Chapter 21. The Shaky Throne.
The atmosphere on the deck of the flagship Pell was tense. The wind whipped the flags of the Parpaldian Empire, and the anxious expressions on the sailors' faces betrayed their unease.
"I'm counting on you, Daard," General Sius, dressed in his ceremonial uniform, patted the captain on the shoulder, his gaze full of confidence.
"I won't let you down, General," Captain Daard, a stately man with a proud expression, placed a hand over his heart and declared, "Our fleet is strong and truly mighty! I'd bet we could even put the Zero Magic Fleet of the Holy Mirishial Empire to shame!" His voice brimmed with pride and arrogance.
Meanwhile, the Parpaldian armada, like a massive swarm of insects, advanced toward the Russian ships, relentlessly channeling magic into their artifacts. Mages, lips pressed together in concentration, poured their mana into Tears of the Wind God artifacts. The sails, swelling under the artificially conjured wind, propelled the ships forward, driving them toward the inevitable clash. The Russian ships, in contrast, moved parallel to them like ghostly specters, maintaining a precise and steady distance.
General Sius clenched his fists as he strained his eyes, staring at their silhouettes until his vision blurred. They reminded him of the warships of the world's second strongest superpower, Mu, which left him slightly puzzled. The Russian ships, much like their Mu counterparts, had no visible smokestacks spewing black fumes. They were just as large and just as fast—perhaps even faster—which sent a chill down Sius's spine. The closer they got, the stronger the tension coiled in his gut.
Hmm, why don't they have smokestacks or black smoke? he muttered under his breath, trying to suppress his unease. Maybe they use magic engines like the Mirishials? No, that's impossible. A nation beyond the civilized zone couldn't possibly create something like that.
A cold dread seeped into his bones as he studied those strange, sail-less ships. Then, as the distance between the fleets reached 54 cables (10 km), a sudden flash erupted from one of the enemy's leading vessels, followed by a thick plume of smoke.
"The enemy ship has opened fire!" the lookout shouted, his voice trembling with terror.
"But we're still ten kilometers away! What kind of nonsense is this?" Sius asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Maybe they're just trying to intimidate us, General?" Daard, standing beside him on the bridge, chimed in smugly, his confidence unwavering.
The officers on the Pell's deck chuckled in disdain at the "foolish stunt" of the barbarians. A cannonball, even if enhanced with magic, could never travel such an absurd distance.
And then, in the next instant, the impossible happened.
A thunderous explosion rocked the sea, shaking the deck beneath their feet. The hundred-gun battleship Ropul burst into flames like a matchstick, splintering into pieces.
"The battleship Ropul has been sunk!" the lookout screamed, his voice cracking with fear.
A 130mm shell, fired from the AK-130 gun aboard the destroyer Persistent, had punched through the anti-magic steel plating of the imperial battleship as if it were paper. The subsequent explosion in the powder magazine tore Ropul apart, spilling its smoldering remains across the waves.
To say that General Sius and Captain Daard were stunned would be an understatement. Their eyes went wide with shock, their breath catching in their throats. Rage, fear, and disbelief warred inside them as they stared at the burning wreckage. Their confidence and arrogance crumbled in an instant, dissipating like morning mist, leaving behind nothing but raw terror.
BAM! BOOM! BOOM! BAM!
The Russian fleet unleashed a relentless barrage, their guns roaring like an angry storm. Each shell, fired with chilling precision, screamed through the sky like a hunting falcon, striking its target with merciless efficiency. One by one, the imperial ships were consumed by fire and smoke, their destruction an inescapable certainty.
"How is this possible?! How can they reload so fast?!" Sius roared, his voice thick with despair and fury. He ducked behind the stern railing as debris rained down around him. But there was no answer to his question.
When he turned, his blood ran cold.
His captain—Daard—was unrecognizable. The place where his face had been was now a mangled, bloody mess. A shard of debris had torn through his skull, leaving behind nothing but a grotesque ruin.
"The battleships Mishra, Lessin, Kusion, and Paus have been sunk!" the lookout choked out, struggling to keep up with the ever-growing list of lost ships. His panicked cries barely pierced through the cacophony of destruction—the splintering of masts, the shattering of hulls, and the deafening blasts of impact.
"Damned bastards! Miss for once, will you?!" Sius bellowed, his voice hoarse from screaming. He clenched his fists helplessly, his gaze locked onto the Russian warships with burning hatred.
"The enemy ship is changing course!" another lookout shouted, his voice quaking with dread.
