventually narrowing on a chuckling Xiang.

"Hello darling," Xiang said. He held back his laughter as best he could. "We're in Zhurong Feng—"

"Zhurong Feng?" Wu's wide eyes sharpened on her husband, her surprise instantly turning to mortified rage. "You old fool!"

Mustering up all her strength, Wu used her one hand not currently clasped between Xiang's to punch Xiang's gilded chest with all the ferocity of a newborn kitten.

Wu's blood pressure rocketed with the sudden stress. Her thin body buckled and heaved in a fit of haggard coughing that lasted several seconds before calming down.

"I must be dreaming," Wu lisped, shaking her head. Xiang took both Wu's hands between his. "You can't be here. It's too dangerous. All our most loyal eyes abroad are focused in Thailand… they're too occupied trying to trace the connection between Britannia and this new threat we found lurking right under our noses to focus on anything else, while those at home are too busy placing their bets with either Xu Ding, or that tiger in monkey's fur Roku to be of any reliable use. Here we are doing all in our power just trying to prevent a war with Britannia, and yet the Eunuchs think only of how to benefit themselves…."

Wu's pitching voice calmed as Xiang warmed her hands. Eventually the heart monitor returned to its normal rhythm of beeps, and Wu's blood pressure dropped and stayed within an acceptable range.

"We've always done all in our power to ensure Chen and Hui Ying success, regardless of which road China takes." Xiang lifted himself off the floor. His knees creaked and crackled beneath his robes until he settled beside Wu on her bed. "The path they walk will be the one they choose."

"You speak as if you believe Hui Ying could bear the weight of China on her shoulders!" The fine lines around Wu's eyes and nose darkened in a sneer. She pulled her hands out of Xiang's warm grasp and planted them defiantly in her lap. "That child wilts under the high noon sun, and needs anyone speaking to be within a foot of her ear!" A single tear flowed over from Empress Wu's right eye, which she promptly covered over with one hand, a gesture that hadn't changed from her youthful courtesan's days. Her voice trembled, "We should never have allowed Hui Ying to attend the summit along with Chen. Malcolm almost refused outright when we asked for his consideration of her health in regards to the conference's time. Sending one of his children as representative instead… this Charles fellow isn't even Malcolm's heir!"

Xiang nodded, agreeing with Wu and all her worries. He placed a comforting hand on Wu's bony back, his rigid posture betraying tension and troubles of his own.

"Perhaps… we coddled Hui Ying more than necessary," Xiang admitted. "She's exceeded expectation time and again in her other duties. In a short time she's gained plenty of supporters who've taken notice of her talents as well. Among them are people whose opinions I trust, people who truly believe China has a choice other than war with Britannia."

"Voicing an opinion to avoid war with Britannia would condemn China to self-destruction." Wu lifted her head from her hand. She dug her thin fingers into her white comforter and cast a sidelong glare at Xiang. "You understood that yourself once, back when Chen was young. We steered him toward the military and surrounded him with generals and tacticians who trained him to be a warrior capable of bearing the immense weight of leading China and its people."

"A country's people cannot thrive on war alone, nor should we expect Chen to carry such a burden alone." Xiang shook his head. "It is my thoughts that if they work together, Chen and Hui Ying can find the light in a world full of darkness, and lead China into an age of peace and prosperity the likes of which none have witnessed before."

"You and your poetic words." Wu smiled and chuckled under her breath.

"You liked them once." Xiang sidled closer to Wu. She leaned into the crook of his arm, and Xiang blanketed her pale form with his billowing sleeves.

"We can't back Hui Ying, not when the entire world expects Chen to receive our full support as he always has," Wu whispered into the feathered ear of the phoenix winging across Xiang's chest. "People like Major General Liu Xin and General Xinghe have placed their trust entirely in him, and have spent their careers encouraging others to follow suit for China's greater good. Dividing our opinion now would legitimize a war over succession, and would only empower men like Roku who'd tear the country apart if it meant he could satisfy his own agenda."

"Which is why I want Chen and Hui Ying to work together. In the past, central power was everything," Xiang solemnly closed his eyes, remembering back to his children's youth. How he poured all his knowledge into the obedient Chen, and reprimanded Hui Ying when she childishly preached her own mind. "But watching Hui Ying and how the people have come to praise her actions has opened my eyes to the reality that in this modern era it's essential to share power, rather than for any one person to maintain total control."

"Which is why you've entrusted them and that operative we sent to Vermillion City each with a portion of what we've discovered?" Wu raised an eyebrow and lifted her face at Xiang.

Xiang bobbed his head.

"This conference is a chance for Hui Ying and Chen to work together and rediscover each other's talents. To find a new balance." Xiang placed a hand over Wu's which rested in her lap. "They've grown apart in recent years, as we all have. But if they can join hands and use what we've provided them to come to a resolution each is satisfied with, I'll pass on my robes to Chen and provide them the final key without hesitation."

"My only remaining worry is that Hui Ying will end up disgracing Chen." The volume of Wu's voice plummeted as if she meant to whisper so even the phoenix wouldn't hear her words. "I accept some blame for the methods we used to keep her safe, but the way she's… attached herself to that nurse of hers is…." Wu's expression twisted in an uncomfortable grimace.

"Such things aren't unheard of,the sharing of peaches, the cutting of sleeves," Xiang noted. When he first heard of the discovery from a stricken Wu, his own shock derived mostly from the novel realization such brotherly affection wasn't exclusive to men. "If nothing else, it will be all the more reason for Hui Ying to appreciate the opportunities that come to her in the shade Chen casts wherein she can behave as she pleases. And no matter how well she does, Chen need never worry about his own heir's right to succession."

A thunderous rumble, followed by a sudden slight jolt, announced that the Royal Train was resuming its sprint to Vermillion City.

Not a moment later, the sliding door to Empress Wu's private sanctuary opened.

Wu's most trusted doctor, her cheeks a ruddy color from many a shed tear of joy, stood in the open doorway. She bowed her head and made her way over to a hand washing station on the far side of the room.

A thick white froth bubbled up to the doctor's elbows while the guardsman assigned to Wu's car stood just outside the door and made his report.

"I've passed the message to both Imperial Siblings informing them we'll be arriving late to the conference." He stood with his heels together, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. "I've been informed that the conference will begin at sundown, as was originally scheduled. Both Imperial Siblings pray for your safe and speedy arrival."


[Date: 06/04/1995 ATB, Time: 5:40 p.m., Hui Ying's Apartments in the Royal Residence, Vermillion City, the Chinese Federation]

Vermillion City.

Hui Ying's eyes swept over the city from her high balcony, a tiny bump on the face of a shining gold-toned building. Ostentatiously constructed on a manmade island, a plaque-like buildup that rerouted the Yellow River's flow around it, the structure defied logic for no other reason than to show its creators' refusal to bend to the will of any other than its own.

It begged the question: How many of the city's Britannian occupants knew the place by its former name, Luoyang?

