C63 The Grand Reclamation

"Those Lotharingian dogs have always had it out for us!"

He wasn't alone. Conversations crackled among the merchants, their voices a mixture of indignation and opportunity.

"With war on the horizon, iron and steel prices will surge,"

One weapons trader muttered, already making calculations in his head.

"It's time to increase production. The army will need guns and bullets, we'll make a fortune."

Another merchant, a textile producer, nodded in agreement.

"And uniforms. Boots. Bandages. War isn't just about weapons; it's about logistics. The Imperium will need us."

But not all were profiteers. Some saw only the weight of duty. A grocer stared at the headlines, his hands tightening around a sack of grain.

"War again... that means rationing. We'll have to prepare."

In the beating heart of the Imperium's industrial district, factory workers huddled around the latest printed reports, their faces alight with anticipation.

"Time to buy more war bonds,"

One muttered, adjusting his cap.

"Last war, I cashed mine out and got a new house for the wife and kids."

His companion, a burly man with grease stained hands, nodded.

"Aye, and with industry booming, there's plenty of work to go around. The Imperium takes care of its own."

The ever growing and evolving war economy was a well oiled machine, crafted to sustain and thrive on perpetual conflict.

Weapons manufacturers ramped up production, steel refineries burned hotter than ever, and the shipyards bustled with activity.

Engineers rushed to develop more efficient artillery, strategists met in hidden rooms to discuss battle plans, and mechanics fine tuned the engines of war machines that would soon roll onto the battlefield.

"We got new orders today,"

A foreman shouted over the clang of metal.

"The Imperium needs more panzers. You all know what that means! Overtime pay!"

A cheer erupted from the workers. For many, war meant prosperity.

Outside the military recruitment offices, lines stretched down the streets as young men that turned eighteen just today or a few days earlier and had missed the last war eagerly enlisted, lured by patriotic fervor and the promise of glory.

"Think we'll see action fast?"

One young recruit asked his companion.

"With how things are going? We'll probably be marching before the month is out."

Officers oversaw the enlistment process, watching with satisfaction as men signed their names and pledged their lives.

They knew that not all of these recruits would return. But the Imperium needed warriors, and the machine never stopped.

Not all cheered for war. Behind closed doors, mothers wept as their sons eagerly signed up. Wives kissed their husbands goodbye, knowing they might never return. Children clutched their fathers' hands, not fully understanding what was to come.

"Be brave, my daughter, the blood of kronos the father of the g*ds himself runs In youre veins"

One father told his daughter, kneeling before her.

"When I come back, I'll bring you something special."

"Promise?"

She whispered, her eyes wide.

"Promise."

Meanwhile, in the grand halls of the national Imperial bank under the managment of Imperator himself, financiers and industrial magnates clinked glasses filled with the finest wine, toasting to the coming war.

"Another campaign, another golden age for industry,"

One of them mused, swirling the deep crimson liquid in his glass.

"And the best part? The people want it. They believe in it."

Indeed, they did. The first Imperator had not only built an empire made for a single purpose, it had crafted a culture where war was not a burden but an opportunity and the current Imperator reborn was reviving that as they spoke.

War bonds sold faster than ever. Those who had invested in previous conflicts saw their fortunes multiply. The war machine fed itself.

A senator leaned back in his chair, watching the reports pour in.

"The people want blood,"

He murmured.

"We need only give them a direction."

The pr*p*g*nda machine had done its job well. Children marched in the streets, waving banners. Poets composed patriotic verses. Teachers drilled their students on the righteousness of the war.

"The Lotharingians have spat on our honor for too long!"

One street preacher from the pantheon proclaimed, his voice rising above the crowd.

"We must act! We must defend our Imperium!"

And the people roared in agreement. As April 6 came to a close, the Imperium stood on the precipice of war.

The gears of industry turned, the hearts of soldiers burned with anticipation, and the voices of the masses cried for battle.

War was no longer a possibility. It was an inevitability. The war machine was set into motion once again.

...

April 7.