The Persistent had picked up speed, its guns still spitting fire as it closed in on the Parpaldian formation. Like a predator toying with its prey, it weaved through the chaos, luring them into the kill zone. The distance had shrunk to just 34 cables (around 600 meters)—a deadly range for the imperial fleet. And behind the Persistent, more Russian ships opened fire, tearing through their foes like a scythe through wheat.
"Hit on the port side!"
"We're sinking! Abandon ship!"
A shell ripped through the hull of the Pell, carving a gaping hole in its side. Seawater surged in, flooding the lower decks at an alarming rate. The ship listed to its side, groaning like a dying beast before succumbing to the ocean's grasp.
Sius broke the surface with a gasp, choking on seawater as he clung desperately to a floating chunk of debris. Coughing and sputtering, he forced himself to take in the scene before him.
The proud vanguard of the Parpaldian fleet—once a mighty force of 183 sailing battleships—had been utterly annihilated. Scattered wreckage, charred corpses, and thrashing survivors littered the sea, painting a grim picture of total devastation. The remnants of his grand armada had been reduced to nothing but drifting ruin.
The Battle of the Eastern Sea had ended in a staggering victory for the Russian fleet. The Parpaldian armada, once 183 ships strong, had been obliterated by just twelve Russian vessels—a humiliation so absolute that it would be remembered for generations. This clash would go down in history as a defining moment of the war—a battle that reshaped the balance of power.
Back in the Kingdom of Fenn, the day was forever immortalized in celebration. The entire kingdom erupted in joyous festivities, its people reveling in the triumph of the Russian fleet.
The Parpaldian Empire. Capital: Esthirant. First Division of Foreign Affairs of His Imperial Majesty.
A heavy, tense atmosphere hung over the office of Elto, the head of the First Division. Around a massive polished table, like predators gathering for a council, sat the highest-ranking officials of the Parpaldian Empire. Their faces were rigid with tension, their gazes wary. This was a meeting dedicated to countering the rising threat of the Russian Federation—a force so formidable that even the most self-assured imperialists were beginning to waver. Supreme Commander Arde, who usually preferred discussing military matters in a smaller circle, had made an exception this time. The urgency of the situation demanded the presence of every major figure in the empire.
The suffocating silence was broken by a sharp knock on the door. With a curt acknowledgment, Hans entered—drenched in sweat, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. His face was twisted with fear.
"Well? Speak quickly and get out," Remille commanded coldly, waving dismissively toward the door.
"Y-yes, Your I-Imperial Highness," Hans stammered, struggling to move his shaking legs as he placed a heavy stack of documents onto the chief's desk.
"M-Mu has decided to send a military observer to the Russian Federation. They are convinced that the barbarians will emerge victorious."
"What?!" Arde, Elto, and Remille exclaimed in unison, their voices like thunderclaps. "Hans, explain yourself immediately!"
"A-a-analysts from Mu," Hans continued, still stuttering, "after gathering all available intelligence on the barbarians, have reached the conclusion that Russia's victory is a hundred percent certain. They claim it won't just be a victory—it will be a triumph."
Three pairs of shocked eyes fixated on the pale, ghost-like official, and an eerie silence engulfed the office. Remille, as if petrified, walked silently to a nearby table, grabbed a crystal bottle of wine, filled a glass to the brim, and downed it in one gulp. Then another. And another, until the warmth of the alcohol began to seep through her rigid frame.
The unsettling silence was finally shattered by Supreme Commander Arde.
"Let's assume these barbarians have been preparing for total war against us for some time now. If that's the case, their level of preparation is indeed exceptional. They anticipated our deployment to Fenn… Our intelligence reports indicate that they possess gunboats, which suggests a relatively low technological level for a regional power within the Civilized World. However, outside of it, such capability is excessive. Even if they are inferior to our empire in sheer power, an encounter with thousands of gunboats could cause significant trouble for our fleet stationed in the Kingdom of Fenn. Their biggest logistical issue at sea would be ammunition supply for their magical cannons… Additionally, one of our land legions consists of three thousand soldiers. For the enemy to defeat them, they would need at least a five-to-one numerical advantage. Regardless, General Sius knows what he's doing. But if he requires support, we can always dispatch the western fleet."
"If all of this turns out to be true, can we still secure victory, Lord Arde?" Elto, the head of the First Division, asked cautiously, his voice quivering with unease.
"There's no need to worry, Your Grace," Arde replied with a smug smile. "Thanks to the magical artifacts known as 'Tears of the Wind God,' our ships are highly maneuverable and can evade any damage. Our frigates and battleships will crush those Russian scows like insects. And even if my assumption is correct, taking the Kingdom of Fenn is only a matter of time—nothing more."