How many knew the greatness of what once existed in this very spot around the Yellow River? How many observed the distinctly Britannian steel structures looming over the crystal-clear canals, and the concrete walls which rose on all sides as if to reaffirm the city's distinctness from its surroundings and thought, "This is Chinese ingenuity at work!"? How many turned their noses away from the acrid smoke which frequently blotted out the rising sun, smoke which staunchly refused on windless days to vacate the homes of the east quarter poor who spent their days working in windowless factories for the Britannians living in the gentrified western areas with the politicians and Eunuchs, and thought, "This is the finest and most storied city in all of China!"?

Hui Ying observed how agonizingly slow the faint winds blowing from the west cleared the sky once the many factories shut down.

Smokeless skies were a rare occurrence in the bustling working districts. The shutdown which would persist for but a few short days in observance of a holiday called to celebrate Malcolm's—or rather, Malcolm's representative, Charles zi Britannia's—visit to this veritable utopia of the East. The sight of the soot-blackened rooftops and plain concrete walls of the eastern district soothed Hui Ying's sensitive eyes after an exhausting day of being toured around the more sparkling districts like a foreigner in her own country.

"Vermillion City," Hui Ying mouthed the how the words insisted their nativity by the way they mimicked the inherent poeticness of her mother tongue, their taste was foreign in her mouth no different from the many so-called "Chinese" cuisines devised by Britannian chefs.

Even the very apartments Hui Ying was assigned to during her stay were an affront to her sensibilities. Stuffed with decor meant to evoke a tastefully Chinese design, her lavish room completely ignored the beauty of minimalism and feng shui. Its red upholstered wood and varnished bamboo furnishings smelled factory fresh, and the timeless depiction of cranes among water lilies machine-embossed on a golden folding screen could never match the subtle dignity of an honored heirloom and its patina. A scattering of Chinese characters punctuated a magnificent surface artistry which could deceive only those who didn't know the truth of the utter nonsense woven by their conjoined use.

Vermillion City. A Britannian stronghold embedded like an as yet benign cancer quietly growing in what was, in the distant past, China's very heart.

"Hopefully there will be no bodies in the street tomorrow morning," Hui whispered. She silently thanked the buffoonish officials who heeded her advice to clear the sky for Charles' visit. Certainly we wouldn't want the Britannian Emperor's representative to whiff the cocktail of noxious fumes on the nearly windless day.

A day and a half without smog. A day and a half without pay. It was a trade of one evil for another to the west district's predominantly native Chinese poor. But Hui Ying trusted their ability to make the best of things and survive, just as this city's people always had and always would.

A flock of twittering magpies rippled through the clear air. They flew due east, toward the distant green.

One bird darted off from the rest and neatly perched itself on the steel rails beside Hui Ying. The bird fluttered its metallic blue wings and bowed its body toward her as if thanking her for the fine afternoon.

"Did you enjoy the sun this afternoon?" Hui Ying propped her elbows on the railing and leaned into her hands. She shifted her gaze from the distant city to the bird, and muttered a quiet curse when her eyesight flickered and crossed.

The bird took wing after its flock, the lot of them apparently headed out of the city toward the world outside the stone walls' confines.

"Princess?"

Rubbing her eyes, Hui Ying turned away from the city. She listened in the direction of the open balcony doors, through which came the meekly pleading, overtly feminine voice.

Leaving the balcony and its irksome view behind, Hui Ying made her way indoors.

Inside her stuffy and oppressive main apartment, Hui Ying easily found her attendant and personal nurse, Wei Ren.

Wei's pleasant smile couldn't hide the skittish apprehension in her catlike eyes. It impressed Hui Ying how well Wei held herself together outside of the Imperial Palace; the glass of almond milk barely rattled on the bamboo tray Wei gripped in her supple hands. Wei never did like traveling, much less venturing to such a disputed city near China's border.

"I'm here, Wei." A coquettish smile lifted the corners of Hui Ying's rosy lips. She wafted through the spacious loft like an apparition draped in her billowing white, red, and gold-embroidered silk robes, her knee-length silver hair wisping behind her like a spectral cloud.

"Allow me, Princess!" Wei spouted upon catching sight of Hui Ying. She sped over to an ornately carved rosewood table and set down the tray. Wei carefully pulled out a chair for Hui Ying so as not to mar the one fine thing in the room, an aged red and gold carpet retained since the days of Luoyang.

Hui Ying noticed the usual small cup of supplements along with her almond milk on the bamboo tray. Usually Wei would simply bring the supplements and milk, but today there was something extra today which necessitated the tray: three white steamed buns easily large enough to fill a grown man's hands.

Hui Ying selected one of the plump, steamed stuffed buns. It's fresh warmth quickly radiated deep into her palms while the delicious scent zinged her nostrils.

"Sweet-and-sour pork." Hui Ying's eyes sparkled. "My favorite!" Her gentle smile broadened, which put a sheepish grin on Wei's face as well.

"I noticed you didn't eat much at the noon meal," Wei explained the unusual occurrence. "All this travel has my stomach tied up in knots as well... so I made sweet-and-sour pork Jiangsu style."

Hui Ying tilted her face up at Wei. She patted the armrest of the empty chair beside her. "Eat them with me?"

Wei, after a moment of feigned hesitation, gave a slight bow and settled into the chair.

Hui Ying alternated between tiny bites of stuffed bun and swallowing the multicolor supplements one at a time along with a sip of almond milk.

Wei took extreme care to layer a bright red cotton napkin on the fine silks draping her lap before selecting one of the handmade buns for herself. However, after taking just a single bite of the handmade bun, Wei started sniffling.

"I hope these discussions will be brief," Wei sniveled through her nibble of sweet-and-sour pork. She swallowed the tiny mouthful and set down her steaming bun on another red cotton napkin. Wei blotted her eyes with the cuff of her aqua and amethyst ruqun, being certain to pick a spot no one would notice a small smear of dark eye makeup. "The Empire is so…"

"Claustrophobic?" Hui Ying finished for Wei. She set her empty glass beside the remaining two buns on the bamboo tray, and wiped her fingers on her napkin.

"Yes," Wei meekly agreed. The silver comb cinching back Wei's jet black hair flashed with her bouncing nod. A large white opal and several teardrop-sized gems dangling from the metal glittered like the shards of a shattered rainbow.

"It would be nice if we could come to a quick resolution with Britannia." Hui Ying did her best to project an aura of reassuring positivity, but her doubts were too great to completely withhold.

"Everything touched by the Holy Britannian Empire is so daunting and grand," Wei went on. "It's all so rich and luxurious, yet I can't bring myself to enjoy any of it. It lacks..."

"Authenticity?" Hui Ying finished for Wei yet again.

Wei nodded her agreement. "I feel so tense. It's as though I don't belong in a city I'm told again and again is mine."

"The world believes Vermillion City to be 'capital of the Orient,'" Hui Ying gestured to the room full of what may as well have been movie props around them. "Only those who look up from the map will realize the truth: this is Britannia. And to the east, that's where the real China is."

Hui Ying reached beneath the table, her nimble fingers easily finding Wei's among the many folds of their silken sleeves.

"Let's talk about China," Hui Ying said. She inched to one side of her chair and rested her shoulder against Wei's. "The real China, the one far from all this—"

A rapping at the door to Hui Ying's apartments made the easily startled Wei leap from her chair. Alternating waves of green and blue silk rippled around Wei as she headed for the next room to answer the door.

