Chapter 10. The collapse of the Kingdom. Part 4.
The Kingdom of Shios. The Royal Capital.
The royal palace of Shios, adorned with massive carved columns and shimmering stained-glass windows, was bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun. King Shios sat upon his throne of white marble, framed by golden grapevines—symbols of prosperity and power. Despite the regal splendor surrounding him, his expression was one of boredom. Another council meeting, indistinguishable from the countless others before it.
Suddenly, the grand doors of the throne room burst open. Lord Elvard, head of the Order of Foreign Affairs, rushed inside, breathless. His face was a mixture of excitement and near panic.
"Your Majesty! Trouble!" he proclaimed loudly, bowing deeply—a motion that seemed more frantic than respectful.
The king flinched slightly at the sudden outburst, pulling his gaze away from the window with a displeased frown.
"What is it? Why are you yelling?" he asked, his voice tinged with indifference, as if he had grown used to such scenes.
Elvard, still bowing, spoke hurriedly, spitting out the words as fast as he could:
"We have received word that our largest trading ally, Louria—"
The king abruptly cut him off:
"Louria has united all of Rodenius? However… if they cannot hold their own politically against Parpaldia, nothing will change."
Elvard shook his head rapidly.
"No, Your Majesty, that's not it at all. The Kingdom of Louria has been defeated and has fractured into five independent states. They have lost their entire fleet and all their wyverns…"
The king froze. His eyes narrowed as he suddenly rose from his throne.
"How is that possible?!" his voice echoed through the vast hall. "Louria has the most powerful military on the continent! Even I, a man with no military background, could see that they should have won!"
Elvard, flinching slightly, chose his next words carefully:
"Your Majesty, everything changed due to the intervention of the Russian Federation. They acted as a protector for the Principality of Qua-Toyne and the Kingdom of Quilla. This nation lies on a continent to the east of Rodenius. According to our sources, the Russian Federation is rapidly gaining a reputation as an overwhelming force with unmatched influence."
Silence fell over the throne room. The king, as if forgetting Elvard's presence, stepped toward the grand window. His gaze drifted beyond the capital, as though trying to grasp the full scale of what had transpired. For several moments, he said nothing. Then, almost in a whisper, he spoke:
"The Russian Federation…" his voice was filled with both confusion and intrigue. Gradually, a spark of determination lit up his eyes.
"We must establish trade relations with this Russian Federation immediately." He turned to Elvard, his gaze sharp and commanding. "But do it carefully. Use an intermediary… perhaps the Principality of Qua-Toyne. I don't want our actions to raise suspicion in Parpaldia. Do you understand?"
The head of the Foreign Affairs Order bowed deeply.
"Understood, Your Majesty. I will see to it at once."
The king gave a curt nod and waved his hand, dismissing him. Elvard, barely containing his urgency, quickly exited the hall. As the doors shut behind him, the king turned back to the window, a faint shadow of concern crossing his face.
"The world is changing…" he murmured to himself. "And we will have to change with it."
His words faded into the silence of the throne room, leaving only a distant echo behind. Outside, the sky remained clear and bright, but beyond the horizon, a storm of change was brewing—one that no one in Shios had yet foreseen.
The Parpaldian Empire. Estirant, the Capital.
Southern Third Division of Foreign Affairs and National Strategy.
The meeting in the Southern Third Division was held in tense silence. At the head of a massive oak table, meticulously arranged with writing implements, sat the division chief—a man with a cold, piercing gaze and an emotionless face. His coat was impeccably pressed, and the white powdered wig atop his head gave him an air of severity and grandeur. Yet, despite his composed exterior, the atmosphere in the room was far from calm.
Standing before him, hunched over and pale as a ghost, was Parso—one of his subordinates, who had just been reprimanded for a mission failure. The chief's face remained unreadable, but every movement—from the rhythmic tapping of his quill to the slight nod of his head—betrayed growing irritation.
"Parso," the chief's voice was as grave as a tomb, "you and your department have failed me."
Parso instinctively shrank, not daring to lift his head.
"Your task was to monitor Louria's conquest of Rodenius," the chief continued, setting his quill aside and scrutinizing his subordinate. "Our investments in Louria have turned to dust. His Imperial Majesty is not yet aware of our failure, but rumors of this debacle are already reaching the throne room. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I… I am deeply sorry, Your Excellency. I beg your forgiveness," Parso murmured, bowing so low that beads of sweat dripped from his forehead onto the marble floor.