The tension in the office eased slightly, the atmosphere shifting toward cautious optimism.
Then, another knock on the door.
This time, a scribe entered, hunched over, burdened by the weight of bad news.
"What now?" Remille snapped, glaring at the scribe as if he were an irritating insect disrupting her peace.
"The forces dispatched to the Kingdom of Fenn have been… destroyed. The remaining troops have surrendered to the Russians," the scribe whispered, as if fearing that speaking any louder would seal his fate.
"What did you just say, you miserable wretch?!" Elto roared, his face turning crimson with fury. "Did you double-check this information, you imbecile?! Is it reliable?!"
A series of crashes erupted—shattering glass, splintering wood. Porcelain dishes, an ornate side table, everything in reach was sent flying, reduced to a mess of fragments and debris. The room's occupants turned to the source of the chaos. Remille, like a woman possessed, was demolishing the table, furiously smashing expensive tableware. Had the unfortunate scribe been within arm's reach, she might have broken him in half just as easily.
"Arde!" she roared, her voice thunderous, her face contorted with fury, veins bulging at her temple. "This is your fault! Our empire has been humiliated by savages! This is a disgraceful slap across the empire's face! Why did your officers fail to properly assess our enemies' capabilities?! Why didn't you report what was happening in time?!"
The Parpaldian Empire had deployed a truly formidable military force to Fenn. Were it not for the Russian Federation, they would have crushed the kingdom from end to end, leaving nothing but scorched earth in their wake.
"Your Imperial Highness, I beg your forgiveness," Arde bowed, his expression rigid with shame. "Please accept my deepest apologies and allow me to mobilize all available military forces at once! The empire shall never be defeated!"
Receiving a nod from Remille, the Supreme Commander hurriedly exited the battlefield that had once been Elto's office.
Drained from her outburst, Remille collapsed onto the sofa, clutching her silver-ash hair in frustration. Taking a deep breath, she turned her bloodshot eyes toward Elto, whose face had turned as pale as a corpse. The burst capillaries in her eyes made her look like a wrathful demon thirsting for revenge. She knew the gravity of this defeat. The empire ruled over seventy-three vassal states, and if they sensed even a hint of weakness, rebellion would be inevitable. This loss could very well lead to the collapse of the entire Parpaldian colossus.
"Elto!"
Startled as if struck by a whip, Elto raised his head in fear.
"Yes, Your Imperial Highness?" His voice trembled, betraying his anxiety.
"Prepare for 'Purification,'" Remille declared, her voice icy, her gaze void of anything but cold, calculated determination. "I want absolute certainty that these Russians will be erased. Drain their entire wretched nation of its lifeblood. I'm going to His Imperial Majesty to secure approval for 'Purification.'"
Her words were a decree—final and unquestionable.
"Understood," Elto murmured, lowering his gaze, his face still devoid of color.
Exiting the office like a storming demon, Remille slammed the door so hard that the walls trembled. Left alone, Elto slumped onto an intricately carved chair. He exhaled sharply, feeling utterly drained, his trembling hands reaching beneath the desk for a label-less bottle of cognac—a smuggled good from the kingdom of Sios. His hand shook as he poured himself a drink, then downed it in one desperate gulp, hoping the fiery liquid would drown out the terror gnawing at his soul.
Kingdom of Altaras. Royal Capital Le-Brias. One of the Resistance Cells.
In the royal capital of Le-Brias, at the very heart of the oppressed Altaras, the desperate struggle of the resistance continued. The kingdom was caught in the brutal vassal grip of the Parpaldian Empire, whose military might seemed utterly limitless. Soldiers, ammunition, and weapons arrived in an endless stream, like a river swelling after a torrential downpour. Even if the Altaras managed to eliminate one group of invaders, two or three more would take their place immediately, and so on, ad infinitum. The disparity between these two forces was so vast that hopelessness and despair began spreading among those who had fought tirelessly against the oppression. With each passing day, the flicker of hope in their hearts dimmed further.
As on the previous day, Captain Rial sat in a deserted alleyway, his face set in its usual grim expression, watching the movements of the black-and-red uniforms like a predator stalking its prey. He felt his determination erode with each passing hour, as despair crept upon him, slow and relentless. If only there were some news from the royal family—some confirmation that he and his men were fighting for a real cause, that their sacrifices were not in vain—then the weary people of Altaras might find renewed faith. But neither the king nor the princess had been seen or heard from, as if they had vanished into thin air. Deep down, Rial was certain that if they were still alive, the invaders would have already paraded their bodies through the central square, letting them dangle for the ravens to feast upon—a gruesome warning of what awaited anyone who dared to resist.