"One moment," Wei called. Hui Ying straightened her back against her chair and layered her hands over her lap.

A second later, Wei returned with another of Hui Ying's attendants, Fei Dong.

Unlike the elegantly and traditionally attired Hui Ying and Wei, Fei prefered the more western look of a smartly tailored gray blazer and slacks. She preferred to keep her straight black hair tightly restrained in a glossy ponytail studded with gunmetal hairpins. Fei's long stride was tense and precise like a cobra's in the poise of someone always prepared to strike. The sheer makeup around Fei's almond eyes trained her dark umber gaze into one as piercing and effective as any snake's poison.

Unlike Wei, who Hui Ying came to know and trust over the course of years of relying on Wei as her closest confidante and dearest companion, Hui Ying still understood little about Fei. Hui Ying knew of Fei's origins in Guangdong province and about the five years Fei spent in impeccable service to the Viscount of Nansha…. However, these were all things one could glean from any background report.

Fei only came on as Hui Ying's attendant guard a few months ago when the Emperor and Empress made Hui Ying accepting her a condition of allowing Hui Ying to become a formal ambassador of China. Although in reality Hui Ying held little power, the ability to venture outside of palace walls allowed her to better understand the plight of the common people, a plight she felt was her personal mission to rectify alongside the current and future ruler of China.

"I've received correspondence that Her Majesty and His Excellency are currently enroute, however the Empress' condition has forced them to make an unexpected stop in Zhurong Feng," Fei reported, her hands clasped behind her back in a formal posture.

Despite her wish to be perceived in a dignified and fierce light, Fei's Mandarin awkwardly accentuated itself in places where Hui Ying sensed Fei's residual habit of slipping into her native Cantonese.

'Like chickens talking to ducks,' as the ministers often joked, even while Fei stood clearly in earshot. As a result of not wanting to disgrace her mistress, Fei consigned herself to relying on the universality of body language rather than words when in mixed company. Seemingly overnight, Fei developed that piercing cobra's gaze capable of communicating her often simple intentions to anyone at a glance, regardless whether they be a chicken or duck.

And if anyone ever second-guessed that cobra's gaze…

It was on one of their first outings together when a commoner, dissatisfied with more than a few of the Emperor's policies, attempted to take out his displeasure on Hui Ying. But, with a motion as effortless as the wave of a hand, Fei disarmed and disabled the attacker and earned herself Hui Ying's respect, even if not yet her confidence and trust.

"I've also received confirmation that, despite the Emperor and Empress running late, the preliminary talks are to begin as previously scheduled." Fei completed her report with a click of her glossy charcoal heels.

"Thank you for the update," Hui Ying said. She pushed back her chair and stood without waiting for Wei's assistance.

Hui Ying strode toward her excessively plush bed. Every time she looked at the deep vermillion bolts of cloth dangling from the trusses above the bed—a design choice more suited to the bridal bed—a shiver went up Hui Ying's spine. She would certainly have the cloth taken down, with a note left for housekeeping in explanation concerning its inappropriateness for an official's visit, before she went to sleep tonight.

Hui Ying lifted her arms, her crimson sleeves peeling back to reveal a thin gold elastic circling her delicate white wrist. It took several long moments of pulling her silvery hair through and around the resilient band before she finished tucking every last flyaway back in a neat bun.

Hui Ying grabbed a small leather briefcase from among the numerous plush throw pillows piling the gold and white comforter. She exited the room first with Wei, while Fei shut the door and trailed them in her usual, cautiously observing fashion.

The glistening black lenses of cameras peered down from the walls, a new mechanical eye training its gaze on them with every ten feet. Motion sensors rotated the cameras to create a flawless record of the trio's stroll. The trio made their way silently through the grand halls which, unlike the room Hui Ying was assigned, were unabashedly Britannian with their enormous sheets of polished mauve quartz paneling the walls and the poured concrete floors that shone with a bronze-gold gleam.

But even more imposing than the polished walls and curious cameras, were the Britannian soldiers flanking the halls so that at least a dozen were always within sight. Each held at the ready a compact automatic gun which, while they weren't all that powerful, served just as well as a reminder of how Britannia advanced at the forefront of the world's great military powers.

'Motorized guns, with Sakuradite guiding rails… guns with no need for gunpowder.' Hui Ying narrowed her eyes at the guns. 'Railguns.' She wondered how many were made using her own country's exported Sakuradite. 'Yet the established agreements won't allow the Chinese people to even use sakuradite as a energy source and share what we've learned with the world... not openly.'

Hui Ying clenched her fists beneath her fluttering white sleeves. The utter ridiculousness of such a "deal" when the Chinese possessed the largest population in the world was one of the very things Hui Ying was certainly going to have addressed before the conference concluded.

Hui Ying glanced to one side. She noticed Wei gradually slip two steps behind her, cowering beneath the oppressive gazes of the cameras and soldiers with her eyes glued at a level no higher than the soldiers' boots.

Hui Ying hobbled a bit, feigning a sudden weakness.

"Wei, I'm feeling a bit faint," Hui Ying said. She pressed a hand to her left temple.

In an instant, Wei snapped out of her nervous stupor. She offered her arm to Hui Ying, too consumed with by the task at hand to be nervous about the soldiers anymore.

Fei quickly appeared beside them, her expression and posture broadcasting a clear intent to relieve Hui Ying of her neither heavy, nor light briefcase.

Hui Ying hesitated at the idea of handing over such an important collection of documents and classified data, even to Fei. Despite how Hui Ying respected Fei's strength—even asking her for simple lessons in self-defense—and found her more than capable with the task of being Hui Ying's go-between organizing things with her supporters abroad, something about Fei's eagerness at times still put Hui Ying on edge.

Despite her hesitancy, Hui Ying handed over the briefcase.

If she were going to portray herself as a meek, frail thing, better to do so without reservation.

Hui Ying gripped Wei's arm as though Wei were the only thing keeping her upright. Within minutes, the trio arrived at the end of the hall where an elevator waited for them.

A robust soldier even heavier armed than those lining the hallways showed no sign of moving from his position before the elevator.

"Identification," he bellowed at the three.

'So loud,' Hui Ying didn't need to feign a pained wince. 'Certainly you know our faces by now, you Britannian lapdog. You escorted us to our apartments not three hours ago, after that blasted tour.'

Rather than voice her complaints, Hui Ying released Wei's arm and slipped her fingers between the gold and red layers of her sash. She pinched a laminated identification card between her fingers, but in the process of pulling it out, caught her thumb on the delicate folds of the red and gold silk ribbons, arranged to form a magnificent flower, atop her stomach.

She dropped the card an inch from the soldier's hand, and it fell to the floor.

"Terribly sorry," Hui Ying apologized. She squinted intently at the soldier.

The Britannian man's unattractive face turned even uglier with his scowl. He bent over—rather awkwardly, thanks to his excessive armaments and a belly that seemed to have grown since he last had his uniform fitted—and picked up the card, barely giving it a glance before he gruffly handed it back to Hui Ying.

He stepped aside with an animal grunt, and pressed the button for the glass elevator doors to part.

