Chapter 1408 - 1322: At the Negotiation Table

Chapter 1408: Chapter 1322: At the Negotiation Table

The white-stone Great Cathedral outside Changge City, its dome soaring into the clouds.

Before the altar, mottled sunset light filters through stained glass, falling across the long negotiation table, casting the faces of both delegations half in light, half in shadow.

Armand tapped his fingertips against the tabletop, the wooden table giving a dull thud.

He wore the Holy Alliance’s standard navy-blue uniform, a sun-gear badge pinned at his collar, his expression hovering between a smile and a sneer: "We’ve already backed down once—five years cut to three.

Three years, the prisoners released in three batches, each batch twelve months apart.

Our only condition is a ceasefire for these three years. That’s an extremely generous offer."

Sitting opposite him, the Royal Court’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Malebaz, let out a derisive snort: "His Excellency Armand, are you joking? Our Royal Court’s army numbers in the millions, you think we care about fifty thousand?"

"That’s just because your Eternal Lord is merciful, treats souls like currency—fifty thousand vampires, just tossed away like that."

"My Lord is merciful, but He will not be coerced! Your empire is already festering and rotten, our Royal Court came to save you, and instead of being grateful you insist on fighting back!"

"Treating your own subjects’ lives as nothing—this is what you call mercy?"

Malebaz gave a cold laugh. "We were already capable of winning outright. If we drag this out for another three years, what if we lose?

Using your Holy Alliance’s football as an example, who blows the whistle to pause the match right at the instant of shooting at goal?

At most we’ll commit to a prisoner exchange, and the warriors of the Royal Court trapped out there need supplies—fresh human blood. That’s our bottom line."

"Human blood?" Mitney raised a brow, his tone dripping sarcasm. "How about chicken blood? Still insisting on human blood."

As soon as he said this, the Holy Alliance’s delegates all broke into low chuckles.

Busak, choking back his laughter, added, "If you don’t like chicken blood, we’ve got pig blood too. Speaking of pig-blood tofu, that’s a famous dish in the Holy Alliance. You are what you eat, after all."

"Insolent!" A squat, burly vampire officer of the Brache clan from the Royal Court slammed his palm onto the table and shot to his feet. "You’re insulting the Royal Court!"

Armand’s face darkened; he rose as well, pressing his hand to the edge of the table: "Insulting? His Excellency Malebaz is demanding human blood—doesn’t that mean treating humans as livestock?

The Holy Alliance agreeing to provide clean poultry and beast blood is already our greatest concession.

Among those trapped vampires, how many are unforgivable war criminals? The Holy Alliance hasn’t demanded your territory in ransom—that’s mercy enough."

"Mercy?" Malebaz sneered. "Let’s drop the pretence. The Holy Alliance just wants to nibble away at the lands in the Roaring Corridor, and you call that mercy? That Saint’s Grandson of yours is the real little grandson."

"You dare say that?!" Busak slammed the table and stood up. "Then why would Serafe insist on preserving his travel experience in Black Snake Bay..."

Those two lines were both skirting the edge of outright insult.

The two sides blew up on the spot, the scraping of chairs dragged across the floor erupting one after another.

On the Holy Alliance’s side, they denounced the Royal Court as brutal and bloodthirsty; across from them, the Royal Court railed that the Holy Alliance was hypocritical and expansionist. Filth-laden curses ricocheted around the cathedral, drowning out the wind outside the windows.

After several rounds of mutual abuse, Malebaz’s face had gone corpse-white with rage. He pointed at Armand’s nose: "The Holy Alliance has no sincere intent for peace talks at all. I’ll make sure the entire empire knows it!"

Armand stared him down without flinching: "Then we’ll see about that."

The negotiation broke up in discord. Malebaz stormed out of the cathedral with his entourage.

Once he was in the carriage, the anger slowly faded from his face, replaced by a confident, triumphant smile.

He took a bank draft from inside his coat and handed it to the Attendant beside him: "As we agreed, deliver the article to the editors of The Imperial Courier and Chronicles of Falan."

The Attendant bowed in assent. Malebaz leaned back against the carriage’s soft cushions, his fingertips idly caressing the window frame.

In his mind, the front-page headlines were already taking shape—

"Holy Alliance’s False Peace Talks, True Aim Is Bear Castle Territory—All Faithful Citizens Reduced to Bargaining Chips"

"The Hypocrisy of Peace: Holy Alliance Uses Negotiations to Stall for Time, Expansionist Ambitions Laid Bare."

