Chapter Zero - The Earl's Son

When we look back at history, we often realize that even the wisest leaders can have moments of poor judgment, overwhelmed by the relentless flow of events.

Imperial Annals, Volume 35, Record 7: Reflections on the Era of Gideon

It was a summer afternoon, the sun blazing with relentless heat. At the docks, preparing for the upcoming triumphal ceremony, scores of Imperial Guard soldiers, clad in bright red armor, had crowded around Pier One, creating an impenetrable barrier.

Just a hundred steps away from the dock's perimeter, the exhausted soldiers of the Imperial Capital Police were struggling to maintain order. Their uniforms were torn, their shiny shoulder epaulets ripped off, their hats pulled away, and their boots trodden into the dirt.

The thousand officers tasked with keeping order at the dock's outer perimeter were overwhelmed by the fifty thousand enthusiastic citizens of the capital who had gathered to witness the spectacle.

The crowd was electric with excitement, armed with flowers, cheers, applause—and even the occasional adoring glance. Some young women had prepared kisses, and a few had even come ready to offer more than that. In this storm of emotion, the thousand police officers felt like a small, leaky boat in a vast ocean, in danger of being capsized at any moment.

They envied the Imperial Guard soldiers inside the perimeter, who stood in neat formations, showing off their newly issued, gleaming armor and weapons, completely insulated from the danger of having their faces clawed by an overenthusiastic onlooker.

The grandeur of this triumphal ceremony had been ordered by the great Emperor Augustus VI, who had demanded that the Lungchang Grand Canal be widened by half along its stretch leading to the capital. To achieve this, ten thousand canal workers had labored for half a year, costing the Imperial Treasury three hundred thousand gold coins.

The purpose of this immense expenditure was merely to allow the flagship of the "Imperial Sixth Expeditionary Fleet," the Danton, to sail smoothly through the canal and into the Eastern Port of the capital, where it would be greeted by the cheers of the crowd. The goal was to display the might of the empire.

No one stopped to consider whether such a display was worth the cost.

The previous Imperial Finance Minister, who had strongly opposed the expense, had been dismissed in a fury by His Imperial Majesty and sent to his estate to enjoy the leisure of retirement. His successor had no choice but to brainstorm ways to squeeze the funds out of the Imperial budget, all to satisfy the "foolishly ambitions old man."

Of course, the term "foolishly ambitious old man" was something the Finance Minister would keep buried deep within his heart, deeper and deeper.

As the afternoon sun glistened off the wide waters of the canal, the first faint outline of a sail appeared on the horizon. The crowd began to cheer, barely able to contain their excitement.

As the Danton, a Warship over two hundred paces in length, slowly approached the port, its towering, imposing silhouette left the assembled citizens of the capital in awe.

The Danton, flagship of the Imperial Sixth Expeditionary Fleet, was the pride of the Imperial Navy and its largest warship ever. Refurbished and repainted in a color so dark it seemed to absorb the light, the ship now bore a fearsome appearance. As it drew closer, the large, thorny imperial banner flying from its mast swayed in the breeze.

When the anchor was dropped, the crowd erupted into a frenzy. Hats flew into the air, shoes were trampled, and legs were injured in the crush. The exhausted police officers could do little but try to tighten the cordon, over and over.

Earl Raymond, the commander of the expeditionary fleet, stood on the ship's bow, his gaze impassive as he looked out upon the cheering crowd.

At thirty-nine, Raymond was an Imperial First-Class General and Earl. He stood in full dress uniform, a lightweight cuirass covering his body, a red cloak billowing behind him in the wind. His chest bore two medals, awarded during his previous two expeditions. There was no doubt he would receive a third upon his return.

His gaze was unfocused, as if he wasn't truly seeing the crowd before him. A closer look would have revealed a subtle furrow in his brow, as if he were annoyed.

ovah, this armor is too heavy and completely impractical.

Raymond did not believe that a naval officer should need such heavy armor for combat at sea. That was for the infantry. As for decorations like these medals, in his mind, they were as tacky as a nouveau riche flaunting his wealth. Real nobles didn't engage in such displays—they were beneath him. Such ostentation felt undignified.

And the crowd… their voices were too loud, their cheers like crashing waves against his already fraying patience.

The sun beat down relentlessly as the Danton drew closer, and the crowd roared ever louder.

Raymond's expression remained impassive, but his thoughts were far from serene.

Damn it, this armor is too heavy.

The cannons on the Danton boomed as the ship docking lines were secured.

The crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch as the ship came to rest.

Raymond stood there, his medals glinting dully in the sunlight.

The Danton was the heart of the fleet, a symbol of Imperial might, a beacon of the empire's strength.

But to Raymond, it was nothing but a floating steel box, filled with men who had survived the horrors of battle—and the ones who hadn't.

As the gangplank was lowered, Raymond turned and began to walk toward the officers' quarters, his boots echoing on the ship's deck.

His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions.