Hui Ying tucked away her ID card and again obliged Wei for her arm. The two boarded the circular elevator first, followed by Fei whose standard callous glare at the soldier Hui Ying was grateful for in times like these.

The loud sound of suction outside the sealed elevator doors lifted glass encapsulating the three women. During the elevator's short climb, Hui Ying leaned toward Wei. She made certain it would appear from Fei's vantage point she was only leaning on Wei for support when Hui Ying whispered into Wei's ear:

"Don't worry about a thing. No matter what happens, I'll never let anything happen to you." Hui Ying pressed her face closer to Wei's. Her lips briefly brushed Wei's powdered cheek, thankfully neither taking away any of Wei's makeup nor leaving a smudge of Hui's lipstick behind.


[Date: 06/04/1995 ATB, Time: 5:40 pm, Royal Residence, Vermillion City, China]

The echo of heavy boots resounded down the heavily guarded corridor. Soldiers formally dressed in the Holy Britannian Empire's colors stood at ten foot intervals, each armed with sakuradite-enhanced automatic guns. They straightened their postures when Sir Bismarck Waldstein walked past on his way to the chamber where the preliminary talks were scheduled to take place.

'I've yet to get completely used to this.'

Bismarck—still just a green lad of 22 when he received his appointment by the great Emperor Malcom Di Britannia—practically strutted through the halls on his long legs, his ostentatious aqua blue cloak swirling behind him like a sunlit waterfall. His moussed locks framed his face with a light twirl of brown, thick, dark eyebrows accentuating his blank expression in a way that made him appear just a bit devilish despite all his best efforts to the contrary.

While it irked him somewhat, Bismarck's powerful and imposing presence was perfectly suited to a man of his position as Knight of Five, one of Britannia's twelve highest ranked Knights.

Upon sighting the armed guardsman stationed at the far end of the the twisting corridor, Bismarck dutifully reached into the front pocket of his white suit. Before he could produce his identification, however, the guard stepped aside and pressed a button, opening the glass door.

Before Bismarck could speak up about the guard's obviously lacking security training, the guard's reason for why he so easily letting Bismarck through was made clear.

"Best of luck with the talks, Sir Knight of Five," the guard said with a brief salute.

Bismarck boarded the elevator with little more than a nod.

Of course Bismarck wouldn't be asked to provide identification by one of his own people. He was one of the Britannian VIPs, a veritable superstar to those in the military and noble ranks alike.

Most would have been thrilled being chosen at Bismarck's young age to enjoy the privilege and power extended from the Emperor to his Twelve Knights of The Round. Every young man who ever had the honour of learning the way of knighthood and the sword dreamed to one day don a bright cloak and stand toe-to-toe with the likes of Lancelot from King Arthur's time. Not a noble or heroic-minded youth existed who didn't fantasize of riding in on a white horse, wielding a shield and brandishing a sword in defense of those who could not defend themselves in the name of king and country.

But…

Bismarck's black gloves let out a series of muffled squeals from between his tightening fingers.

To dream of such things was for young men and nobles who believed in knightly chivalry and honor. It was reserved only for those who believed Noblesse Oblige hadn't been wrung from the political sphere long ago with the usurous hands of corruption.

Bismarck had never been one of these naive young dreamers. He knew even before that mad king Malcolm laid his sword to Bismarck's shoulder—just a momentary slip away from lopping off the youth's head—there was no chivalry in lifting a sword in the name of his ignoble ruler.

For what honor was there in serving an Emperor who displayed the decapitated heads of his doubters upon pikes which always dripped with fresh blood? What honor was there in serving an Emperor who would have even one of his most highly regarded aides don a jester's hat for his own amusement before the royal court? And what honor was it to serve an Emperor who could point to his most devout follower, accuse him of some laughable crime or misdeed, and end both his and the lives of everyone he knows with the wag of a finger?

How many more first Tuesdays of the month would go by wherein the Emperor would "invite" those of his highest noble houses to come dance upon the palace ballroom's pockmarked and bullet holed floor? Certainly the rival noble houses of Bruckner and Bismarck's own Waldstein's were not alone in suffering the indignity of watching their eldest sons put their best foot forward to dance for the amusement of their ruler. For Malcolm di Britannia was a ruler who found particular enjoyment in pairing men whose filial ties would not allow either to accept anything but the leading role, condemning their dance to an awkward placement of feet that staggered on until the chambers of Malcolm's favorite pistol were emptied.

Recent generations of the nobility whose parents did not have to endure such treatment in their youth regularly dissolved their inherited bonds of hatred. They chose instead to forge new pacts in a newfound understanding that to the current Emperor the proud and respected nobility of Britannia, the greatest in the world, may as well be rats mucking through the streets.

What benevolence should've been extended to Bismarck and his family at his historic knighthood was nothing but the embodiment of Malcolm's ongoing spite.

Malcolm stole the Waldstein's prized heir at the ripe young age of 22 in retaliation for his family's transgressions in attempting to lift themselves into a higher station by seeking a match with one of the Emperor's daughters, and for openly questioning the way Malcolm handled the Empire's economic affairs.

As Knight of Five, Sir Bismarck Waldstein received in exchange for everything the position had to offer—money, political power, fame, glory—the complete and utter dissolution of Bismarck Waldstein's entire existence.

Never again could he share a table with his family and carelessly assassinate the Emperor's character without suffering accusations of treason. For what use was a weapon which might one day turn against its possessor? Never again could Bismarck entertain the ideas of courtship, of inheriting the family property and raising an heir as he'd had drilled into him would be his duty and privilege as eldest son.

While Sir Bismarck Waldstein's name would be regarded well in history books, it would only be in the form of a footnote to how well he fulfilled his duties as Knight of Five, a mere toy and possession of Emperor Malcom di Britannia. Bismarck's worth was reduced to his ability with sword, lance, and spear, with utter disregard to the martial art of the shield which so embodied the original spirit of chivalry.

The last Knights of the Round to waste effort on the art of the shield lived over a century ago before he perished in 1877. Francesco Lombardi, a 95-year-old Knight at the time of his death, grew brittle and frail until he could no longer bear the weight of his armaments. The then Empress Claire Li Britannia—caught up in a coup that would topple her reign—watched her most beloved Knight of the Round Sir Renya Kururugi lose an arm to then Chancellor Lorenzo il Soresi's knight of honor. The old Knight Sir Francesco, the last of Claire's Knights, had no choice but to take up arms in her defense. He collapsed in his chainmail and helplessly rocked like a turtle, his shield crushing him beneath its weight while Claire was escorted to Sir Renya's beheading.

Subsequent Emperors and Empresses learned from the mistake that was Francesco Lombardi. Better to have a Knight die young and in valiant service, to have him gloriously shatter under the enemy's blows as an inexperienced blade, than risk a weapon anointed with a tenured position to dull.

But if that was to be Bismarck's fate, he did not completely mind the idea of his death being in service to one of the Emperor's "spares," Prince Charles zi Britannia.

Charles was private, independent, and like Bismarck, didn't care one lick for Malcolm. It came as a surprise to Bismarck, to hear Charles so openly speak his distaste, that he almost thought it a ploy to out him. But Charles and Malcolm shared little more than what trace blood they had together as uncle and nephew, their views and thoughts being of entirely separate minds. And standing beside Charles also gave Bismarck an extra advantage: access to the Emperor's innermost circle and the royal family itself.

