Chapter 81 Assassination

Along the winding mountain pass, a vehicle packed with passengers barreled forward at extreme speed.

Men crouched across the vehicle roof, huddled inside hooded dusters. Bulges showed beneath their coats, concealing dual short-barreled pistols strapped across both flanks of their belts.

These men belonged to the elite ranks of the Internal Security Bureau. Unlike Malone and Binder, they specialized not in reconnaissance or investigations, but in tracking, captures, and wet-work assassinations—and protecting VIPs fell squarely under their purview.

In individual combat prowess, they stood far below true knights, yet among regular mortals, they ranked at the very peak.

Thanks to such formidable skills, they clung steadily atop the roof despite the vehicle tearing forward at high velocity—a feat unexpected even by fellow Internal Security veterans like Malone.

Departing around dusk, they had kept strictly to secluded mountain trails, yet their speed never dipped below eighty kilometers per hour.

Had they not driven south initially before weaving through convoluted detours to shake off pursuit, they would have reached Bernibeli before seven in the morning.

Now, with their destination finally within sight, these bodyguards—having endured over ten hours through the freezing night wind—felt utterly exhausted.

Keeping eyes wide open throughout the night while straining every nerve to scan the surroundings and avoid tumbling from the speeding roof would test the endurance of iron men.

Suddenly, a series of dull thuds rattled against the roof from inside the cabin.

"Stay sharp up there! We're nearly at our destination. Bernibeli is in chaos right now; keep all eyes peeled," an officer inside barked aloud.

Hearing the shout, the guards crouching on the roof cursed inwardly.

In earlier years, serving as VIP bodyguards was considered an enviable career. Though classified as hazardous duty, actual mortal danger rarely matched outside rumors, while perks abounded: frequenting elite circles alongside powerful dignitaries, accompanied by handsome salaries.

Now, circumstances were entirely reversed. Sneaking across back roads like hunted rats told the full tale.

Several guards had begun contemplating resignation. Forcing themselves alert, some bit their tongue tips while others flexed stiff limbs, trying every trick to dispel the creeping lethargy.

"What is that?"

A guard stretching his torso tilted his head, catching sight of a distant black speck circling the sky.

In the blink of an eye, the speck ducked into cloud cover.

"Likely a bird. Egrets and goshawks are common in these highlands," another guard guessed, gazing up at the clouds.

Though dismissing the sight, his eyes remained glued to the cloud bank.

Before Yarno issued that warrant, few people knew flight technology existed. Within the Dante Alliance, aside from those who escaped Polmo, the officers of Haigert's army group, select Junior Army leaders, and the few who read the confidential reports by Yiluo and Trisli, virtually no one was aware. Within the Norman Alliance, only the Varedin Empire held the secret, though ignorant that Richie was its inventor. Yarno himself remained in the dark, knowing Richie merely as the primary designer of the new armor model.

Yet the moment that warrant went public, a hornet's nest was stirred. High Command, the Two Great Craftsmen, and numerous masters assumed the warrant was aimed at flight technology. With enemy powers already making moves, keeping the secret further served no purpose. Noting that Varedin had concealed the discovery from its own allies, Alliance leadership deliberately leaked word that Richie had invented human flight. Both Yarno and the Republic's Internal Security Bureau learned the truth immediately.

Upon hearing the news, Yarno was overcome with bitter regret, yet what was done could not be undone. From that day forth, wherever he traveled, guards were stationed across rooftops to monitor the sky.

Before this departure, he had issued explicit instructions: beside watching roadsides, eyes had to remain fixed on the heavens.

After an indeterminate duration, the distant honking of wild geese echoed across the sky. It was the season for northbound migration, and as the guard said, large avian flocks were frequent visitors.

Both guards exhaled softly, assuming it was a false alarm.

Neither realized that the moment their gaze shifted elsewhere, a dark silhouette slipped from the clouds, gliding smoothly into an adjacent vapor bank.