"Damn it," Rial spat bitterly, shaking his head in an attempt to banish these wretched thoughts. He knew that if he succumbed to despair, they would be lost.
"Captain, Ari is calling for you," a young boy in ragged sackcloth whispered, emerging from the shadows like a ghost. "It's urgent."
"Take my place — I'll be right back," Rial ordered with a nod. "If something goes wrong, you remember the signal." The boy gave a silent nod in return before Rial quickly made his way down into the basement of a half-ruined building—one of the hidden headquarters of the resistance.
Inside the dimly lit basement, he saw a young man with disheveled hair, eyes darting anxiously, and flushed cheeks.
"Captain! Captain! Come to the communications room! This is important—you need to hear it yourself!" the young man blurted out, gesturing toward a door.
"Lower your voice, I'm coming," Rial muttered, following him into the small communication chamber.
In the room, among an array of magical devices and instruments, one mana-comm receiver flickered weakly with a green glow, like a tiny beacon of hope.
"Here," Ari said, his hands trembling as he handed Rial an earpiece.
Rial hesitated for a moment before placing the earpiece on. A crackling noise and static from the manacomm filled his ears, like the whispers of ancient magic coming to life.
"I tuned in to the magical frequency of the Kingdom of Maus in the Third Region," Ari whispered. "Tell me 'Stop' when you hear a voice. It's a news report," he added nervously, adjusting the dials.
Through the static and distant voices, a firm, resolute voice suddenly rang through, making Rial's heart pound in his chest.
"Stop!" he barked, barely believing his ears. "I hear it."
"Alright… hold on… there," the manacomm operator mumbled, fine-tuning the controls, his lips pressed into a thin line in concentration.
"I am King Taara the 14 of Altaras, and know this, my people — I am alive," the voice declared, strong and unwavering. "At this moment, my kingdom is under the occupation of Parpaldia, the very nation that once vowed to protect us. We have established a government-in-exile in a nation that has taken us in. That nation is the Russian Federation. And I have a message for Parpaldia — leave my kingdom at once! Withdraw your soldiers before they meet their doom! My people, if you can hear me, if you are listening right now, be ready! I am your king, and I will not abandon you! To all those suffering under the yoke of this monstrous empire called Parpaldia — unite! Parpaldia is not invincible! The Kingdom of Fenn, with the support of the Russian Federation, has stood against this beast and delivered a decisive blow! Rise up! This is a holy war!" His voice rang out like a call to arms.
"Is that really our king?" one of the knights who had gathered in the room whispered in astonishment, his eyes filled with newfound hope.
"Shut up," Ari hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.
Rial sat frozen, as if struck by lightning, his entire being trembling with emotion. Their struggle — the struggle of all Altaras — had not been in vain! It had all been worth it! A single tear escaped his eye, which he hastily wiped away with his sleeve. After King Taara's speech, a song began to play — a melody that made their blood boil, filling them with an even greater determination.
"Turn it off now! Do you hear me? Yes, good… Sorry, we must cut this song broadcast," the voice of the radio host interrupted. "...The Life Mage Candy Van Dale has recreated an ancient spell that will make your skin more resilient and full of life…."
As the manacomm receiver fell silent, Rial and his men sat in stunned stillness, the weight of what they had just heard settling over them. Their eyes burned with righteous fury. The fighting spirit of the Altaras had been reignited to heights unseen before. Their king was alive. Their struggle continued. And hope had been reborn, rising from the ashes like a phoenix.
Estirant. The First Division of Foreign Affairs of His Imperial Majesty.
In the office of the Chief of the First Division, Elto, silence reigned, broken only by the dull tapping of Remille's heel against the marble floor—a nervous tic betraying the storm raging within her.
"This is a disaster…" Remille whispered, her voice trembling with despair. She covered her face with both hands, as if trying to shield herself from the crushing weight of the situation, but the subtle tremors in her shoulders and her fevered breathing gave her away.
"Why did I receive this damned magical transmission only now, you vermin?!" Her furious scream, dripping with rage and helplessness, echoed through the building, making even the thick stone walls tremble.
"This is the end of the Empire…" she muttered again, her voice hollow with hopelessness. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to regain control, she failed—the rage took over, and in a violent outburst, she hurled the transmitter at the wall. The magical artifact shattered into countless fragments, a fitting symbol of their crumbling hopes.