The Emperor's chuckling and fawning inner circle were both the most privileged and the most endangered caste. To hear their whispers was to hear the ravings of a madman translated into understandable human tongue. But by listening to their whispers it was possible to understand exactly where things stood in the Emperor's mind, where he would likely strike next, and where Bismarck needed to be in order to always ensure he was out of the Emperor's central line of fire.

'Knight of Eight Sir Bronn Davenport's head left by Malcolm's favoured Knight, Sir Hugh Gottwald and his unique grip serves as a reminder of that.'

Thus, just like in the ballroom with the squat and arhythmic Theodore Bruckner, Bismarck needed to be sure to always place his foot just right. He needed to anticipate and dodge Malcolm's bumbling moves. He worked tirelessly to present himself as faultless in the carrying out of his Oaths to the Throne, and to do so in a way which allowed him to retain what little honor and virtue remained to him as a man in this world.

'If I could raise a sword in defense of someone, I wouldn't mind doing it for a man like Charles.'

And with that thought—that perhaps as a Knight there was something Bismarck could do that wouldn't have him wish each day to be cut down and released from such a purposeless and honorless life—Bismarck relaxed his fists.

All these thoughts barraged Bismarck's mind while the elevator slowly made its way up to the towering Royal Residence's apex. The glass elevator sped skyward within a tube of white steel, propelled by glowing sakuradite rails and powerful blasts of air in a way similar to how a bullet shot through the barrel of the Empire's newest guns. Eventually the ascent slowed, and the glass chamber came to a stop at its final destination.

Piercing the sky at 2,117 feet, far above the stately manors and concrete apartment complexes—the Spearpoint loomed. It was a grand lookout positioned at the tip of the prize jewel of the orient, Vermillion City's Royal Residence. While not the official name, Sir Bismarck Waldstein considered the nickname given to it by Vermillion City's people, referring to the towering Royal Residence as the "Spearpoint of Britannia at China's throat," to be quite fitting.

The four pyramidal walls were made up of almost entirely tempered and reinforced triple-pane glass, and were connected by a weblike lattice of brass-gilt framework. The corners converged 60 feet above the center of the spacious room which, as of this moment, was lit solely by the sun falling to the west after what had been a brilliant and cloudless day.

Bismarck screwed on his trademark smirk and stepped out of the once vacuum-sealed chamber. The throngs of Britannian nobles and Chinese officials invited up from the city to sit in on the talks were quick to take notice of him, if for no other reason than due to Bismarck's towering frame which gave him a veritable bird's eye view of his surroundings. He took great care not to let his eyes linger unbecomingly on the plunging necklines of the ladies' gowns, and firmly shook hands with the sometimes nervous, oftentime awed gentlemen who approached him.

Time passed in a blur of socializing until Bismarck picked out from the murmurs of those around him a pair of familiar voices. Voices belonging to members of what was to be his new family, the other Knights of the Round.

"... that Bartley Apirus fellow got off too lightly after how his family made such a scene. The only reason his head is still attached is because Arthur himself vouched for him." A tall stick of a woman with bob-cut auburn hair grumped and grumbled to a burly and slow-looking man standing opposite her. The woman wore a white suit the mirror image of Bismarck's, the only difference to their attire being the ruddy brown cape draped from her thin shoulders.

"Do you mean to say you question the Emperor's judgment," inquired the deep voiced man standing opposite the woman. A stout and brawny fellow with the appearance of someone who could beat a bear at arm wrestling, the man's fitted white suit bulged with the excess of his muscles somehow stuffed beneath his magenta cape.

"Of course I support the Emperor just as my family always has. However," the woman motioned to a young man with foppish blonde hair standing a few paces behind her. He handed her a crystal tumbler of water; the celebratory wine would be saved for once the talks were completed. The woman took a sip from the glass before continuing. "Demanding compensation for one of their children giving his life in service to those who enabled his family to cling to the vestiges of their nobility… as a fellow true noble, doesn't it make your blood boil?" The woman gesticulated wildly in her barely-restrained rage. Water to leapt from her cup and splashed onto her cape.

The man opposite the enraged woman cracked a grin. He reached toward a lad balancing a silver tray of hors d'oeuvre in one hand, the lad's wild mop of grey hair barely kept back in a ponytail by a magenta bow. The bearish man selected a small scone daubed with creme from among the many colorful options. Before he could partake of the miniaturized delight, however, his eyes met with Bismarck's and the man's amused expression took on a sort of impish delight.

"Welcome to the party, Sir Knight of Five," the gruff man bellowed.

Sir Mandon Oakheart, a Britannian nobleman raised abroad in one of the Empire's many colonized areas. The bear of a man earned his seat as Knight of Six through a mix of his family's long history of resolute nationalism along with his personal fame, a renown stemming from actions he took to root out resistance and stomp out an Area uprising in the Philippines with pure brute force. As one of only a handful of Knights of the Round invited to attend the conference, his presence was hardly coincidental: he was a living reminder of where the Empire stood concerning their policies with foreigners.

"So the Knight of Five has decided to grace us with his presence?" The woman sneered over her shoulder at Bismarck. Her aqua eyes which would have been attractive on any other woman were no different from daggers in the way she wielded them.

Eleanor Soresi, a noblewoman who radiated with all the charm of her domineering Britannian heritage and a bloodline with more than its fair share of overlaps with the Britannian Royal Family. Knight of Two and the only current female Knight of the Rounds, she left her fiancé from an arranged marriage at the altar, choosing instead to enlist in the military where she skyrocketed through the ranks. She was a woman known as much for her shrewdness of mind as for the sharpness of her blade— which she readily brandished with or without the Emperor's command—which made her cape the color of dry blood a perfect match for a woman of such a devastating temper as hers.

"How are your new pages working out? Andrea Farnese and Michele Manfredi, if I'm not mistaken?" Bismarck inquired, hoping to derail the conversation concerning Malcolm's most recent brutalizing of his own people.

The two lads shifted in their polished black shoes, breaking out in a cold sweat in their slightly off-white suits when the conversation suddenly focused on them.

Eleanor rolled her eyes at her admittedly meek-looking page, Andrea Farnese. An honorarily appointed knight-in-training from a respected Euro Britannian family granted a noble rank only a handful of generations ago, he'd lasted the longest so far out of all Eleanor's pages. Her gesture was as close to acquiescence as Eleanor could likely manage, and which the lad readily mirrored in his own expression when she wasn't looking.

"Michele was quite excited when he heard we were to tour Vermillion City, weren't you?" Mandon good-naturedly slapped the flush-faced lad between his shoulderblades.

"Yes, Sir Oakheart. I've always dreamt of visiting the orient." Michele boldly showed his excitement with his beaming grin. "The people and their way of life here is so different from the fatherland—"

"Well, better get used to things quick, son!" Mandon slapped Michele's back repeatedly, apparently thoroughly entertained with his page's excitement. "'cause you'll be seeing chinks aplenty during your training!"