As soon as these reports spread, Falan’s old nobility would grow restless, Norn’s neutral bloc would waver, and even the doves within the Holy Alliance would apply pressure.

By then, Armand and the others would be scrambling, forced to concede at the negotiating table.

With that thought, Malebaz couldn’t help a small laugh.

If this round of talks achieved his objective, his standing in His Majesty Serafe’s eyes would soar.

He might even get promoted into the higher clans, move into a luxurious palace in Skull Throne City, and ascend to the pinnacle of life.

The thought alone was enough to make him a little excited.

Only, when Malebaz’s carriage pulled up at the square outside the vampire encampment, and he had just lifted the curtain, something warm and viscous smashed into his face.

"Pfft—" The stench of rotten eggs flooded the air in an instant. Yellow egg fluid streamed down his cheeks, soaking into his sumptuous scarlet robe.

Malebaz froze, instinctively wiping at his face, only to smear the reek even more thickly across his hand, bewildered.

Looking up, he saw the square was packed tight with vampires, many of them with families in tow, their faces full of anxiety and fury.

"Malebaz! You must bring our clansmen back!" A tall, skinny vampire lunged to the side of the carriage, both hands clamping hard around the rail. "My firstborn is trapped in Golden Soup Castle. He’s only eighty—he’s still just a child!"

"And my younger brother! He’s a warrior of the Silvaticus clan, you can’t let him die in there!" A female vampire cried hoarsely, her voice already raw.

Because vampires can hardly ever reproduce normally, most instead choose their family from clanless vampires at first embrace, elevating them to Blood Servants, and thus forming bonds no weaker than kin.

Now, even more vampires surged forward, begging and accusing in a din of voices.

Malebaz was just about to defend himself when he heard someone shout loudly: "Malebaz, collateral branch of the Manra clan!

Residence, Skull Throne City, West Street, Alley No. 3, of the Limacus family. Wife’s name is Lia Limacus, and three first-embraced sons!

If you don’t get the prisoners of war back, expect us to come to your door and settle accounts!"

At that, the vampires all fell silent for a brief instant—then the square erupted into an even bigger uproar.

Malebaz was shocked and enraged, feeling his blood almost freeze in his veins.

How had these private details been exposed?

He glared hard at the packed crowd of vampires, but whoever had spoken was buried among them; he couldn’t pick him out at all.

"Calm down!" Malebaz forced his panic down and raised his voice. "I am working on it. A ceasefire and the release of prisoners take time to negotiate. The Holy Alliance’s stance is hardline—this isn’t something that can be settled overnight!"

"Working on it? You’ve been ’working’ for half a month already!" The tall, skinny vampire from before roared.

"Exactly! We don’t care, we just want our clansmen back!"

The northern-clan vampires were growing more and more agitated. Many had started to hurl stones and rotten leaves at the carriage.

Malebaz hunched down inside, utterly dishevelled, his face drained of color.

Just then, laughter rolled over from the western side.

A group of vampires in lavish silk stood there with arms folded, watching the spectacle. They were the representatives of the southern clans.

"Look at them—that’s the northern clans for you, useless trash. They lose the war, get themselves trapped, and then drag everyone else down with them!" A southern-clan officer shouted mockingly. "Malebaz, I say you stop negotiating altogether, save them the embarrassment!"

"And what about our clansmen?" An elder from the northern clans glared at them. "You southerners sit back and enjoy the spoils, squatting on the fertile lands of the White Sand Fields, and now you dare talk down to us?"

"The White Sand Fields were won by us. What has that got to do with you?" The southern officer scoffed. "If you’ve got the guts, go rescue them yourselves. Don’t expect us to trade our territory for your prisoners."

The northern elder was shaking with rage. "Envoy Malebaz, we demand that the White Sand Fields be traded to bring our clansmen home."

The southern officer exploded, stepping forward to shove the elder hard: "Northern trash!"

That shove was the spark that lit the fuse.

The vampires of the northern and southern clans had long-standing grievances, and now they surged forward, grappling with each other.

Fists, fangs, and claws flew all at once. Roars, screams, and curses tangled together, and the square instantly turned into a chaotic battlefield.

Malebaz was swept up and jostled in the crush of bodies, stumbling this way and that, his ornate robe torn to rags, egg slime and dust smeared together across his face—abject humiliation.

He stared at the northern and southern clans pounding each other in a brawl, then at the prisoners’ families all around him, glaring, pleading, and threatening, and a wave of dizziness washed over him.