Chapter 82 Schemes of All Sides

"What is that little fellow trying to pull?"

"With age comes ambition, and with status comes even more. As long as one is human, ambition is only natural; it is hardly surprising."

"So what should our stance be? Support or oppose?"

"Before answering that question, what we must first consider is what kind of Monstoke we actually need."

"If we had our choice, keeping things as they originally were would naturally be best."

"I don't quite agree. That question also hinges on a prerequisite: what will this war ultimately become?"

"Do we have any certainty of truly crushing the Alliance in the end? If we cannot, this will likely turn into a protracted standoff between two major power blocs. And if that is the case, having Monstoke be too weak simply will not do. Take this recent conflict, for example: we had originally counted on them to deplete the Alliance's strength, never expecting that they wouldn't even hold out against a second-rate nation like Varedin."

"You can't entirely blame them. At the very least, they managed to produce quite a few remarkable things."

"And speaking of that, the topic circles right back to that little fellow."

"It truly is a dilemma! We don't want to over-commit aid to him, yet we want to foster good relations with him. What interests me most right now is that new heavy battle armor of his... and that flight technology."

"Likewise. By the way, the troops you dispatched should have arrived by now, shouldn't they? That lad is truly a headache. Why must he insist on lingering in such a dangerous place? Protecting him requires so much wasted effort."

"In that case, feel free to pass the troublesome chore over to me; I certainly won't complain."

"Haha... you old scoundrel..."

A group of figures sat chatting and laughing on a sprawling emerald lawn. Looming behind them stood an exquisitely gorgeous green palace. Under the radiant midday sunlight, the majestic palace refracted dazzling prisms of iridescent brilliance.

The reason it was so stunning was that it was constructed entirely out of solid glass. The glass blocks were immense, each over a foot thick, which lent the structure its deep emerald translucence. While ordinary glass was by no means an exorbitant luxury, building an entire palace exclusively from such material made it unprecedented in the known world. There was only one such palace in existence: the Jade Palace of the Parkington Holy Kingdom.

And of the dignitaries currently lounging on the lawn before the Jade Palace, sipping tea and engaging in light banter, the identity of each and every one was someone whom the rest of the world could only look up to in awe. Empress Annielia played the gracious hostess, entertaining these supreme guests.

These towering figures had naturally not assembled here purely for Richie's sake; it was merely an opportune convergence of events. The Monstoke Republic's declaration of surrender signified the formal curtain falling on this opening clash.

Everyone knew full well that this war was nothing more than a rehearsal for a far greater, all-out global conflict.

Both the Alliance and the Coalition had merely used Monstoke as a live testing ground to evaluate new tactics and weapons. The top echelons of both factions had never particularly cared about the immediate outcome of Monstoke's borders. Now that the opening act had concluded, they gathered to coordinate their broader strategic countermeasures, for the true global storm was visibly on the verge of breaking out.

"It really gives one a headache."

The speaker was a middle-aged man in his forties. He wore an imperial crown and sported a thick, full beard, a lion-like broad nose, and a wide mouth, carrying an exceptionally commanding martial presence. Despite his supreme imperial majesty, his attire was entirely that of a knight; among everyone present, he alone was dressed in full military uniform. This man was none other than Emperor Nikola IV of Rosotto, the northern kingdom of the frozen steppes.

"Their side is suffering just as much of a headache," Empress Annielia remarked with a soft chuckle. "Our headache stems from preparing late and feeling pressed for time. Their side is the exact opposite—they prepared early, only to realize they chose the wrong path."

"As far as I know, Polonov is already redesigning their new battle armor."

"Long-range lightning raids, grand flanking maneuvers, and deep operational thrusts... it appears all future wars will have to be fought in this manner," an elderly man sighed, stroking his long, fluttering white beard. "During the second phase of the campaign, the Alliance was battered thoroughly. The supply line issue is indeed formidable, and we don't seem to have any magic bullet for it either."

"We are still relatively well off. The 'Dragon' is a light battle armor, and right from its initial design, ease of maintenance and local manufacture were factored in. Any modest workshop can be hastily retooled to service and assemble them. Their 'Rubik's Cube', on the other hand, is a nightmare. When they originally designed it, their focus was rapid field modular replacement; any damaged component could be swapped out in under fifteen minutes. But repairing those damaged spare parts is a completely different story. All they can do is stockpile more replacement modules, and piling on spare parts only exponentially compounds the logistical burden. The moment their supply lines are severed, their combat effectiveness will plummet." The middle-aged man seated beside Empress Annielia was clearly far more optimistic.

"Word has it that Fransa has restarted its airship project," Nikola IV noted, glancing around at the others to see whether their intelligence networks had caught wind of the same development.

"Are those things actually useful?"

The Empress offered a faint smile. "Nothing more than colossal gas bags. A single stray spark is enough to reduce them to ashes. If built small, they might serve some minor reconnaissance role at best."

She shook her head with a self-deprecating smile, recalling Parkington's own past failures in that regard. Parkington had developed similar contraptions years ago, but the endeavors had all ended in failure. Airships suffered from several insurmountable engineering flaws—arduous takeoff and landing procedures, sluggish flight speeds, extreme vulnerability to fire, and severe susceptibility to turbulent atmospheric currents.