He was a hero, the empire's latest success story. But in his heart, he felt nothing but emptiness.

The victory had been Pyrrhic, a costly reminder of how little control he truly had.

And now, he would have to face the emperor, who would undoubtedly heap praises upon him, oblivious to the fact that Raymond had just lost half his command.

As he walked, he could feel the weight of the medals against his chest, a constant reminder of his achievements—and the debt he owed.

Raymond stopped suddenly, his hand instinctively reaching for the medals.

But he did not remove them.

Instead, he clenched his fist, his knuckles whitening.

Then, he turned and began walking again, each step heavier than the last.

The sun continued to shine, indifferent to the turmoil within.

Raymond, Earl of the Empire, stood at the helm of his ship, a symbol of power and victory.

But to him, it all felt hollow.

The Danton would soon berth at the Eastern Port, its black hull gleaming in the sunlight.

But for Raymond, the journey was only beginning.

Raymond glanced absently at the deck beneath his feet.

The Danton had been freshly painted three days prior in anticipation of the day's festivities. The bloodstains from the battles had been scrubbed away, and the planks that had been (for over eighty men).

But that wasn't the worst of it. The ship's ram, the jagged metal protrusion at the bow that was meant to smash through enemy hulls, had been replaced with a statue. The likeness of Emperor Augustus VI, no less. And if the rumors were correct, it had been crafted by one of the empire's most renowned sculptors—just in time for the celebration.

The navy had paid an additional 10,000 gold coins for this masterpiece.

"Glory, indeed," Raymond muttered under his breath. The statue might look impressive, but in a real battle, it would crumble on the first clash. A simple sharpened log would have been more effective.

But the insult wasn't just the wasteful expense or the ludicrous decoration. It was the sending of these so-called "expeditions" to the southern seas that he found fundamentally absurd.

For decades, the empire had been sending fleets to the "southern barbarians."

True, the region was rich in resources: gold, gemstones, spices, rare woods, strange plants, andتقدمهunken tribes that clung to their ancient ways. But calling these missions "expeditions" was a stretch.

It was plunder. It was murder. It was piracy. It was war.

Raymond didn't see the irony in his actions. The weak deserved to suffer at the hands of the strong. But what irked him was the empire's strategy. These expeditions had become far too frequent, and their yields were dwindling.

In the early days, the imperial navy had toчисinternational/ocean waves. Ships laden with treasure would return, and the empire would be awed. But the southern seas weren't endless. Overharvesting had driven many native tribes to extinction. The fleets now had to travel further, braving更 perilous waters, unpredictable storms, treacherous currents, and deadly reefs.

The result was clear: each expedition returned with less than the last.

But the celebrations only grew more lavish.

Raymond had led the most recent three expeditions. His reputation in the south was fearsome. To the natives, he was a monster: a raider, a butcher, a destroyer of villages. But Raymond didn't care.

What troubled him was that the natives were no longer so easy to defeat. Recent reports suggested that the southern tribes had even formed alliances to resist the empire's endless ambitions.

Fortunately, such problems were no longer his burden. This was his final expedition. He would return to the capital, secure a prominent position in the imperial war council, and eventually rise to the rank of War Minister, thanks to his family's influence. If he were lucky, he might even fulfill a lifelong fantas Реч:, becoming Chancellor in his old age.

Expeditions could remain the headache of his successor.

Even if those savages had somehow developed the technology for primitive siege engines, it was no longer Raymond's concern.

The deafening cheers of the crowd continued. Raymond descended the gangplank, his boots finally touching the soil of the capital.

He raised a hand in acknowledgment of the crowd's cheers, but the gesture felt as insincere as flicking away a bothersome fly.

First, a court official came aboard to read the emperor's commendation. Raymond would meet with Augustus in the morning, and the decorations would follow.

All as expected. His political prospects were brighter than ever.

But before he could fully savor the moment, a shadow fell over him.

A servant in plainclothes approached, his face somber. He whispered a single sentence into Raymond's ear.

The earl's face paled.

The news was from home.

Raymond hadn't seen his family in over three years, and the sea had kept him isolated. He didn't even know the gender of the child his wife was carrying when he left.

The message brought hope and despair in equal measure:

It was a boy.

But he was mentally deficient, a living mockery of Raymond's hopes.

The news struck Raymond with the force of a tidal wave.

It was almost enough to bring him to his knees.

Almost.

But even among the crowd, the tension in Raymond's demeanor was evident. His face darkened, his posture stiffened, and his eyes narrowed, as if the weight of the world had suddenly crushed down upon his shoulders.

For Raymond, the victory had been hollow from the start. But this… This was unbearable.

The crowd roared, unaware of the storm brewing behind the earl's impassive expression.

Raymond's mind was a battle of rage, despair, and the cold calculation of a survivor.

Somewhere far off, the cannons of the Danton boomed one last time, signaling the end of the voyage.

But for Raymond, the journey ahead would be the hardest one yet.