The cloud cover was sparse today, forcing Richie to maneuver with extreme caution from one cloud cluster to the next, playing a delicate game of hide-and-seek.

With his previous glider, flight speed barely surpassed a speeding ground vehicle, its main advantage being direct line-of-sight travel without detours, unaffected by sharp turns or rugged terrain.

Yet this new glider differed radically. Even at low altitude, it flew substantially faster than its predecessor, and ascending beyond two thousand meters, its velocity multiplied several times over.

Thus, despite weaving through clouds for an hour, he touched down smoothly atop the original hillside.

"Found them?" Emily asked eagerly.

Richie nodded casually while unbuckling the glider harness.

"Get in the vehicle," the blonde female knight called out, heading toward the driver's side: "I'll drive this time. Julie, keep company with our little wolf in the back."

The driver knight, Julie, giggled softly without replying.

Richie paid little mind, disassembling the glider and stowing it inside the cargo bay; there was zero time to hoist it back onto the roof. The vehicle was spacious, yet cramming the glider inside made the cabin snug.

Instead of lingering in the rear, Richie climbed directly into the passenger seat beside the blonde female knight.

"Still refusing to let me off the hook?" the blonde female knight remarked deliberately, knowing full well what Richie planned.

"I won't need your help for this; I'll handle the remaining stretch alone. I was worried for Emily's safety, but with you two watching her, my mind is at ease," Richie answered without jest.

The blonde female knight studied Richie; this aligned with her expectations.

"For ordinary folk, that would indeed be the wisest course—getting entangled in the assassination of a former Republic President is best avoided."

Yet she was no ordinary woman. She had not known Richie planned to assassinate Yarno; had someone told her earlier, she might have scoffed. The friction between Yarno and this boy seemed like petty private grievance: while Yarno had signed the warrant, Hershaw's faction had pulled the strings; as for seizing the family estate, that had involved a subordinate's greedy relative. Assassinating a head of state over that sounded absurdly petty.

Yet everything before her proved Richie had plotted this operation meticulously. The air carried none of the scent of personal vengeance, nor did it resemble the "righteous trials" staged by the Junior Army. Through and through, it smelled of cold, calculated political assassination.

She wished to witness Richie's strike with her own eyes—not out of idle curiosity, but because she harbored considerations of her own.

"If I insist on following, were you planning to knock us out?" the blonde female knight stared into Richie's eyes.

Held beneath that piercing gaze, Richie found himself at a loss for words; lacking the shamelessness to lie outright, he acquiesced in silence.

"I'll still drive. Once we arrive, we'll watch from a safe distance," she stated, starting the engine.

With matters having progressed this far, Richie could no longer refuse, leaning back against the seat as the vehicle sped forward.

Daylight broke, and traffic thickened. After advancing two kilometers along the crowded highway, the vehicle veered onto a secondary trail. During his flight back, Richie had memorized every unmapped road in the vicinity.

"Being able to soar through the sky is truly convenient," the blonde female knight sighed.

"I cannot teach you," Richie replied swiftly, wishing she cultivated wind-attribute arts so he could trade "Wind Master" for her goodwill.

"I heard Merlin and Rosa learned to fly in just a single week?" she continued, ignoring his deflection.

Richie felt no surprise; these women knew far more about him than met the eye.

"Our ranks do not consist solely of fire-attribute cultivators; plenty practice wind arts as well," the blonde female knight remarked, watching the road: "Don't tell me the Alliance classified it as top secret; I know that already. Just as I know you wield decisive influence with them."

"I'll see what I can do," Richie conceded helplessly. Though non-committal, the tacit agreement was struck.

Both fell silent. The blonde knight focused on driving while Richie watched the horizon, offering brief directional cues at forks while keeping his peace.

Approximately five kilometers from Bernibeli, the trail grew winding and steep. Refugees avoided such rugged terrain, leaving the track completely deserted.

After cresting several ridges, Richie signaled for the vehicle to stop.