"It is merely a desperate move born of helplessness," Nikola IV observed, pointing out the Alliance's predicament. Just as when the Coalition had first learned of the Alliance's breakthrough battle armor and frantically rallied all available minds, holding open design competitions akin to casting a broad net into the sea, it was all born of sheer desperation. "Speaking of which, where is that genius girl of yours?"

The Empress turned to the elderly man, who was none other than His Majesty Emperor Carlos of the Omore Empire.

"She went to Casmolina. What a pity. Had I known that little fellow would churn out even more wondrous innovations, I would have sent her to Stein instead."

The old emperor shook his head, looking thoroughly regretful. And regretful he was; the Coalition nations had an established mutual understanding that whoever secured a piece of cutting-edge technology first would enjoy the first taste, while the other allied nations could not overtly snatch it away.

While the Omore Empire could not monopolize such strategic technologies indefinitely, obtaining them first would undoubtedly have secured them far more initial advantages over their fellow Coalition members.

"What a shame! You dangled the bait for so long, yet missed the catch right when it was time to reel it in!" Nikola IV teased playfully from the side.

The elderly Carlos could only respond with a rueful grin. He genuinely felt he had taken a loss; his empire had invested the most effort and resources into Richie, only to fall behind when it mattered most.

The assembled rulers broke into hearty laughter. Though each nation had its own sovereign interests and geopolitical calculations, their personal rapport had always remained amicable; when lighthearted jokes were cracked, no one took offense.

Right at that moment, the ornate bracelet encircling Empress Annielia's wrist suddenly flared with brilliant, pulsing radiance.

Everyone turned their gazes toward her. Her Majesty the Empress instantly straightened her posture, lightly raising one hand toward her forehead. Dangling from her brow was an ornate ruby pendant, the massive gemstone resting squarely between her eyebrows. Her fingertips gently pressed against the surface of the ruby.

A few moments later, Her Majesty let her hand drop with a faint, enigmatic smile. She pointed a slender finger toward the open lawn, and an ethereal projection manifested out of thin air!

The projection possessed a semi-transparent, luminous quality, and under the glare of daylight, observing it required some effort. One could vaguely discern thousands of citizens densely packed together—an assembly easily exceeding ten thousand. In the center of the crowd, an impassioned orator was delivering a fiery speech, while aides distributed pamphlets in all directions.

After a dozen seconds, the projection shifted to display a massive military column marching forward in disciplined ranks. From their distinctive uniforms, they were evidently Balmer troops. However, they were swiftly intercepted; blocking their path was an elite squadron of knights, and parked beside these knights stood a line of pristine, snow-white battle armor.

The moment they caught sight of those snow-white suits of armor, the pupils of every sovereign present contracted sharply.

They all knew that Annielia had dispatched a military contingent to safeguard Stein's security, but none of them had imagined in their wildest dreams that she had deployed that particular legendary legion.

The atmosphere turned abruptly awkward. Fortunately, these monarchs were all seasoned veterans accustomed to navigating delicate political scenes. Nikola IV pointed casually toward the Balmer column in the projection and remarked, "If I am not mistaken, they were marching to arrest that little fellow, weren't they?"

"Indeed," Annielia replied, rubbing her temples. Balmer was a vassal state of Parkington. For a subordinate realm to commit such foolishness naturally obliged Parkington, as the suzerain power, to step in and clean up the mess. It was fortunate that her own elite forces had intercepted those fools in time. "The exact details are still murky. It appears that someone among Yarno's former underlings managed to bribe high-ranking officials in Balmer, intending for Balmer to play the combined role of police, prosecutor, and executioner."

"Expected. Completely within expectations," Nikola IV chuckled heartily. "It seems that with Yarno's demise, his remaining faction has completely lost its bearings, actually stooping to such a catastrophic misstep."

The elderly Carlos shook his head repeatedly. General Herschel's public announcement of surrender had only just spread; the populace was brimming with patriotic outrage, and at this volatile moment, what people detested most were national traitors. While the actions of Yarno's faction were not treason per se, they were easily branded as such by the public, for they were relying on foreign armed intervention to purge their own countrymen. Carlos cast a meaningful glance at Annielia; if this incident were mishandled, it could severely tarnish the Coalition's standing in the hearts of the Monstoke people.

"Yarno's faction is not devoid of capable men, but they lack a single authoritative core figure. All of them are scrambling for Yarno's vacant seat. This brazen stunt was almost certainly orchestrated by some desperate opportunist trying to fish in troubled waters."

The Empress withdrew her hand, and the shimmering projection dissolved into nothingness.

The middle-aged man seated beside her had been lost in thought all this while. Only now did he speak up: "One side was thoroughly prepared, while the other rushed haphazardly into the fray; the outcome was naturally bound to diverge. Some time ago, I received intelligence reports that the boy's mother and aunt had donned their modest, faded garments from years past, turning down all banquet invitations and even canceling social engagements they had already accepted."

"I also received reports that over the past half month, shadowy figures were frequently spotted trailing the high-ranking Monstoke officials and their relatives who had fled across the border, seemingly capturing unauthorized photographs. Now I finally see the full picture: those operatives were almost certainly former Internal Affairs agents of Monstoke, colleagues of that man named Malone. What they were secretly documenting were undoubtedly the decadent, hedonistic revelries of those fled officials and their kin."

Every sovereign sitting here had spent their entire lives immersed in high-stakes statecraft. If they couldn't see the underlying scheme by now, they would be utter fools.