Mandon's booming laugh soared high above the moderate din of the crowd. Bismarck's eye wandered, momentarily catching on the fierce expression of a Chinese official on the far side of the room clearly glaring into the back of Mandon's skull.

"This will be a good sort of practice for you as well, Andrea. There's not much difference between the people in China and India," Eleanor said. She gestured to the buffet table overflowing with fine food and drink which, while some looked Chinese-inspired, were entirely geared toward satiating the Britannian tongue. "Enjoy the food while you can, since we won't have much occasion to dine so well once we reach the front lines."

"Thank you, Lady Soresi," Andrea said, his young voice and posture exuding a saintly demeanor most boys didn't gain until they become wizened men.

"Which reminds me," Eleanor added. She swished the ice at the bottom of her glass in circles, the crystal making light tink-tink-tink noises like a muffled bell. "Where might your charge be, Bismarck?"

"On our way out Charles received a call from one of his consorts' doctors. He asked that I come ahead of him," Bismarck explained in a hushed tone. Even if Charles wasn't in line for the throne, there were still plenty of nobles here at the edge of the Empire eager for any sort of gossip from the fatherland.

As if on cue, tension rippled through the room. Britannians in rank from nobles to servants, as well as a vast majority of the Chinese attendees, fell to their knees. Even the Knights of Six and Two and their pages got on one knee, their faces oriented toward the west.

Bismarck turned, and saw the room suddenly bathed in the bloodied glow that so often accompanied the early sunset.

Standing before the western glass elevator was Charles zi Britannia. The towering man stood above all in his subdued double-breasted military-style uniform, his clothing decorated only with a curious branched pattern at the base of his neck which evoked the image of something similar to a golden bird spreading its wings.

The sun cast its halo from behind Charles as if anointing the man with its favor in spite of his simplified regalia. The harsh light made both Charles' mauve cape and the man's shoulders overflowing with his golden hair glitter and shine. He withstood the burning sun's rays like a worldly incarnation of a raging sun god who'd remade the world in his vermillion image after passing judgment on those whose bodies were now piled at Charles' feet.

As representative of the Holy Britannian Empire at the talks, of course Charles would receive a welcome fit for the Emperor. Today, and for the duration of the talks, any not to show proper respect to the Emperor's nephew would be treated no different from if they'd spat in the very face of Malcolm di Britannia himself—an action no one who wanted to live through the night would willingly commit.

Yet, while most royals and nobles would give their very souls for a momentary taste of the absolute power of the Emperor of Britannia, Charles stood with the same deep frown on his face as always, preferring the pretense of obliviousness to the state of the world and the actions of those around him rather than allow himself to bask in their misappropriated reverly.

'It's because they don't do this in respect of him. They do it in respect for Malcolm.'

By the time Bismarck raised his eyes, he saw Charles already in conversation with another nobleman, a stately man whose balding head seemed to be progressing in inverse to the lengthening of his uniquely styled beard and moustache. While the man's flowing robes displayed colors similar to those of Britannia's flag, their design and the modified golden fleur-de-lis emblazoned on his chest were of a more Euro Britannian style.

'So he'd be Sir Raymond du Saint-Gilles then. And his page would be…." Bismarck adjusted his gaze to the rather scrappy youth with wild eyebrows and a wolfish scruff of brown hair standing beside the broad-nosed Sir Raymond. Unlike the the Knight of the Rounds' more broken-in pages, the obviously inexperienced, or just energetic, lad shifted back and forth in his polished boots like he might leap out of them any moment.

Bismarck recalled the attendee roster of faces and names he memorized in preparation for the conference, and the name of the lad—surprisingly large and muscular for a boy of barely 15— jumped to the forefront of his mind: Gaudefroy Du Villon.

While the boy wasn't exactly Knight of the Rounds material, it was still a great honor to become page of an accomplished Knighted Britannian noble like Sir Raymond du Saint-Gilles. He was a man whose military accomplishments as a General precisely balanced the voracious Britannian appetite for conquest with a consideration for civilians that made him an excellent elected representative of Euro Britannia.

"Excuse me sir, pardon me madam." Bismarck wove his way through the arising crowd of nobles with the same effortless elegance he'd been taught during his own time as one among their ranks, and quickly made his way to join Charles.

Conversations among the Britannians, quick to recover from the momentary pause, ranged the entire gambit, exemplifying their voracious appetite for gossip and news.

"… heard Princess Cornelia got herself into another fight…"

"… the Commons sorry Senate will try to fight this amendment…"

"… heard that drunkard Reuben Ashford is preparing another prototype. His site in San Diego, you know, the secret one…"

"… on how things go with China, we stand for our companies stock to rise dramatically. Trade wars are always a bing for us…"

"… that Loveface fellow is starting trouble among the thirteen families again. You'd think he would have learnt his lesson after his son got kidnapped…"

"… did you hear about Sir Wallis? Supposedly he found his wife in bed with another woman!"

"… Gods pray we leave this back sweller sooner or later. I can't stand to deal with these slant-eyes …"

"… do the blacks want? Every time Dame Ernst goes on another of her rants it makes me want to vomit my lunch…"

Bismarck paid little attention to the passing conversations, most of which were news to him, before he picked up on a voice matching the flap of Sir Raymond's cracked lips.

"... full support of Euro Britannia, with nothing to worry about," Bismarck only caught the tail end of Sir Raymond's conversation with a rather preoccupied and disinterested-looking Charles. Raymond glanced at Bismarck. "And you must be Sir Bismarck Waldstein, Britannia's new Knight of Five." The old general appraised Bismarck with a single glance. "It's not often a man so young becomes a Knight of the Rounds. You'd do well to learn from his example, Gaudefroy."

"Yes sir," Gaudefroy grumbled, his gaze flickering almost shyly despite his untamed appearance.

"No need to stop your conversation on my account." Bismarck gestured for Raymond to continue.

"Not at all." Raymond stroked his steadily graying beard. "We were just letting the Emperor know he has Euro Britannia's full support in these negotiations with the Chinese." He directed a glance toward the twitchy boy beside him, his cool gaze bringing to an instant halt the lad's nonstop movement.

Charles hardly waited for Raymond and his page to recede into the sea of nobles before he trained his sunken lavender gaze on Bismarck.

"Have the Chinese representatives made an appearance yet," Charles inquired in a gruff tone.

"Not yet." Bismarck lifted his shoulders. "With the Emperor and Empress running late, they've been holding back. Now that it's been confirmed they won't arrive until later tonight, the only ones on the Chinese side during the preliminary talks will be their children, heir apparent Chen Qing and a daughter Hui Ying Qing," Bismarck repeated the latest updates.

However, Charles' expression remained unchanged at what most would consider quite troublesome news. His was the visage of a man who, after years of relentless stress and exhaustion, had the image of fatigue darkly etched onto his otherwise still young face in the form of deep lines and a permanently dissatisfied frown.

Bismarck glanced around and, upon perceiving the noteworthy berth the nobles seemed to give the Emperor's stand-in, stepped closer to Charles. He leaned closer to the man's ear, keeping his volume as low as possible when Bismarck spoke. "I recognize it may not be my place to ask, however... how is Lady Gabrielle's condition?"