"Look after Emily for me," Richie said, rising and walking toward the rear.

The newly modified Heracles differed from every known armor model: the cockpit rested not at the torso's core, but fastened behind the back.

This layout allowed the skeletal frame and drive mechanisms to cluster tightly, rendering the core structure solid. Compared to conventional hollow cockpits, it proved immensely sturdy.

This was hardly Richie's original invention. Across millennia of armor evolution, eccentric prototypes had placed cockpits behind, along flanks, or upon shoulders, only for harsh combat to discard them, establishing center-mounted cockpits as the enduring standard. Placing the cabin behind doubled frontal protection, yet left thin side and rear walls vulnerable to flanking strikes.

That flaw had consigned such designs to historical oblivion.

As Richie prepared to board, Emily whispered softly beside him: "Is it truly necessary to take this risk?"

Richie offered no verbal answer, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against her lips.

During his days hidden inside the underground tunnel, he had asked himself countless times if this was worth it. Last night on the road, thoughts had swirled through his mind. Toward Malone, he harbored relentless vigilance, which peaked when Malone mentioned Yarno's escort squad—a crucial detail previously withheld.

Safe assassination methods existed; planting an explosive charge along the path would blow Yarno and his vehicle to kingdom come. He suspected Malone had considered that exact scheme. Yet Richie knew resorting to such tactics would forfeit the respect and recognition of fellow knights.

Stepping inside the cockpit without hesitation, Richie banished all wandering thoughts from his mind, entering a state of absolute focus.

The rear doors opened.

The armor stepped down. Boarding was cumbersome, yet dismounting proved effortless.

The suit radiated fierce martial grandeur. The Heracles had always possessed rugged masculine beauty, slightly clumsy; adapted into an exoskeleton configuration, its profile had slimmed down, appearing agile and lean.

Yet its most striking feature was the immense shield mounted across its back.

Heavy shields used by standard heavy armor appeared dwarfed beside it.

Measuring three meters in diameter, it eclipsed the suit itself. The shield's rim bristled with saw-toothed serrations, sculpted into decorative flame motifs.

Though the suit remained incomplete, Richie had settled on its name: "Wisdom King."

The inspiration derived from "Yaksha." Yaksha were monstrous entities within the ancient Brahmin lore—abundant, grotesque, and man-eating, bound by deities to serve as temple guardians and enforcers. "Wisdom Kings," conversely, represented the wrathful manifestations of supreme deities—formidable entities akin to gang bosses and divine champions.

Stepping clear of the vehicle, Richie stood motionless, fearing awkward movement would expose the suit's unfinished handling.

The transport executed a turn, retreating two to three kilometers before halting.

Then came the wait.

Over an hour drifted past before distant movement stirred.

A vehicle crammed with passengers rounded a mountain ridge. The instant Richie spotted the vehicle, the lookouts aboard caught sight of him.

The transport screeched to a halt.

"Why have we stopped?" Yarno demanded in fury, ignorant of the obstruction.

"An armor blocks the road ahead," a cold, muffled voice issued from a suit beside Yarno.

Peering through the observation slit, Yarno understood instantly. The machine was hunting him; his worst nightmare had manifested.

"Why halt here? Why not flee?" he demanded.

"How would you have us flee? Across this terrain, a vehicle cannot outrun a suit. It need not follow winding roads; it advances in a straight line," the knight replied, using formal titles without a shred of deference.

Detecting the contempt, Yarno barked: "If fleeing is impossible, step down and destroy it!"

"Is that truly your command? If that machine is merely bait, and a second unit strikes from our flank while we engage, could you hold out until we return?"

The biting retort drained the color from Yarno's face. Yet having served as President through turbulent upheavals, his psychological fortitude ran deep.

"Advance the vehicle. With you protecting me, what cause have I to fear? I shall watch you cut it down," Yarno composed himself, reclaiming his regal bearing.