Nikola IV nodded in enlightened realization. "So that's how it is. Assassinating Yarno was not merely a bid for political power; more crucially, it was designed to create an earth-shattering sensation! By riding the shockwave of Yarno's assassination, they instantly thrust themselves into the center of the global stage."

"I'm afraid it goes even deeper than that," the elderly Carlos remarked, shaking his head. "For a political faction formed less than six months ago, gaining the spontaneous recognition and trust of the masses would ordinarily be near impossible. But with this move, they effectively used Yarno's blood to carve a stark dividing line—on one side stand those who applaud the assassination, and on the other stand those demanding the execution of the assassins. That faction instantly established themselves as the undisputed protagonists. Backed by absolute leverage and wielding public sentiment like a honed blade, they have set the stage to perform a grand political drama. By the time the curtain falls, they will have cemented themselves as the ultimate victors. The maneuver is brilliant, though their methods do leave a slightly bitter taste in one's mouth."

All of them shared similar sentiments. While they too engaged in intrigue and political maneuvering—such as covertly poaching hordes of skilled technical artisans from Monstoke during the evacuation—they viewed high politics as an artful, elegant game, akin to a master-level chess match. Malone's calculated conspiracy, on the other hand, was soaked too deeply in ruthless intrigue.

***

Just like the Coalition leadership, the Alliance was equally preoccupied with preparations for the looming total war. Their top leaders had gathered in Casmolina, the imperial capital of the Varedin Empire, to attend the formal surrender ceremonies.

Those attending were not exclusively from the Alliance; the Coalition had also dispatched diplomatic envoys.

Though both were sovereign capitals, Casmolina was far less bustling and commercialized than Penece. Penece boasted commercial thoroughfares at every corner, with over a dozen major trading districts scattered across the metropolis. Casmolina, by contrast, had concentrated commercial vitality only in its central core; the rest of the city possessed a distinctly tranquil, almost somber demeanor.

Yet that tranquility had its own unique rustic charm. Situated in the southern climes, the city flourished with lush, dense vegetation; even in the heart of downtown, vast expanses of verdant greens were carefully preserved, giving the impression that the entire imperial capital had been carved straight out of an ancient forest.

A magnificent, straight boulevard cut directly through the heart of the city. The boulevard was exceptionally wide, capable of accommodating over a dozen carriages abreast, with a long median strip of towering trees dividing the traffic flow.

At the terminus of this grand boulevard stood the Imperial Palace. It was a neo-classical stone edifice featuring towering staircases, monumental fluted stone pillars, and low-sloping pediments, projecting an overwhelming aura of ancient imperial grandeur.

Unlike ordinary days, the palace interiors and exteriors were currently draped in regal crimson carpets, and multi-colored battle standards fluttered from the monumental pillars. A crowned, portly monarch was beaming with uncontainable joy as he received congratulations from visiting dignitaries. Varedin and Monstoke had waged countless wars over generations with alternating fortunes; the ultimate dream of successive Varedin emperors had always been the complete annexation of Monstoke. In his hands, that ancestral dream had finally been realized.

Yet right as he was reveling in his triumph, he caught sight of someone waving at him from the distance.

The portly king hurried over at once. In the entire known world, there was only one man whose summons he dared not delay.

"Quite a sense of achievement, isn't it?"

Emperor George V of Fransa remarked coldly. "I have honored my promise and helped you conquer Monstoke. Now it is your turn to repay your debt. How much time do you need to complete preparations for your westward offensive?"

The portly monarch's joyful expression instantly curdled into a visage of profound woe. He began to lament, "The Monstokians are not yet completely vanquished. At least 540,000 troops are currently retreating northward, and their knight corps still retains nearly 100,000 active personnel..."

"None of that matters. What decides the outcome of a war is core strength and industrial resources. Monstoke's elite has already been decimated by eighty to ninety percent; their already scarce Ace and Honor Knights were largely expended across the two major campaigns. They have lost all their strategic territory, clinging only to those barren northern mountain ranges; merely surviving will be difficult enough for them. Furthermore, internal civil strife has already erupted among them—even their former president was just assassinated. Restoring any semblance of order will take them at least a year or two."

George V spoke without the slightest shred of courtesy, his tone carrying an unmistakable edge of reprimand.

Just as the Coalition harbored its own calculated designs for the Monstoke Republic, the Alliance's backing of Varedin had never been an act of charity. The price Varedin owed for this victory was that upon triumph, the Varedin Empire had to spearhead a massive eastern offensive against the Coalition's left flank.

George V naturally saw straight through the fat king's evasive tactics. Were he in the fat king's shoes, he too would dodge this obligation as long as possible. Having just conquered Monstoke, even if one didn't completely eradicate the remnants, one would still need time to stabilize the home front and consolidate administrative control. If one had to join the broader war, the later, the better.

Unfortunately, he was not the fat king. Standing in his position of supreme hegemony, he was duty-bound to force Varedin into action. As for the lingering remnants of Monstoke, they served as the perfect leash to tie Varedin down, compelling them to remain utterly dependent on the Alliance.

Recognizing that simple evasion would not work, the fat monarch felt compelled to offer a bargaining chip: "What about those cutting-edge technologies? My agents have just forwarded intelligence that a brand-new battle armor manufacturing facility is likely being constructed in Stein. We have never managed to secure the blueprints for the 'Dragon', and that facility is our final opportunity..."

