“Hurry! We must reach Prince Manfred immediately!”
Strang gripped the reins of his horse tightly and called to his subordinates, who rode behind him.
“Sir Strang! The horses are at their limit!”
“We’ll switch them for fresh ones along the way! Time is of the essence!”
Strang was confident about his meeting with Wein and had therefore assumed he’d be able to make his move. However, he was forced to switch strategies once reports of Bardloche’s gathered forces rolled in.
To think he’d act this fast…!
Reluctantly, Strang opted to pursue his minimum goal. He postponed the meeting and raced back to Manfred.
How much will the situation change during the time it takes for me to arrive?
Strang urged his steed onward as he fought back irritation.
“There aren’t nearly enough horses. Where can we get more?”
“We have connections, but regarding quality…”
“There’s no time to be picky. We need numbers.”
“Speaking of which, we can’t forget the foot soldiers. Gather as many as possible.”
Bardloche’s top brass had gathered in a meeting room to debate before the Second Prince. They were, to put it succinctly, eager and excited. The gloomy atmosphere brought on by their faction’s weakness had hovered over them for a while, but it had since vanished without a trace. That much was to be expected, however, for Bardloche’s forces would soon enter the final battle.
“…”
The Second Prince sat quietly. Past failures had chipped at his pride, but his dignified aura remained intact, lending him an air of invincibility.
“Prince Bardloche, we have safely procured the items you requested.”
A woman named Ibis approached him from the shadows. She was a merchant by trade, but in truth, she worked for Caldmellia, a powerful authority within the Teachings of Levetia.
“When will they arrive?”
“I believe everything will be ready when our soldiers are assembled.”
Ibis’s tone was polite, yet she harbored no respect for Bardloche. To her, the prince was only a pawn. Bardloche knew this and scoffed.
“Not that it matters. After all, you’re the one who instigated this showdown.”
This wasn’t the first time Bardloche’s faction had worked with Caldmellia’s subordinate, so he readily accepted Ibis despite her wicked intentions.
“I wouldn’t dare commit such an outrageous act,” she replied with a civil smile. “I merely proposed a strategy that would allow Your Highness the greatest chance of victory.”
Ibis had appeared several days ago and proclaimed, “Now is an opportune moment to step in and settle matters.”
According to Ibis, Bardloche’s military strength surpassed every other faction’s. The Second Prince trailed behind only because his methods were too chivalrous.
“You are free to set the approval of the people aside. Remove all who stand in your way through armed force, and once Your Highness is the only choice for Emperor, they will naturally submit. While you stand here wavering over whether to draw your sword, the other players use that time to their advantage,” she’d said.
It was to be a quick, decisive battle. The situation wouldn’t improve no matter how long Bardloche deliberated. Thus, he would rise to action, take down Lowellmina in the capital, then finish Manfred immediately afterward. Ibis would offer support every step of the way; such was the deal she had proposed.
It was an excessively violent option, but Bardloche’s top leaders accepted it with astonishingly little resistance. After the failed assassination, they suspected their more passive strategies were no longer viable. Everyone knew action was necessary.
The West’s support, under the guise of merchant aid, was a lifesaver. Its motives for aiding Bardloche’s faction remained a complete mystery, but the offer was sincere, and the prince saw no reason to question it. With this newfound help, Bardloche’s soldiers made ready for the final conflict.
“According to my subordinates, our sudden action has flustered Princess Lowellmina’s and Prince Manfred’s forces. We have the chance to strike first.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Bardloche was certain that seizing the initiative was a key factor. He would keep a tight grip on it and topple his two opponents. Faltering now would guarantee failure.
I know I’m at a disadvantage…but victory will still be mine!
Resolve filled the prince from head to toe as he awaited the coming battle.
Glen Markham’s family line had long been known for its military prowess. This didn’t change the fact that he and his kin were still low-ranking nobles. Their achievements were small when set against the greater tapestry of history. Nevertheless, Glen’s eyes had sparkled as a child when his parents spoke of their modest victories, and he was quite proud of his lineage. Perhaps it was unavoidable that Glen desired to take up the blade as well. He had the aptitude for it and learned true swordsmanship in the military academy.
But then, Glen hit a wall.
His progress stalled after mastering the art. No other swordsmen in the academy could spar against him, and his motivation plummeted.
More importantly, Glen plateaued because those around him—his parents, teachers, and friends—allowed it to happen.
He knew something had to be done; otherwise, he’d slowly decline and fall deeper into complacency. The man required a stricter environment.
That was when Glen met Wein and the others.
The outrageous arrogance shook him. The fearsome, quick wit that got away with everything. The sheer strength of it. Glen had never encountered such people, and Wein stood out most of all.
He’d heard rumors about a prominent trio, but upon meeting them, he realized there was obviously more to the three than met the eye. They provided the exact environment Glen had been hoping for.
Still, it hadn’t been without issues. Glen had foreseen a future where his newfound friendship caused his inner confidence and pride to crumble. Nevertheless, he’d known he needed to take that first step forward.
“Can I talk with you for a moment?”
Steeling himself, the young Glen had approached the three…
“…Phew.”
In the present, Glen Markham stood in a corner of the military grounds within Bardloche’s domain. Judging by the toned muscles of his exposed upper body and sweaty appearance as he cooled off in the fresh air, the man was nothing less than a robust warrior. Plenty of other soldiers trained around him, and the air was alive with endless shouts from all directions.
“Can we at least call them real soldiers now…?” Glen muttered as he observed the troops.