The driver glanced at the captain, who gave a slight nod, re-engaging the engine.

The vehicle crept forward at an agonizing crawl, consuming half an hour to cover a handful of kilometers.

Halting half a kilometer before Richie, the vehicle stilled once more.

"Can you identify whose suit that is?" Yarno asked, feigning composure.

The lead Honor Knight remained silent, scrutinizing the machine. Elite bodyguards required intellect alongside martial prowess; Internal Security dossiers on renowned armors were open to them, yet this unit matched zero records.

Its chassis suggested a heavy armor, utilizing rigid locking joints at ankles, legs, and hips, yet its plating appeared unusually thin, resembling flexible skin.

Stranger still was the weaponry. The colossal shield matched heavy defenders, yet the hands bore unfamiliar claw gauntlets. Claws were eccentric weapons tied to specialized martial techniques, favoring agile dexterity—the absolute antithesis of heavy defense.

Was it meant to disguise identity?

That seemed implausible; standard issue models served better for concealment. A design this outlandish begged recognition, inviting investigators to trace the craftsman with ease. Furthermore, who dared field an un-tested prototype in life-or-death combat without risking suicide?

"Likely a Junior Army operative, though hardly an eminent figure. The transport that dropped him retreated so far; they lack confidence," the captain deduced.

Yet uncertainty plagued his mind. Intercepting them despite their secrecy proved immense effort had been expended. Border checkpoints were likely covered; a strike this prepared would not prove simple.

Despite doubts, their execution was swift.

Doors swung open, and four suits deployed. To ensure safety, the captain left two knights—including an Ace—inside the vehicle to guard Yarno.

"Are you of the Junior Army?" the captain called out, seeking psychological leverage—a standard Internal Security technique.

It carried zero effect against Richie.

"I hold good relations with the Junior Army, but I am not their member. I came not for noble ideals, merely to settle a private score," Richie replied.

His voice resonated with startling youth.

Yarno possessed numerous enemies, yet none of weight were so young beside Richie.

The captain glanced toward the heavens instinctively; that explained how they were intercepted.

"Captain, what are our orders?" an adjacent knight transmitted privately. Richie was vital to the Alliance; harming him would bring ruin upon their families.

The captain glanced back toward the cabin, where Yarno sat with closed eyes, resolved to remain mute.

Yarno knew the knights would not abandon him; keeping silent forced combat, shielding himself from blame should things go awry.

Exhaling a bitter sigh, the captain commanded: "Prepare to engage, but pull your strikes. If that truly is him, injuring him spells disaster for us. The old man inside will offer zero defense on our behalf, likely being the first to throw us under the bus."

Duty bound them despite bitter reluctance—the eternal tragedy of knights.

The four machines formed an angular wedge, masking their restrained intent beneath aggressive posture.

"If you are ready, I shall make my move," Richie stated coldly.

Before the words faded, Richie materialized before the lead knight.

His speed was supernatural. The knights caught only a blurred shadow, stripped of reaction time. Caught off guard, the Honor Knight crossed his gauntlets to brace against the incoming blow.

In a split second, Richie twisted his frame, the colossal shield sliding from his back onto his shoulder.

A deafening crash echoed.

The Honor Knight was blasted backward through the air. His armor's right arm was shattered from the wrist up, the broadsword snapped in twain—half clattering against rocks, half impaled deep into the earth.

The lightning-fast clash stunned both sides. Even Richie had not anticipated such smooth success, nor that a shield strike wielded such devastating destructive force. A technique widely dismissed as primitive carried astonishing lethal potential.

Yet there was no time for contemplation. Richie curled the "Wisdom King" inward, planting both hands to execute a sweeping whirlwind spin.

Common in hand-to-hand brawling, the maneuver was unheard of in knight duels, for presenting one's back invites fatal counterattacks. An opponent could leap clear and strike the exposed spine with ease.

Yet the "Wisdom King" held zero fear; the massive shield returned to its dorsal mount, neutralizing incoming strikes.