The Imperial Embassy stood as a monument to power, a grand structure that loomed over the Nova Romas diplomatic quarter.

Its towering marble columns and Imperial banners glowed under the evening lights, a silent declaration of the Imperator's authority. But inside, within its opulent halls, not all was well.

Ambassador Wilhelm of Gunderian empire sat stiffly in one of the embassy's many lavish rooms, fingers drumming against the polished oak table.

Across from him, Ambassador Ivan of Polaris empire sipped his vodka with deliberate smugness, enjoying Wilhelm's barely concealed frustration.

The air between them was tense, thick with the unspoken truths that neither dared voice aloud.

"I see your generous donation of 360 panzers to the Imperator is being put to good use,"

Ivan drawled, his accent rolling over the words like a knife slowly carving into Wilhelm's patience. "Quite the investment, no?"

Wilhelm's jaw tightened.

"The donation,"

He said carefully.

"Was a strategic move. You wouldn't understand strategy, given your track record."

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

"At least he did not lose a drinking contest to an old polaris dog and agree to an unprofitable trade deal while half conscious."

Hearing this Ivans face stiffened while Wilhelm's lips curled into a smug smile.

"Ah, but a deal is a deal, no? Your emperor can grit his teeth all he wants, but he still had to agree. That must burn worse than the vodka you drink."

Ivan clenched his fist around the glass. He had no response. Polaris had been forced into a trade agreement they didn't want, thanks to his own drunken bravado.

His emperor had barely contained his fury, but pride had kept him from reneging on the deal. The shame still lingered.

Wilhelm chuckled.

"Perhaps next time, you should stick to something lighter. Maybe a fruit juice?"

Ivan exhaled sharply through his nose but said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention back to the larger problem at hand, the Imperator.

"This madman is tearing apart everything we planned,"

Ivan muttered, rubbing his temple.

"By the time were ready to carve up Hellenum Dominion the f*cker will have reunified the Spartanum Imperium"

Wilhelm's eyes darkened.

"Yes. And yet here we are. While we sit in the shadows, forced to watch, he moves like a storm, unchecked and unchallenged."

"And what do youre glorious ruler say?"

Ivan asked bitterly.

"That we wait?"

Wilhelm sighed.

"That we watch. Because the moment we act, the other superpowers will pounce on us like wolves. They want us to move first. So for now, we are leashed."

Ivan slammed his glass down.

"It is maddening."

Wilhelm nodded.

"Agreed. But for now, we must let the Imperator play. He may be winning his game for the moment… but we will have our turn."

Silence settled between them as they brooded over the game of power, the game they were forced to sit out for now because they were still not ready to tear up their faces.

...

King Alaric IV of the Black Sun Kingdom sat upon his obsidian throne, his piercing gaze fixed on the intelligence report laid before him.

The dim candlelight from chandeleir of the royal chamber flickered against the dark stone walls, casting long shadows that mirrored the weight of the news he had just received.

"So,"

The king murmured, tapping a finger against the parchment.

"The madman that calls himself the Imperator moves yet again."

Across from him, Foreign Minister Reginald Falkner stood stiffly, his brow creased with concern. "Yes, Your Majesty. The Greater Spartanum Ducatum's actions have been swift and decisive. Lotharingia is growing desperate. Their ambassador has formally requested our support."

Alaric let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"Desperate men make poor allies. Tell me, Falkner, what exactly do they expect us to do?"

Falkner cleared his throat.

"They seek military aid, Your Majesty. Armaments, supplies, and perhaps, should the situation escalate, direct intervention. They believe that with enough backing, they can slow the reemerging Imperium's advance."

The king leaned back in his throne, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

"And you believe this? That they can stop the man that made Teutonica capitulate In mere three days?"

The Foreign Minister hesitated before answering carefully.

"It is unlikely. The Imperium has already woven a perfect narrative for war. Their people are rallying behind the cause, industry is booming, and their war machine is in motion. Even if Lotharingia fights back with everything they have, they will be overrun within months."