"There is no need," George V cut him off sharply, refusing to grant him any room for haggling. "By the time you mount an offensive there, they will have long since evacuated; you will still end up empty-handed. Polonov is already examining the captured 'Dragon' specimens, and he will have tangible results shortly. If you had the capability to procure that flight technology, on the other hand, I might grant you strategic autonomy. However, I have no fondness for empty promises. How about we sign a formal pact? If you fail to secure the flight technology, you will cough up the Monstoke territories you have swallowed and hand them back over to me."

George V fixed the fat king with an icy, penetrating stare. Although he lacked absolute proof, both he and his intelligence chiefs strongly suspected that this fat sovereign had known about Monstoke's flight technology long ago. This was not mere conjecture; back when Fort Crete fell, they had found the tactical situation bafflingly anomalous. Countless sand-table simulations had yielded no logical explanation, and only upon learning of the existence of flight technology did the puzzle pieces finally fit together.

Calculating from the timeline, that youth had conceived flight technology shortly after designing the 'Dragon' and immediately deployed it in real combat. George V refused to believe that over all those months, the Varedin intelligence network had remained entirely oblivious.

Even more condemning was the fact that Alliance counter-intelligence had noticed Varedin spies covertly searching for a specific item months earlier. Alliance handlers hadn't paid it much mind at the time, naturally assuming Varedin was merely gathering data on new armor models. In hindsight, numerous anomalies stood out. Whenever George V thought about this, fury simmered within him.

"My word is my bond! Grant me one month, and I swear on my honor that my armies will be fully assembled along the western frontier!"

The fat king capitulated, though capitulation did not mean relinquishing all bargaining. He continued to plead with a mournful countenance, "Having me hold an entire strategic front on my own is genuinely beyond my confidence. Omore is not Monstoke..."

"That is easily resolved."

George V sneered coldly. "I shall transfer a legion of the Ironblood Corps over to you. That should be more than sufficient, shouldn't it?"

At the mention of the Ironblood Corps, the fat king felt a chill race down the back of his neck. The Ironblood Corps of the Fransa Empire were the very embodiment of death and absolute destruction. The individual ranks of the members within such legions were not exceedingly high—at most Ace Knights, and their overall numbers were modest. However, every single one of them cultivated wind-attributed techniques, while concurrently mastering that terrifying self-destruction suicide art.

Furthermore, when listening to a hegemon speak, one could not take words at face value; one had to discern the lethal implications lurking beneath the surface. The fat king was entirely certain that this Ironblood legion would never be sent to the frontline trenches. Instead, they would be stationed right in Casmolina, right at his side, serving as a permanent dagger reminding him: just as the Alliance had the power to help him swallow Monstoke, it could just as easily reduce Varedin to ashes.

Apart from submission, there was no second path available. Yet as he walked away from George V, although his face remained jovial and smiling, his inner heart was dark and menacing.

Behaving as if nothing of consequence had occurred, the portly monarch waddled his rotund frame over until he stood directly behind Korsak.

"I have a few words for you. Come with me."

Howard II nudged Korsak with a pudgy hand.

The two slipped into an adjacent private chamber. The moment they entered, the fat king immediately commanded in a lowered voice, "Begin preparations at once. Monstoke must be fully pacified within one month, and our entire host must subsequently march toward the eastern front."

Korsak hesitated slightly, intending to offer a word of counsel. But remembering His Majesty's deep-seated character, he promptly swallowed his words. This fat sovereign was never one to sacrifice himself for others; he was the sort who fought tooth and nail for every scrap of profit and would rather die than suffer a loss. For him to make such a sudden concession, there had to be an irresistible compulsion behind it.

Sure enough, the moment the heavy door sealed shut, Howard II added in a whisper, "Gadro is sending an Ironblood legion over here. Help me arrange their quarters."

Hearing those words, Korsak understood everything in an instant. Right at that moment, he saw the Emperor winking meaningfully at him.

Korsak understood the cue immediately and unfolded his 'Realm', enveloping the entire chamber within its boundary.

A Celestial Knight's 'Realm' was a dimensional leap beyond an Honor Knight's 'Domain'. The secret chamber was instantly and thoroughly isolated from the outside world, impervious to any eavesdropping.

"Gadro insists on sending his men over, and I have no means to stop him. But I happen to be someone who despises being taken advantage of. So just now, I found myself pondering: doesn't Gadro hold that suicide art of theirs in supreme secrecy? Could we perhaps pry that secret out of their hands?"

A radiant, almost naive smile spread across Howard II's fleshy face. To a casual observer, the smile looked foolish, but anyone who truly knew this fat king knew just how treacherous and lethal that expression was.

"You aren't joking? Such an endeavor is immensely perilous."

Korsak was far less composed; a rare look of astonishment broke across his eternally stoic, weathered face.

"I know it is perilous. Which is why, apart from you, I will not utter a single word of this ambition to any other living soul," the fat king said with a conspiratorial chuckle.

At this point, Korsak realized with utter clarity that His Majesty intended for him personally to take charge of this clandestine affair.

"Don't overthink it. I don't intend to burden you with unreasonable pressure. If it succeeds, wonderful; if it fails, no harm done," Howard II instructed casually.

Korsak felt an immense headache coming on. Was he supposed to personally execute this espionage? He had received zero training in subterfuge and covert interrogation. Yet if he delegated it to subordinates, he couldn't possibly rest easy.