"She will recover from the loss," Charles replied in the same curt tone as always. His gaze lingered, unmoving over the crowd of nobles as he observed them all no differently from how a statue might observe a crowded park.

"You have my condolences," Bismarck mumbled. One of his younger sisters lost a child to similar complications, in spite of the advanced medicine available to Britannians. It was strange to think even Royals and their families were not immune to such losses. "If you ever find yourself in need of an ear to vent your troubles, I'd be happy to provide one."

"I may take you up on that offer one day." A hint of a smile seemed to curl the corner of Charles' lips, but disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Rather than linger on about the subject, Charles trudged forth into the crowded room. The sea of nobles parted around Charles like calm waters cut through by a slow-moving barge's prow, making it remarkably easy for a man like Bismark—long used to having at least some trouble moving through dense crowds—to follow after him.

Within moments they arrived at the buffet table. Charles gazed upon the many delicacies—from the the perfectly ripened strawberries beside a dark chocolate fountain, picture-perfect mille crepes, tea cakes and cookies, to fluffy white sandwiches generously stuffed with various cured meats and even tender roast lamb alongside plump dumplings, sauces, and chinese dishes Bismarck knew nothing about—with the steely eye of a man who could gaze upon perfection itself and still remain unmoved.

Certainly it wasn't as if Charles would partake of any food or drink during the talks, at least none other than what was served to him under the strictest of guard and precaution. It was yet another thing both men would have to deal with while performing as Emperor Malcolm and the Knight of One's stand-ins, yet another irksome fact to Bismarck and a major source of the Knight of Two's ire toward the only recently knighted Bismarck.

Bismarck's eyes glued to the eastern glass elevator, the only one of the four in the room never to deliver a new face since his arrival. Only the Chinese Royal's official representatives at the talks had yet to make their appearance, while the last of the talks' expected attendees who lived in the city were steadily delivered by an elevator to the north. Servants in black and white uniforms brought even more food and drink from a larger and more utilitarian-styled steel elevator in the south, where a collection of press and television broadcasters also set up their stations in the zone designated for their use.

It wasn't long before Bismarck's diligent watch bore fruit.

The rosy magenta glow of sakuradite appeared in the east elevator's charged railings, activating for the first time since Bismarck's arrival. Seconds later, a trio of women arose within the glass tube.

Once the elevator doors opened, first to exit was a woman in a fitted grey suit and slacks who, along with Eleanor, was one of only two women wearing pants in a room otherwise bursting at the seams with frilly designer dresses and ruffled skirts. What stood out to Bismarck most, however, was the brown briefcase pressed to the woman's hip.

Bismarck quickly compared the woman's face to his memory of the short Chinese registrar.

Her piercing gaze, made all the more stunning by the thick lines of makeup around her eyes, instantly brought to mind one of representative Hui Ying's people: a woman by the name of Fei Dong who was to serve as Hui Ying's sole guard.

Fei scanned the room before glancing back at the elevator, at which time emerged a pair of women in colorful and traditional-styled Chinese attire.

One of the two was the quintessential example of what Bismarck imagined when he conjured up thoughts of Chinese courtesans. Her dark hair was held neatly back from her pale face with a bejeweled hair comb, the fresh green and sky blue colors of her flowing robes further accentuating her charm. She was a lovely lady who, although Bismarck was not the type to wantonly search for someone to warm his bed even before his days of becoming a Knight, Bismarck felt it was a shame she was but a mere nurse, Wei Ren.

It was hanging off Wei's arm where Bismarck found the woman he was most intrigued to see tonight. He caught sight of her earlier in the day beneath a snowy parasol—and how could one not have their eye drawn to such an unusual and rare image?—but only from a distance while he and Charles were on their own tour of the city separate from her group.

Hui Ying Qing, like Charles in that she was but a distant runner-up to inheriting her country's throne, clung to the arm of her nurse as though she might faint at any moment under the intense sunset rays. Her pale pink skin glowed hot, and her ghostly white hair absorbed the ruddy color without resistance. The vermillion of her silk robes tripled in intensity until the woman looked like she might well be the living embodiment of white hot flame: the sort beautiful from a distance, but liable to devour any who might be drawn too close by its ephemeral light.

"Hui Ying has—" Bismarck began, but stopped short when he noticed Charles already strolling over to the trio.

Bypassing the circle of tables arranged in the center of the room—each with their own computer module complete with connections and readers capable of extracting data from a wide variety of storage chips, discs, sticks, and other media vying for supremacy in a rapidly technologizing world—oriented around a large hologram projector, Bismarck couldn't help relaxing a bit in the relatively sparsely packed eastern half of the great hall. It was here where the majority of the Chinese diplomats chose to quietly murmur amongst themselves in their foreign tongue separate from the chatty Britannians who just as naturally congregated on the western side.

"Princess," Charles was first to call out in greeting to the wilted Chinese representative.

Hui Ying craned her glistening magenta eyes toward Charles.

Her eyes, brilliant and sparkling, contained a relentless spirit despite the apparent yielding of her fragile frame. Recognizing it was Charles who called out to her, Hui Ying released her nurse's arm and straightened her posture before she lowered herself in an elegant return greeting.

"I've been looking forward to meeting with you, Grand Duke Charles zi Britannia," Hui Ying said. Her quick and nasally accent, cajoled into a Britannian tongue, sounded textbook-perfect with just a hint of foreign flavor.

Good, Hui Ying's file was no exaggeration. Given most Britannians never bothered learning any supplemental languages other than Latin or French, it would be convenient for the talks if most of the Chinese side spoke English as clearly as Hui Ying.

While Charles of course wouldn't return Hui Ying's bow—for neither Britannia's Emperor nor his stand-in lowered himself to anyone, not even a god—Charles reached for the Chinese Princess' sleeve. He located her hand among the folds of fabric and enveloped her fingers in his own begloved palms. Raising her hand to his lips, Charles placed a delicate kiss on her fair knuckles.

An intense flash of revulsion flared in Hui Ying's emberlike eyes. It was a look only Bismarck was in a position to observe before she expertly regained control of her faculties and tucked the emotion neatly away beneath a mild expression.

Charles released Hui Ying's hand, and her pale fingers retreated beneath her layered sleeves.

Bismarck stood at attention just behind Charles, his arms clasped in either hand behind his back. Looking at Hui Ying, Bismarck could think only one thing: 'Try as she may to hide it… this Princess is no meek garden flower.'

"I understand you've been quite busy, touring around the city with hardly any rest between your travels and these preliminary talks," Charles' voice rumbled like that of a purring cat. He clasped his hands over his waist. "I imagine such things are quite difficult for someone with your... condition."

"Thank you for your concern Charles," Hui Ying responded. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her pale eyelashes sparkling like ruby threads in the burning sunlight. "My entourage and I have appreciated the opportunity to spend a day walking among our people. It interests us to see how they get along with the Britannians who've come to reside here since your forefathers' reign." She raised a sleeved hand and covered her chin. Her pale pink lips curled into a doll-like and coquettish grin. "It's fascinating to see how, despite our over four thousand years of history here, it's taken only a handful of generations and a single large-scale disaster nearly wiping the city off the map for our culture to be so thoroughly appropriated to suit Britannia's tastes."