Unaccustomed to the tactic, two of the remaining three knights lagged in reaction.

Thunderous impacts erupted as severed metal shards scattered like shrapnel hail. The guards behind the vehicle escaped harm, though the transport chassis was perforated like a sieve.

The two knights guarding Yarno shielded the former president, shards pinging harmlessly across their armor.

Three of the four deployed suits lay damaged in moments. The fourth knight thrust his halberd toward Richie's back, a blinding white spear of light radiating from its tip.

With a deep hum, the halberd struck the colossal shield.

The shield flared with dazzling brilliance, reflecting the brunt of the energy back along the spear shaft while dispersing the remainder outward in shimmering shockwaves.

"'Mirror Reflection'... it truly is him," the attacking knight gasped.

"Scatter!" the fallen captain roared, hauling himself upright.

Yet avoidance was impossible; expanding light engulfed the clearing, denting the battered transport a hundred meters away.

Guards behind the vehicle groaned, eardrums aching and chests tight from the shockwave. The knights survived without breach to vital modules, yet the halberdier who launched the strike took the full reflected brunt, drained of Aura, swallowed whole by his own rebound.

Before vision cleared, an airborne suit hurtled through the air toward the captain. Simultaneous metal clangs rang out as two more suits were hurled outward to the left and right.

The captain braced to catch his flying comrade.

Having endured Richie's initial charge, he knew the machine's monstrous kinetic output. Possessing only his left arm, he backpedaled furiously to bleed off the momentum.

Before halting, a fierce gale whipped across his visor as Richie closed the distance like a specter.

With zero alternatives, the captain released his ally, slashing his broadsword with his remaining arm into a tight web of light—adapting his tactics after tasting defeat.

Within breaths, over twenty exchanges flashed past, Richie holding absolute dominance.

In technical finesse, Richie lagged far behind an Honor Knight, yet having crippled the man's primary arm at the outset, and wielding overwhelming advantages in speed, mass, and dorsal defense, the duel tilted decisively in his favor.

It was not his first encounter with Honor rank, yet the sensation was completely transformed.

Previously, facing Honor Knights inspired internal dread, whereas today he fought with soaring confidence.

The "Wisdom King" moved like a wraith, its claws flickering faster than sight, repeatedly tearing through the captain's defensive screen.

Yet Richie kept his head, noting the veteran captain stood firm like mountain grass rooted in rock crevices, bending before storms without snapping.

Such was true martial mastery.

As the duel deadlocked, the transport door kicked open.

The final Ace Knight deployed, wielding a massive double-bitted battleaxe.

"Hold defense! His strikes are lethal!" the captain warned.

Everyone knew Richie's martial foundation derived from "Harmonic Lightwheel"—a lethal art where light strikes masked fatal internal rupture. Paired with "Mirror Reflection," he was a nightmare for heavy hitters.

Seeing another challenger, Richie pressed hard, driving the captain back before wheeling toward the axe wielder.

Another shield charge crashed forward.

The axe wielder refrained from dodging, swinging his axe with raw physical momentum, withholding Aura to avoid triggering "Mirror Reflection."

Axe and shield collided with an ear-splitting boom that deafened onlookers.

The Ace Knight was launched fifteen paces backward, the steel axe shaft bent at a ninety-degree angle.

Richie won the clash, yet inhaled sharply upon inspecting his shield: a five-inch cleft split its center. For a knight to strike without Aura using sheer muscle was rare savagery.

Yet the captain charged forward once more.

Richie knew prolonged combat would invite complications. Reaching behind his back, a metallic click rang out as the three-meter shield decoupled into three components: a central circular shield, flanked by two flame-serrated blade wheels held in his grips. Resembling spoked chariot wheels lined with jagged blades, they radiated savage menace.

Derived from the Briar Shield concept, they offered offense and defense; paired against technical combatants, they presented a nightmarish barrier.