"Don't carry so much stress," Howard II said, clapping Korsak on the shoulder. "This matter cannot be accomplished merely by working hard; it depends entirely on opportunity. I simply refuse to believe that among several thousand men in an entire legion, every single skull is carved out of solid granite."

Korsak could only smile wryly. While he too doubted that the Ironblood Corps was entirely impenetrable, the fact remained that over the past thirty years, countless powers had schemed against the Ironblood Corps, yet not a single soul had ever unraveled their core secret. There had to be profound, terrifying reasons behind that impenetrable record.

Right as he was grappling with this headache, a sudden knock sounded against the door of the secret chamber.

From the cadence of the knocks, one could detect unmistakable anxiety and urgency.

Korsak exchanged a glance with His Majesty. Howard II took half a step backward, sheltering himself prudently behind Korsak's towering frame, before nodding his permission. He was this cautious purely out of fear of assassination.

The door swung open. Standing at the threshold was a pale-faced elderly gentleman.

"Marquis Holland, what has happened?" Korsak's brow furrowed.

Seeing that it was this old man, Howard II stepped out from behind Korsak. The old man was his Lord Chamberlain of the Imperial Household, and like Korsak, was one of his most trusted confidants. "Speak. What is the matter?"

Though both were confidants, Howard II spoke to this elder with far less courtesy.

"Your Majesty... our frontline headquarters has suffered a suicidal assault!" the Marquis reported in sheer terror and trepidation.

***

There was no celebratory music here, only the deafening clash of blades and the earth-shattering roar of explosions. There was no fine vintage wine, only the suffocating stench of blood and burning cordite permeating the air.

The frontline headquarters of the Varedin Empire had been transformed into an absolute slaughterhouse.

The fighting was savage beyond description. Both sides were elite—the very elite of elites.

In terms of sheer numbers and defensive preparedness, the garrisoned defenders were undeniably superior. However, the attacking Republic knights had never harbored the slightest intention of returning alive; their combat doctrine was one of sheer mutual destruction. They would unhesitatingly trade an entire arm to sever an opponent's hand; they would willingly take a lethal thrust to the chest if it allowed them to cleave off an enemy's limb. And ultimately, every one of these Republic knights would vanish completely from the world in a deafening, thunderous detonation.

Among this band of fearless attackers who held death in utter contempt, the most formidable and terrifying was a dark-purple suit of battle armor. Its design was ancient and austere, its layered armor plates resembling overlapping roofing tiles; the entire suit gave the impression of a brooding warrior draped in an ancient mantle. Yet such a stoic suit of armor was adorned with an immense, billowing cloak that matched the armor's dark-purple hue.

All Varedin knights who laid eyes on this battle armor reacted in only one of two ways: either throwing their lives away in desperate, frenzied charges attempting to strike it, or fleeing as far away as their limbs could carry them.

Wearing a cape on battle armor was an exclusive distinction reserved only for those who had surpassed the rank of Honor Knight.

That fluttering cape proved only one undeniable truth: the warrior inside was, at the very least, a Quasi-Glorious Knight!

This dark-purple armor traversed the battlefield with monumental composure. Its movements appeared neither rushed nor swift, yet not a single enemy could slip away from its path, and not a single hostile armor could close within lethal striking distance of its frame.

Its strikes appeared plain and unadorned. The massive knightly greatsword in its grip moved as though swung casually, devoid of rigid forms or flashy techniques. Yet with every effortless sweep of that blade, a devastating kill was inevitably claimed.

A supreme master wielding transcendent martial prowess leading a vanguard of warriors who laughed at death—that unbridled offensive power was utterly awe-inspiring.

The Varedin frontline command, which had grown somewhat complacent amidst the euphoria of recent victory, was cleanly and violently gouged open in an instant.

Right at the precipice of the defensive lines collapsing entirely, another cloaked suit of battle armor finally emerged!

Compared to the somber dark-purple armor, this new arrival possessed a far more magnificent and imposing aura. Its deep-red carapace appeared extraordinarily heavy and solid, while beneath the polished enamel, faint decorative patterns subtly glowed, lending this instrument of slaughter a touch of noble elegance. A pristine, snow-white cape billowed majestically behind its shoulders.

"Bosrova, I truly never imagined that you would come in person. What, do you intend to be buried with the Republic?"

From within the deep-red battle armor echoed an aged, resonant voice.

"Kaidene, we may be considered old rivals, yet we have never had the fortune of facing each other on the field of battle. Today, king meets king; consider it a closure to our past regrets."

Bosrova spoke with his customary tranquility and detachment, without the slightest hint that he was locked in a mortal duel with an arch-enemy.

There was no overt bloodlust. The two did not resemble opposing supreme commanders so much as old acquaintances reuniting after years apart. When martial prowess reached their rarefied echelon, many temporal attachments were cast aside. In the hearts of supreme masters like them, beyond an enduring yearning for even higher planes of cultivation, the only attachment that remained was devotion to their respective homelands.

Without exchanging another word, the deep-red armor stomped violently against the earth, launching itself high into the sky!

The weapon held in its grasp was an exotic, hybrid armament—not quite a spear, not quite a halberd, not quite an axe. The weapon featured a lethal lance tip at its apex, flanked by twin curved blades that resembled an elongated double-bitted battleaxe.

Descending upon Bosrova's crown, this bizarre weapon thrust downward with thunderous force!