Bismarck opened his mouth to interject: it was common knowledge in his family that the predecessor to Vermillion City was all but annihilated over 100 years ago when the banks of the Yellow River broke over. It was a large scale disaster that resulted in an estimated million Chinese losing their lives, while millions more went without shelter, food, or ways to make their livelihoods in the ruined land.

China had its hands full dealing with the disaster in several areas, along with the trouble in India and the Arrow Wars, which only further exacerbated the problems on all sides. With so much on their plate already, it was only thanks to the compassionate actions of the Britannian Duke Armellio Waldstein, Bismarck's own great-great-granduncle that Vermillion City rose up from the bottom of the Yellow River and rebounded to become the veritable mecca it was today.

Armellio performed such a venerable act in testament to his beloved Chinese wife Lin Pin Yang, whose family was from the city. He relentlessly petitioned the Crown for aid, the Jewel of the Orient becoming a monument to their romance that inspired many a tale of fantasy in Britannian court. The tale of their love was just as venerated by the Chinese who, upon hearing Bismarck's last name and understanding Charles' connection to the Crown, bowed to both men in honor of what their families did for Vermillion City.

But Bismarck held his tongue. As a Knight of the Round and Charles' guard, he was in no position to bring up these facts unprompted during Charles' and Hui Ying's conversation.

"I hear your discontent, Hui Ying. I only wish I could better understand." The corners of Charles' frown turned up in what might have contrived an attempt at a reassuring and empathetic smirk. "It's nothing I haven't heard before, mostly from those who like to compare my homeland to a 'malignant cancer fast spreading the globe and robbing the world's weaker and less influential countries of their vitality.'"

Hui Ying's pale brows knit between her eyes. Her pearly teeth bit into her lower lip before she raised her hand the final inch necessary to cover her mouth.

"Certainly I don't mean to discredit the importance of China's participation in these talks. Ah, but by participation, I mean to say that we're equal participants, China and Britannia…." Charles' clasped hands fretted over his stomach before they separated and disappeared beneath his mauve cape where his nervousness wouldn't be perceived. He glanced around the room and, leaning closer to Hui Ying, spoke in a particularly hushed tone, "I apologize… it's difficult, maintaining the position of and speaking for Emperor Malcolm whose views don't completely align with my own."

"He certainly does seem like a difficult man," Hui Ying's suspicious expression relaxed somewhat, but the rest of her body remained stiffly on edge.

"Indeed he is," Charles gruffly chuckled. "I assure you I do agree that China hasn't been treated fairly. I hope we can come to an agreement both sides will find satisfactory, both for your sake and my own." Charles' put-on attempt at a grin evaporated, his worn-out expression returning in earnest. "Perhaps, if you would be so inclined, we might meet in the courtyard and find something more we can discuss before tomorrow's talks begin in earnest?"

"If you seek a conversation with someone whose position is more than that of a lowly throwaway diplomat such as myself, I'd advise you to speak with my brother Chen once he arrives. He is heir to the Emperor's throne, after all." Hui Ying beckoned, and her nurse dutifully offered an arm.

Bismarck noted how Wei's countenance maintained an even expressionlessness throughout the entire conversation between Hui Ying and Charles. He wondered if she knew a word of English.

"I am rather tired, as you must understand for someone of my 'condition,'" Hui Ying said, the derision presented rather plainly in her tone. "I would appreciate a moment's respite before the preliminary talks begin."

"Of course." Charles' head bobbed in response. "Speaking for myself, I do hope we are able to find time in our busy schedules to chat on a more intimate level than the talks will allow. The two of us aren't very different in our positions and, if I may, I'd appreciate hearing your thoughts on a few subjects…." Charles wistfully trailed off before snappily returning his attention to the conversation at hand. "I do apologize if in my eagerness to speak to one like myself I came off as overly forward. Our lineages may be demanding of us, but I trust we'll both perform adequately when our names are drawn."

Charles stepped aside and positioned himself so he could perceive both Bismarck and Hui Ying's group at the same time.

"Before I leave you, allow me to introduce to you to the man who will be serving as my personal guard and assistant during these talks." Charles gestured to Bismarck "He's Britannia's newest Knight of Five, Sir Bismarck Waldstein."

Bismarck automatically offered a hand to Hui Ying. Rather than take his hand, she responded with an appraising flicker of her fiery eyes, which Bismarck perceived to linger exactly where a soldier might holster their gun.

But as a Knight of the Rounds, Bismarck sported a weapon different from your average soldier. Peeking out from under his cape was a massive broadsword, a weapon crafted specially for Bismarck with regard to creating a weapon to match his towering body. A sakuradite gem glowed faintly in the sword's golden hilt, its light virtually undetectable in all but total darkness. The blade was forged with a rare and dense ore the color of black cerulean, although it was presently invisible within its ornate dark blue scabbard.

While the heavy sword operated well as a part of his outfit and ensemble as Knight of Five, a designation granting special permissions to possess such a trinket during the talks when other weapons were strictly banned, the dull, weighty edge was still plenty deadly in the hands of a hulking man like Bismarck should he have cause to draw the blade from its scabbard.

It was the woman with the piercing eyes, Fei, who accepted Bismarck's offered hand.

"Fei Wong. I am Hui Ying's guard. You want a message to Hui Ying? Talk to me."

Bismarck nodded, fairly certain of what Fei was getting at in her pitchy accent. Fei awkwardly pumped her and Bismarck's locked hands up and down, her grip more like that of a sailor's than a diplomat's, before eventually letting go.

"The list of attendees submitted by China was rather short, particularly those noted in association with you, Princess; I'm impressed you decided to travel only with a single guard and your nurse," Bismarck said. He crossed his arms out of sight beneath his cape and massaged his sore hand. "Even the lowliest Britannian noble's daughter hardly dares step beyond her estate without at least a dozen servants to escort her luggage." Bismarck chuckled a little at his own joke. When no one else joined him, he cleared his throat and glanced again at the briefcase Fei carried. "I respect a woman who prefers to travel without excessive baggage," Bismarck nodded.

Bismarck recalled the numerous occasions while he courted a renowned noble's eldest daughter. On how many instances had he shown up at her door at the appointed time only to be advised she required at least another hour to select an appropriate dress from among several dozen options she'd then need another half hour to squeeze into? When it happened one night Bismarck showed up late, not even by half an hour, she broke it off with him over how much distress the waiting caused her.

A cold shiver prickled up Bismarck's spine. At least as Knight of Five he'd never have to go through nonsense like that ever again.

"I travel with protection and assistance suitable to one of my position and needs," Hui Ying scoffed. "I'm no Princess, at least not in the way you Britannians define them. I'm here merely as a diplomat on behalf of the Royal Family. Only someone bored out of their wits would bother targeting or placing their bets on a frail woman like me with such distant claims to the throne."

Hui Ying tapped her tense-faced nurse on the shoulder and spoke something in Chinese, which Bismarck couldn't understand a single word of. Wei and Fei both nodded, and each headed for the buffet table and eastern elevator respectively.

Hui Ying bobbed her head at Charles and Bismarck. She grasped her dresslike robes through the cloth of her sleeves and curtsied with grace and poise rivalling that of even the most refined Britannian noblewoman.