"To forgive is to understand, and I do not understand you," the chief replied icily, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, lowering his voice to a menacing whisper, he asked, "What of those barbaric Russian forces? What news?"
Sensing a fleeting chance at redemption, Parso quickly lifted his head.
"Your Excellency, we lost contact with our informants in Louria. It is possible they were captured by the Russians during the battles."
"And the local populace? Did our agents attempt to extract information from them?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. Local merchants described witnessing 'iron dragons'—machines of incredible speed that could bring down wyverns with a single shot. They also spoke of 'iron siege weapons'—ground-based devices similar to our land dragons, capable of obliterating an entire cavalry regiment in open battle."
The chief raised an eyebrow at the description.
"Iron siege weapons? Now that's something new," he muttered, stroking his chin. "What else?"
"There were also reports of strange men in green uniforms, armed with… er… staffs. No, more like magical arquebuses. Or muskets, but significantly more advanced."
The chief pondered this for a moment before scoffing.
"It could be exaggeration or deliberate misinformation. The Russians might simply be using fear as a weapon. I hope our informants are dead—at least that way, we won't have to deal with any inconvenient questions."
He paused briefly before issuing his next command in a clipped, authoritative tone:
"Parso, destroy all records related to Louria and the Russian Federation. If the Intelligence Bureau gets wind of this failure, neither we nor our families will live to see another day. Inform your department of this directive. There will be no discussion."
"Yes, Your Excellency," Parso replied, struggling to steady his voice. Yet, despite his attempt at composure, his knees trembled visibly.
"You are dismissed."
Parso turned and hastily exited the office without daring to look back. Once in the hallway, he stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow before heading toward his subordinates. A grim task awaited him—erasing all evidence of their failure.
Meanwhile, the division chief remained alone, staring thoughtfully at the quill on his desk. He was already calculating his next move, considering what steps he needed to take to secure his position within the Empire.
The Principality of Qua-Toyne. Capital: Qua-Toyne. The Lotus Council.
A tense silence filled the chamber of the Lotus Council, broken only by the rustling of parchment and the occasional cough. At the central podium stood Elder Kanata. His calm yet firm gaze swept across the gathered officials. In his hands, he held a dispatch, its contents neatly inscribed by a mana-com operator.
"Thus," he began, tapping his fingers lightly on the paper, "the Russian forces have captured Harka and flown him to Moscow for what they call 'urgent discussions.' With the loss of their king, Louria has fractured into five separate states."
The head of the Foreign Affairs Order, Rinsui, lifted his gaze sharply, his voice cracking like the snap of a whip:
"How is that possible? Louria has always rebuilt itself! Given time, a new count or viscount will reunite the kingdom!"
Kanata, unfazed, raised a hand to silence him. His tone was gentle yet unyielding:
"There is no cause for concern. The Russians have deployed their so-called 'peacekeepers' and 'military police,' establishing administrative offices in the cities. They act as guarantors of civilian security. I do not believe Louria will ever return to its former strength."
The certainty in the elder's voice unsettled the council. Rinsui narrowed his eyes, while the others leaned toward accepting his words as fact. Kanata allowed a brief pause, giving them time to absorb the implications.
"According to intelligence from the Russian military," he continued, flipping through the dispatch, "they suffered no casualties. As for Louria's losses…"
The head of the Military Affairs Order gripped the armrest of his chair tightly.
"How many?" His voice was like the pounding of a war drum.
"Four hundred and fifty thousand." Kanata pronounced each word with deliberate weight, as if driving them deep into the minds of those present. "Soldiers and officers—killed, wounded, missing, deserted, or captured. Civilian casualties are unconfirmed."
The room fell into a deathly silence. Even the most seasoned advisors, men who had weathered countless crises, struggled to mask their shock.
"So you're telling me…" The head of Military Affairs rose from his seat, his eyes ablaze with disbelief and fury. "The Russians didn't lose a single soldier?!"
"That is correct." Kanata's gaze remained steady as he observed the faces around him. "It is time we acknowledge that the Russian Federation commands a military force beyond anything we have ever seen. And yet, we still understand only a fraction of its true potential."
Some councilors began whispering amongst themselves.
"Furthermore," the elder continued, "following the war's conclusion, several rulers have reached out through us, sending letters to the Russian Federation in hopes of establishing diplomatic relations."
"That is good news," Rinsui muttered, crossing his arms. "But I cannot forgive those who supported the invasion of Gima."