Bosrova raised his knightly greatsword with deliberate slowness. His movement appeared sluggish and heavy, as though several thousand pounds of deadweight were anchored to the tip of his blade.

At their level of mastery, victory and defeat were no longer governed by rote martial forms, but by 'Intent'.

Kaidene's 'Intent' was wild, ferocious, and unstoppable. In his earlier years, Bosrova had walked a similar path, but over recent years, his martial presence had grown increasingly restrained and profound.

The two weapons collided mid-air like a bolt of heavenly thunder crashing into a bottomless pool of still water. Aside from sending faint ripples across the surface, the deep pool remained an unfathomable abyss, while the lightning dissipated into nothingness.

Bosrova retreated half a step. The tip of his greatsword remained locked onto Kaidene from afar; he had already established an inescapable lock on his foe.

Having fallen into a disadvantage at the very first clash, Kaidene's mood was grim. His body drifted sideways for a dozen meters before he landed, arms spread wide as he held his polearm horizontally before his chest. The instant his boots touched solid ground, Bosrova's blade came cleaving down!

To an outside observer, that slash looked utterly ordinary. Only Kaidene, trapped within its focus, understood that the strike could alter its trajectory at any microsecond; no matter how he attempted to parry, that lethal edge would slip past his guard.

This was the brutal reality of colliding 'Intents': once pushed into an inferior position, one had no margin left even to mount a defense.

Kaidene finally understood—everyone had drastically underestimated Bosrova. This old man had quietly touched the threshold of the Celestial Realm, yet had continuously masked his power, presenting himself merely as a mid-tier Glorious Knight.

Unable to defend, his only recourse was to abandon defense entirely!

Kaidene executed a sweeping horizontal cleave, his surging 'Intent' blanketing the entire frontal arc. Trading life for life was not an exclusive tactic of low-ranking knights; supreme masters like them could deploy it with equal ruthlessness.

A continuous screech of grinding metal set the teeth of every listener on edge. Sparks detonated violently from the clashing edges, dazzling the eyes. In the span of a single breath, the two weapons had collided several dozen times!

Suddenly, both suits of armor recoiled violently, each taking over a dozen retreating steps.

The dark-purple armor was in a wretched state: the cape behind its shoulders was shredded into tattered ribbons, and the frontal chest plates were warped and peeled back. The deep-red armor was in noticeably better condition, with only a single narrow fissure cut into the plating beneath its right ribs.

"Never imagined... I truly never imagined you had attained such a realm! Given two more years, you would undoubtedly have stepped into the Celestial Realm! This war truly was launched at the right time!"

Kaidene laughed uproariously, his laughter wild and unrestrained. Only those intimately familiar with him would catch the subtle tremors woven beneath his voice.

"Your reinforcement has arrived," Bosrova noted calmly.

Kaidene was startled and swiftly swept his perception outward.

A troop of cavalry had breached the perimeter, led by yet another cloaked suit of battle armor. This armor was likewise crimson, but of a vivid, blood-red hue, edged with a gleaming trim of inlaid gold.

Had the members of Squad 105 been present, they would have recognized this armor in an instant; back then, it was this very warrior who had handed them a crushing, bitter defeat.

"Anderson, why are you here?"

Though the arriving knight was his own comrade, Kaidene felt not the slightest trace of joy.

"Master, please step back. Allow me to experience the might of the Saint Emperor's bloodline."

Anderson strolled leisurely until he reached a position forty-five degrees behind Bosrova's back.

"I had heard long ago that Varedin had gained another Quasi-Glorious Knight," Bosrova said softly, standing motionless without turning around.

An Honor Knight had no need to worry about sneak attacks from behind; naturally, a Glorious Knight of an even higher tier cared even less about such blind spots. Yet not turning around did not mean dropping his guard. Facing an additional opponent of comparable caliber placed immense pressure upon the old marshal. Fortunately, right from the outset, he had traded blow for blow to severely wound Kaidene, his most lethal adversary.

Glancing at his surroundings, Bosrova knew time was running out. The warriors he had brought had mostly perished; though they had dealt Varedin a devastating blow, their momentum was virtually spent.

He hesitated no longer, swinging his knightly greatsword and charging directly toward Kaidene, his designated primary objective!

Unlike his initial fearless ferocity, Kaidene knew he was outmatched in martial realm. Seeing reinforcements arrive, he naturally had no intention of throwing his life away in reckless desperation, and retreated swiftly.

To the old man's shock, Bosrova didn't pursue him at all; instead, he spun on his heel and lunged straight at Anderson!

The disparity in realm between these two was even more pronounced. It was virtually an exact mirror of the encounter between Anderson and Lina back then, only this time the roles of the strong and the weak were completely reversed.

When Bosrova had fought Kaidene moments ago, their weapons had clashed continuously in a shower of sparks. But now, as Bosrova engaged Anderson, the spectacle was entirely different: their movements were measured, and their weapons barely collided, separating the instant they made contact. It looked less like a mortal duel and more like an orderly sparring match.

Anderson's path did not mirror that of his master Kaidene. While his strikes carried an underlying sense of resolute momentum, he lacked Kaidene's wild extravagance; his bladework was unadorned and practical, which in fact bore several similarities to Bosrova's style.