The intelligence bureau had intercepted a magic recording, one that had spread across the world like an unstoppable plague. Because of that damned broadcast, vassal states had begun declaring their independence from Parpaldia in unison, slaughtering puppet rulers and driving the imperial forces from their lands. Worse still, as if acting in perfect coordination, these rebellious nations were inciting others to join them, calling for the formation of anti-imperial alliances to stand united against their common oppressor. This was the first and most critical crack in the foundation of the mighty Parpaldian Empire — a fault line splitting through the very bedrock of its centuries-old dominion.
A knock at the door shattered the suffocating silence.
"Yes. Come in," Remille answered hoarsely, her gaze still fixed on the floor. When she finally turned her head, she found Elto standing in the doorway, his face marked with deep concern.
"What is it, Your Grace?" she asked, clenching her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.
"Mmm…" Elto hesitated, caught off guard by how utterly transformed her voice sounded.
After clearing his throat, he finally spoke. "Ahem… Your Imperial Highness," he said, nodding toward the bracelet on Remille's wrist, "you missed His Majesty's response via manacom. He has given the order for 'Cleansing.'"
Remille's lips twisted into a cruel smirk as her eyes burned with pure, unfiltered hatred.
"I will brand those vile Russians with a mark of shame," she hissed.
"I will make them into bleating cattle! These arrogant degenerates…"Every word dripped with venom, so thick and suffocating it felt almost tangible. She poured all her fury, all her terror, and all her despair into her words — hatred made manifest.
Parpaldian Empire. Capital City – Esthirant. General Headquarters.
In his office, illuminated by the soft glow of a magical lamp and filled with the thick haze of a smoldering cigarillo, Supreme Commander Arde sat with a deep scowl, poring over the intelligence reports from the Reconnaissance Bureau over and over again. His fingers absently shuffled through the parchment sheets, a deep furrow etched into his brow, lips pressed into a tight line.
Why had Mu sent an observer to a nation beyond the Civilized World, to that godforsaken wasteland?
The battle reports from Nishinomiyako hit him like a cold shower, shocking him to the core. The Russians' numerical and technological superiority far exceeded even the worst-case projections. The losses sustained in the localized war over Fenn wouldn't have been a major issue if they had been limited to ground forces—after all, the Empire had reserves sufficient to field at least fifty more legions. But the naval losses… those were a dagger to the heart of Parpaldia's military might, setting them back considerably. Nearly a third of the fleet had been irreversibly lost—an unacceptable casualty level for what should have been a minor conflict.
He had hoped to gauge Russia's military potential based on their naval engagement in Louria, but now… doubt gnawed at him.
Was it possible that their intelligence had been inaccurate? Or worse—deliberately manipulated? Maybe. The questions tormented him.
"I need to dig through every archive related to this damned Russia," Arde muttered under his breath. Pressing a rune on his magical communication device, he spoke:
"Lebaris, I need all available information on the Russian Federation immediately. Cross-check every source for credibility."
"Understood, Your Excellency," came the swift response from the other end of the line.
Leaning back in his chair, as if trying to distance himself from his grim thoughts, Arde idly rolled the smoldering cigarillo between his fingers, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling—just like his thoughts, desperately searching for an escape from this situation.
"Wait… but what if…" he murmured to himself, giving voice to the dreadful thought forming in his mind.
"Could Mu have been exporting their mechanized scientific weaponry abroad? Selling their technology to the distant corners of the Uncivilized World wouldn't pose much risk to them, but in doing so, they could create multiple threats for the Empire—striking from different directions under prearranged agreements. If the Russian Federation, acting as Mu's puppet state, were to eliminate our empire, the attention of the world's second most powerful superpower would inevitably turn to the first — The Holy Mirishial Empire. The technological and magical capabilities of the Uncivilized World's nations range from below average to outright primitive; they wouldn't be able to reproduce Mu's weaponry… but with the profits from arms sales, Mu would grow even richer, allowing them to equip their own forces with superior weaponry. They would conduct field tests, gathering invaluable data on how effective their technology is against other great powers. With that knowledge, they could keep both superpowers in check. That's… three birds with one arquebus shot!"
Arde's expression darkened like a storm cloud. Snatching up his manacom, he pressed the rune again, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line.
"Tell the Intelligence Bureau to conduct a full-scale investigation into the Russian Federation," he ordered, his voice carrying the weight of a death sentence. "Everything they uncover is to be brought directly to my desk — immediately."
"Understood, Your Excellency," came the prompt reply from the magical communicator.