Kanata nodded in acknowledgment before pausing, then declared:
"I propose that we continue strengthening our bonds of trust and friendship with the Russian Federation. They have proven their willingness to protect not only their own interests but ours as well. Does anyone object?"
Not a single voice spoke against him. Kanata let the silence linger, then posed another question:
"Who is in favor?"
Hands rose in unison. Kanata smiled slightly, inclining his head in gratitude.
"Then, this meeting is adjourned. I thank you all for your time. You are dismissed."
As the councilors began to disperse, Kanata remained standing alone. He stared down at the parchment in his hands, as if trying to peer into the future—a future that now, undeniably, belonged to Russia.
The Battlefield Near Jin Hark
"Kh-ha..." The warrior coughed, his massive two-meter frame swaying as he struggled to breathe. His surcoat was in tatters, his brigandine dented and torn. "I'm... alive. My head feels like it's splitting apart..."
With great effort, he pushed himself up, unsteady on his feet. The haze of pain clouded his mind, but he stood firm, feeling the solid earth beneath him once again. As his vision cleared, his gaze settled on what remained of the battlefield. Torn banners, once bearing the crests of knights and the kingdom, now hung limply from broken poles, their fabric shredded and scorched by the sun. The fallen lay scattered in chaos, their bodies entangled with shattered armor and broken weapons, the grim remnants of a battle fought with brutal force.
In the distance, amid the smoke and ruin, he spotted his golden shield. Dull and cracked, his cherished relic was marred by countless scratches and dents, a testament to the merciless fight that had taken place. The sight of it was a stark reminder of the war's cruelty.
But his thoughts didn't linger on the dead. He noticed figures dressed in green, wearing armbands emblazoned with a red cross. He had never seen such people before. As they moved toward him with slow, deliberate steps, he watched them warily.
"Who are these people? What are they doing?" The unease in his chest tightened.
"We've got a survivor! Over here, quickly!" one of them shouted, urgency in his voice, as if a life depended on their speed.
They surrounded him—but kept a cautious distance—bombarding him with questions about his identity and origin. Sensing no immediate threat, he realized these people were medics. Understanding that resistance was futile, he allowed them to dress his wounds and stitch his cuts. At the same time, they showed interest in his shield.
He told them it was a family heirloom, passed down for generations. Yet as he spoke, a sudden wave of unease washed over him.
Abruptly, he stood up, his body tense. His eyes locked onto the distant capital, still smoldering.
The medics hesitated, startled by his reaction. One of them, noticing the change in his expression, asked, "What's wrong?"
"The kingdom… My family..." His voice was barely more than a whisper, shaking with fear and exhaustion. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the terror gripping his heart.
"You're Swallow, right? That's your name?" The same medic spoke again, his tone calm and reassuring. "Don't worry. Our forces are ensuring the safety of your loved ones."
But the words of reassurance didn't reach him. Clutching his pain and his fear, Swallow took off, sprinting toward the capital. He ignored the shouts behind him. The field commander ordered his men not to shoot. And so, despite his battered state, he ran with all the strength he had left, desperate to reach his homeland.
When he arrived, the sight that awaited him left him speechless.
The city streets were filled with people—but they all wore the same uniform as the medics. They were gathering the fallen, tending to the wounded, and caring for those who still drew breath. One of them stopped him but, after a brief exchange through their miniature mana-com device, let him pass.
Adrenaline surged through his veins, banishing his exhaustion. He ran faster.
The moment he reached his home, the scene before him seemed impossible.
On the doorstep, beside the intricately carved table, sat his wife—alive, unharmed—playing with their children.
He froze, unable to believe his eyes.
It had to be a dream.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the illusion. But his wife and children didn't vanish. They remained, as real as the air in his lungs. It didn't make sense—not after what he had seen in the streets of Jin Harka, not after the horrors he had endured.
Tears welled in his eyes, trailing down his battle-worn face. Despite his heavy steps, he rushed forward.
"Mama! It's Papa! Papa!" the children shrieked, their small feet pounding against the ground as they ran toward him.
His wife turned, and in an instant, her expression changed. Tears flooded her eyes, spilling freely down her cheeks. She ran to him.
"My love, I... I'm home..." Swallow's voice trembled, weak but laced with a smile.
"Welcome home, my dear," she whispered, her voice shaking as she wrapped her arms around him.
And as their children—so small, so full of life—rushed forward like a flock of tiny birds, they all embraced, holding onto one another as though they never wanted to let go.
Happiness was simple, yet infinitely precious.
A family, reunited.
A family that had survived.