With three massive shields in hand, armor plating became superfluous. Heavy strikes met the central bulwark; technical finesse met dual whirring blade wheels. Unless an opponent chose close-quarters grappling—a scenario Richie welcomed wholeheartedly.

Sensing his tactical advantage, the Honor Knight felt chills.

Taking advantage of their hesitation, Richie vanished, reappearing beside the transport as his left blade wheel sheared horizontally.

The vehicle was cleaved in twain.

The remaining guarding knight was flung outward alongside torn wreckage.

Inside the severed cabin sat Yarno.

The whirring blade cut the former president in half at the waist. Moving with such velocity, the old man remained conscious for moments, staring in disbelief at his severed lower torso.

A second strike flashed—a claw blade piercing clean through Yarno's heart.

Richie spared him lingering agony; dying from bisection was horrific cruelty.

His objective achieved, Richie turned toward the Honor Knight: "Shall we continue?"

"Satisfied? Over petty personal enmity, you accomplished what the Norman Alliance dreamed of yet failed to achieve," the Honor Knight spat coldly.

Richie cared little for the accusation: "Cease elevating Yarno's importance. Throughout his tenure, his policies aided the enemy Norman Alliance far more than his homeland. Let historians a century hence pass judgment; neither you nor I hold the qualifications. I offer one reminder: state that I slew him, but mention not this armor, and keep your men's mouths shut."

Speaking so, Richie turned and departed, fearing no treachery from behind. With his dorsal shield and the perception "Field" unique to Honor rank, surprise attacks held zero chance.

Hours later, the escort detail reached Bernibeli, reporting Yarno's assassination while withholding tactical details.

The report rattled upward, arriving amidst absolute chaos within the Republic.

Just yesterday at seven-thirty in the evening—a mere two and a half hours after Yarno fled Peines—a coalition of senior officials led by Hershaw declared the Republic's unconditional surrender.

An hour later, High Command broadcast their defiance, vowing resistance to the bitter end.

Peines was engulfed in pandemonium. Bernibeli officials knew not whom to notify: reporting to Hershaw implied recognizing his puppet regime; reporting to the military risked accusations of inciting a military junta. Left with no recourse, they transmitted the notice to Alliance High Command via the Joint Committee.

Yet Alliance leadership was consumed by Hershaw's treachery, holding zero leisure to fret over a disgraced former president. Deeming Hershaw an enemy, the Alliance bypassed civilian channels, relaying the intelligence privately to trusted military leaders.

By nine in the evening, the notice reached Grand Marshal Bosrova.

The Republic resembled a fading dusk: demoralized officers and weeping soldiers packing for retreat. Bosrova had remained inside his quarters throughout the day, silent and pensive.

Receiving the news, Bosrova showed zero surprise, instructing his adjutant calmly: "Summon Elvin, Bloom, Campbell, and Caron. Inform them of the news when you deliver the summons."

Half an hour later, heavy footsteps approached.

The door flew open. Entering first was a silver-haired elder with a sharp nose and narrow visage—a celebrated beauty in his youth, now lined with age.

Elvin entered with fury, hissing: "Lawless! What does that boy imagine he is doing?"

Second was Caron, Dana's father, weary and burdened by grief. Following the capital brawl, his elite Royal Guard Corps had been dispatched to the frontlines as cannon fodder, suffering grievous casualties.

Yet Caron mourned not merely casualties, but the bitter realization that his vaunted corps was hollowed by internal politics: subordinates lacked cohesion, officers fled danger, and the merit system had been manipulated to purge competent rivals.

Conversely, Bloom and Campbell appeared composed. Their Junior Army had performed admirably during the campaign, led by newly appointed Army Group Commander Haigert. Units equipped with the new "Dragon" armor excelled at rear harassment, forcing Norman forces to divert garrisons. Knowing their success owed much to Richie, the two elders had resolved to shield him.