The instant they crossed blades, Anderson immediately realized the terrifying depth of this elder. The title of Monstoke's Number One Knight was by no means an empty boast. Walking a similar stylistic path, Anderson knew better than anyone that the simpler a technique appeared, the more infinite its potential variations. Yet whether one could manifest those variations depended entirely on individual strength. For an identical strike, Bosrova possessed at least ten times more variations, and his reaction speed was ten times swifter.

After merely ten exchanges, Anderson felt his stamina and defense crumbling. In his eyes, Bosrova's assault flowed like a quiet river—seemingly devoid of explosive force, yet no matter how Anderson swung his spear, he could only slice through the water, entirely incapable of stemming the river's relentless forward flow.

In a momentary daze, Anderson seemed to see his former self; he too had slaughtered vastly inferior opponents in this effortless manner. Now, it was his turn to be butchered.

Just as Anderson felt the icy embrace of death closing in, Bosrova abruptly vanished.

By the time Anderson regained his wits, he saw his master already locked in combat with Bosrova once more.

In that instant, Anderson understood why his master had felt no joy upon seeing him, only anxiety: not only had he failed to provide meaningful assistance, he had become the very hostage Bosrova used to tether his master into the fight!

Though he realized the grim truth, he had no intention of retreating. He knew his master was already severely wounded and would never escape Bosrova's relentless pursuit alone. If he joined the fray, there might still be a sliver of hope.

With that resolve, Anderson whirled his double-headed knight spear and charged back into the tempest.

There was no radiant combat aura exploding outward; every attack was extraordinarily condensed and restrained. Supreme combatants never squandered their energy. The three suits of armor advanced and retreated with rhythmic precision; from a distance, it resembled a deadly dance rather than a blood-soaked melee. Only the periodic clang of metal and shards of splintered armor testified to the lethal reality.

Although fighting two against one, the one holding the dominant advantage remained Bosrova. His swordsmanship grew increasingly elusive and ethereal, carrying a profound, almost mystical essence within its unassuming strokes. Every strike consistently exacted a toll. Yet Bosrova was not unscathed; his dark-purple armor was already riddled with grievous tears and dents.

The old marshal didn't bother defending rigidly; he shielded only his vital cores, ignoring wounds elsewhere. And in the very instant he absorbed a blow, his greatsword inevitably repaid the debt twofold.

Within mere moments, both red suits of armor accumulated numerous fresh scars—wounds that appeared deceptively superficial, yet were undeniably lethal.

While the outcome between these three supreme masters remained deadlocked, the surrounding battle was rapidly drawing to a close.

More and more Varedin knights converged on the courtyard. However, the tier of this engagement was simply too elevated; without the strength of a Quasi-Glorious Knight, one couldn't even intervene.

Suddenly, amid a violent shower of sparks, Kaidene staggered several steps backward, visibly losing his balance. Bosrova naturally refused to let such an opening slip by; disregarding his other foe entirely, he lunged toward Kaidene with everything he had!

Right at that split second, an inconspicuous suit of 'Iron Crusader' armor darted in like lightning!

Kaidene, who had been stumbling in apparent disarray, dropped to one knee, arresting his backward momentum through sheer brute force solely to launch an instantaneous counterattack! Behind Bosrova, Anderson followed suit, his double-headed spear whirling like a fierce tempest as he unleashed a reckless barrage of suicidal thrusts!

Bosrova had already sensed the ambusher closing in, yet he was pinned down from the front and flanks.

Yet across his weathered face, there was not the slightest trace of surprise or terror—only serene detachment.

He did not dodge, for he knew dodging was impossible. Just as Kaidene had been locked down earlier and could only trade wound for wound, Bosrova was now similarly locked in place; neither evasion nor parrying could alter the outcome.

Bosrova struck. He neither dodged nor blocked, but instead threw his entire weight backward!

The ambusher's sword pierced cleanly into the center of Bosrova's back. The blade punched through the rear armor plate and plunged straight through Bosrova's chest!

Yet despite landing a clean, lethal strike, none of the three assailants felt the slightest joy. In particular, the ambusher from behind didn't even have time to wrench his sword free before frantically trying to disengage and flee!

Unfortunately, they were all a beat too late.

With a crisp metallic chime, the knightly greatsword in Bosrova's hands suddenly split in two, transforming into a pair of razor-sharp rapiers!

The old marshal's technique had been peaceful and steady, but in this final instant, it became lethally vicious and venomous. The twin rapiers darted forward like the twin tongues of a viper.

Both the deep-red armor and the Iron Crusader were impaled straight through!

The former was pierced directly through the existing rupture beneath the ribs; had that wound not already existed, penetrating such formidable heavy armor would have been virtually impossible. As for the Iron Crusader, it was an inexpensive mass-produced model whose cast-steel plating offered no more resistance to Bosrova's enchanted rapier than stiff cardboard.

"Heh... hehe... Golem, you truly made me wait an eternity! Cough, cough!"

Bosrova burst into hearty laughter, though after a few chuckles, he began violently coughing up mouthfuls of dark blood.

"Ruthless... cough, cough... a dignified Glorious Knight stooping to mutual destruction..."

Though knowing he was dying, Kaidene felt no bitter resentment; his tone retained that half-joking, wry cadence.

"Had I known you came here to throw your life away, I never would have stepped out!" The pilot of the Iron Crusader was an inherently sinister and calculating figure; his voice trembled with furious resentment and indignation. He had intended to scavenge an easy kill, never imagining he would pay with his own life.