Seeing Elvin's wrath, Campbell sneered: "Still nursing a grudge because he thrashed your precious grandson? Yarno's treacherous deeds nauseated everyone; had the boy not struck, countless others were waiting in line."

Campbell's sharp tongue flushed Elvin's cheeks with crimson fury.

Elvin fired back: "I speak on principle! Across seven centuries since the Republic's founding, has another president ever been assassinated? Your defense stems from self-interest—everyone knows the Junior Army reaped vast rewards from that boy!"

"I concede that truth," Campbell stood firm: "Those rewards saved thousands of our soldiers, blunted the Alliance blitz, and granted us time to retreat. What did Yarno give us? Incompetent commanders and corrupt interference!"

Between the two Junior Army founders, Bloom was gentle and beloved, while Campbell was sharp and unyielding.

Seeing tempers flare, Bosrova sighed heavily, rising to his feet: "Cease arguing. Elvin, I ask one question: if granted authority, how would you handle this?"

Before Elvin answered, Bosrova continued: "Before you reply, know that alongside this dispatch came a formal communique from Alliance High Command. It declares the Alliance no longer recognizes our current government. To secure individuals of vital strategic value and oversee their extraction, Alliance forces are entering our territory. Any hostile interference shall be treated as enemy action..."

Bosrova paused, reluctant to voice the conclusion.

"Subject to attack?" Elvin probed.

Bosrova handed over a parchment.

Elvin's face drained of color upon reading.

Campbell glanced over, his expression hardening.

The wording was stark: Alliance forces would "annihilate" any opposition on Republic soil—a declaration of absolute contempt for a failing sovereign state.

With the room silenced, Bosrova revealed his final card. Having had an agent among the escort witnesses, he possessed detailed intelligence:

"For this strike, the youth deployed a specialized armor—a terrifying machine. Of Yarno's six guards, all but one suffered injuries, four suits sustained Class-Two structural damage, and Yarno was slain through brute-force breach."

Silence fell like lead.

"Impossible!" Campbell gasped: "The boy is an Ace Knight, formidable indeed, but Yarno's detail comprised an Honor squad!"

His voice trailed off into dazed murmurs: "What machine empowers an Ace to overwhelm an entire Honor squad? Impossible..."

Marshal Bloom pondered aloud: "No wonder... I contacted Bernibeli earlier, yet all bodyguards refused to answer inquiries or surrender flight recorders, demanding senior envoys on-site."

Bosrova broke the heavy quiet.

"Bloom, remember our debate years ago? Perhaps you were right. From this moment onward, you succeed my post as Grand Marshal of the Republic. Campbell, your stern visage is well-suited; the military tribunal is entrusted to you."

The room stiffened, Bosrova's words carrying the finality of a will.

Elvin felt bitter resentment; as the conservative second-in-command, he had expected succession, yet witnessed supreme military command and the judiciary handed to the Junior Army.

"Why this arrangement? Grant me a rationale," Bloom demanded.

Bosrova gazed at Campbell, stating: "Every knight resents the constitutional checks imposed by the Republic's founders to prevent military juntas. Tell me, do you harbor hatred toward those founders?"

Bloom shook his head: "The founders' wisdom fostered centuries of prosperity. Yet they were mortal; they could not foresee crises centuries later."

Bosrova smiled: "I posed the identical query to that youth. His answer: 'The founders are merely dead men; toward corpses, I harbor neither hatred nor reverence.'"

Chills spread through the chamber.

Everyone grasped Bosrova's foresight.

The Junior Army was radical, yet revered founding traditions, pursuing reform within established boundaries. Yet a far more radical faction had coalesced around Richie—one devoid of reverence, willing to smash all ancient structures to dust without hesitation.

Transferring authority to Elvin would ignite civil strife and invite that emerging faction to seize power through arms.

By elevating Bloom and the Junior Army, the once-radical faction became the moderate center—holding the line against total anarchy, forging a precarious new equilibrium amidst the ashes of the Republic.