"Was doing this... cough, cough... truly worth it?" Kaidene asked. If he didn't know the answer, he would never rest in peace.

"Consider yourselves unlucky, hahaha..." Bosrova's mood was exceptionally bright. Throughout his life, he had lived under immense strain, burdened by too many responsibilities he could never lay down. But now, he felt an unprecedented, absolute lightness.

Following another bout of violent coughing, Bosrova continued softly, "I... made a bet with someone... and I lost."

"Wagering your own life... cough, cough... and dragging us down with you..." Kaidene was utterly speechless.

"Who was that person?" the pilot of the Iron Crusader demanded through gritted teeth.

"My... grand-disciple," Bosrova murmured, his voice fading to a whisper.

The dark-purple armor ceased all movement, its two arms dangling limply.

The deep-red armor remained half-kneeling on the bloodied ground, while the Iron Crusader slumped in a crouch, its occupant no longer capable of maintaining balance and forced to prop himself up with his armored arms.

"That... fellow had a grand-disciple?" Golem asked hoarsely.

"Never... heard of one," Kaidene replied, struggling to tilt his head up to gaze at his disciple.

Anderson's mind was in utter turmoil. He desperately wanted to examine his master's injuries, but from the fatal location of the wound, he knew his master was beyond saving, merely clinging to his final breath through sheer willpower.

Prompted by his master's question, Anderson managed to pull his scattered thoughts together. He wanted to satisfy his master's dying curiosity, but in his memory, Bosrova had never even taken a direct disciple, let alone a grand-disciple.

"Bosrova had a daughter, and I had the fortune of meeting her once; she too was an exceptional genius. He had two brothers and a younger sister, but among his nieces and nephews, none showed extraordinary talent aside from his daughter. Among his grand-nephews, there was a youth who was quite capable..."

As he spoke, Anderson's heart suddenly jolted. He remembered another youth—the boy who had taken a direct strike from him and walked away completely unharmed, the boy who had boldly infiltrated his garrisoned camp and conversed with him candidly beneath the moonlight.

Back then, he had felt that this youth would inevitably become a renowned figure one day, yet he had never imagined that day would arrive so swiftly. Having attained the rank of Quasi-Glorious, Anderson was already celebrated and accomplished, yet compared to that youth, he fell far short.

Designer of the 'Dragon', inventor of flight technology, the youngest grandmaster in recorded history—any single title was a summit Anderson could barely glimpse.

Anderson suddenly felt that fate had inextricably bound him to that youth.

When he had led his legion to ambush the Red Valley back then, his original objective had been to sweep aside the Haigart Legion, their greatest obstacle. Never could he have foreseen that the operation would expose Monstoke's secret possession of flight technology. Only afterward did he learn that the figure who had spotted them from the sky and doomed the ambush had been that very same youth.

That had been their second indirect contest; though Anderson had only launched a single mental spike, it had been enough to demonstrate that youth's terrifying resilience.

"I have thought of someone. That person shouldn't strictly be considered Bosrova's grand-disciple; Bosrova's daughter merely taught him basic martial arts, and mostly just the fundamentals. That person relied entirely on his own exploration to forge a bizarre repertoire of skills. His current fame likely surpasses even Bosrova's. If he is the grand-disciple Bosrova referred to, Bosrova was merely flattering himself."

Anderson didn't need to elaborate further. As supreme commander of the front, his master was intimately familiar with every prominent figure in Monstoke.

"So it was him," Kaidene murmured. Given his high status, he had access to top-secret intelligence and naturally knew far more than Anderson. While the private promise between Bosrova and Richie was known only to the two of them, the complicated history between Bosrova and Richie was widely known.

With a heavy crash, the Iron Crusader collapsed flat onto the earth. Golem having held on until now was already a miraculous feat.

"Anderson... promise me... take good care of Michelle."

Seeing Golem fall, Kaidene felt his own life force rapidly ebbing away. At this final moment, his only lingering concern was his precious daughter.

In a patriarchy like Varedin, for a woman—especially a strikingly beautiful woman—to avoid exploitation, she had to possess an unshakeable protector. While he lived, no one dared lay a finger on his daughter; once he was gone, there were no guarantees. Fortunately, he had Anderson.

Anderson was not a disciple he had nurtured from childhood. He had first met Anderson five years ago, when the young man was already at the pinnacle of the Honor rank. Because Anderson had trained through solitary self-exploration without elite guidance, he had been trapped at the bottleneck of advancement, unable to breach the threshold.

The old man suddenly recalled their first meeting. His appreciation for Anderson had not been because of the youth's raw talent, nor because he worked harder than others. The reason, when spoken aloud, seemed almost comical: he admired Anderson's reverence for tradition.

In an era governed solely by raw power, knightly traditions and virtues had been increasingly forgotten. Anyone who stubbornly adhered to them was regarded as a fool.

Suddenly, Kaidene felt he would not be lonely on the road to the afterlife; at the very least, he had Bosrova for company. That man, like himself, was an anachronism—a knight of tradition. They would likely have much to talk about.

As for Golem, he was the exact opposite archetype: cold, calculating, devoid of any honor befitting a Glorious Knight, resorting to any underhanded means for victory, only to be struck down by Bosrova with his own medicine. If those two crossed paths on the road to the netherworld, they might well start brawling again.

When that happened, whose side should he take?

Kaidene felt a twinge of amusement at the thought. Yet one thing was certain: he would never be lonely.