The twilight, like a blood-stained shroud, hung heavy over the ruins. Far from the fields of Karelia, the Imperial Army's encampments spread for ten miles along both sides of the thoroughfare, like white cones. Smoke from cooking fires mingled with the stench of soldiers' sweat, swirling in the evening breeze. In the distance, the silhouette of the broken city walls was grim, and the Imperial eagle banners planted on the battlements were merely a blurred dark red in the fading light. The main army arrived at dusk, but not a single soldier dared set foot in the dead city, as if the bloody miasma within could corrode their armor.
Passing the mass grave outside the city, many soldiers couldn't help but vomit. Even ten-year veterans, who had experienced bloody battles, had to turn their heads away when witnessing the gruesome sight of the corpse pit.
The stench of blood and rotting flesh could be smelled from ten miles away, forcing General Duran to move the camp a few more miles outward.
The candlelight in the central command tent flickered erratically in the wind, and General Duran's knuckles tapped a dull beat on the edge of the sand table. On the map, the borders of the Kingdom of Valentia were circled in red. The location of Karelia was filled with pieces representing legions, extending down the Serren Avenue. However, the spot for Italica City was empty, meaning the Imperial Army was completely unaware before engaging the enemy.
Duran shifted his gaze from the map, only to see dukes reveling in drinking and merrymaking, with none of the solemnity befitting a military conference. Duke Ligier had even summoned courtesans, their crests on their armor gleaming slickly in the candlelight.
"Has Herman not arrived yet?" Duran's voice was choked, like grinding gravel.
The tent flap was thrown open with a 'hua la' sound, and Herman burst in, reeking of alcohol. His cloak was askew on his shoulder, and the scent of perfume still clung to his collar, indicating he'd just crawled out of some woman's tent. "My apologies, my apologies, for keeping the dukes waiting." He greeted them lazily, showing no regard for military discipline.
"Why are you only arriving now? Where have you been?" Duran looked up sharply, the candlelight exploding into sparks in his pupils.
Herman let out a scoff, reaching out to straighten his crooked cloak. "It's just being late, isn't it? The General didn't attend the welcoming banquet I specially arranged for everyone, and he's afraid to even enter the city. We're even, at best." He deliberately emphasized the word 'specially,' his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords, a hint of disdain in his eyes—he was a distant relative of the Emperor, tasked with securing the first great victory this time, and truly didn't care for anyone present.
"Entering the city?" Duran's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. "Is the 'city' you speak of a ruin filled with blood and empty of people?"
The air in the tent froze. Herman's respectful smile vanished, his hypocritical mask torn off as he confronted Duran directly. "What's wrong with killing everyone? Isn't war just a game of slaughter? We are the Imperial Army, a killing machine! What's the problem with killing all those who are not our subjects? Didn't the vanguard capture the city in a day, beheading generals and seizing flags? Isn't that a great merit? His Majesty has long said to kill all who resist. Do you intend to defy his decree?"
"Defy the decree?" Duran's voice suddenly rose, making the candlelight flicker. "His Majesty wants the land and wealth of Valentia, not a dead city! By slaughtering the entire city, do you want to let all subsequent city-states know that 'surrender means death,' forcing them to fight us desperately?"
Herman retorted, his neck stiffened. "So what? I'm afraid they won't resist. It's no fun fighting a passive enemy."
"Well said!" Duke Ligier applauded, pushing away the beauty in his arms. "In times of chaos, only iron and blood can make people submit. Lord Herman's act of breaking the city and establishing prestige was correct. I imagine the current Italica City is in turmoil hearing the news from Karelia. With the might of our allied forces, it will be taken without effort."
Other dukes chimed in, some covering their laughter with wine cups, others feigning flattery—everyone knew Duran was on bad terms with the royal family, and Herman had the imperial clan status as his backing. This dispute was merely an amusing spectacle of the Imperial Army's internal strife.
Duran's ascent to the position of Supreme Commander was entirely the result of the Senate's strenuous efforts. When His Majesty proposed conquering Valentia, the Senate had strongly opposed it. However, unable to resist the military's desire for meritorious service, the young nobles' ambition for advancement, and the state treasury's urgent need for funds due to extravagant spending, the Senate reluctantly agreed to dispatch troops, but only on the condition that the veteran Duran be appointed Supreme Commander.
Frankly, this was also a power struggle within the Empire. Duran belonged to the Senate faction, while Herman belonged to the royal faction. This was why the dukes of the vassal states sat back and watched their predicament with amusement.
Duran stared fixedly at Ligier, his chest heaving. He remembered the corpse of Grey on the gate of Karelia City, the children strung together with chains, and a metallic sweetness rose in his throat. He wanted to say, "Fear will turn into a knife, and eventually stab ourselves in the heart," and, "True conquest is making the other party willingly offer their land, rather than forcing them to resist with crude weapons." But looking at the greedy or indifferent faces in the tent, all his words were choked in his throat.
After a moment of silence, he released his sword hilt, his voice as cold as ice. "Since Lord Herman is skilled at 'establishing prestige,' the vanguard for the next attack on Italica will still be the vanguard unit."
Herman was taken aback, then broke into a smug smile—he really was afraid of his imperial status! He straightened his back. "You should have said so earlier! Since the military council has made its decision, I will take my leave. The vanguard will set off tomorrow morning! I'll have to trouble you all to clear the way."
Herman exited with a hearty laugh, but the dukes inside the tent erupted in an uproar. "Why?" a red-faced duke slammed the table. "It's bad enough he snatched the first merit, but he gets the subsequent merits too? Are our vassal armies just here to do the grunt work?"
"Exactly! The spoils of war should be distributed according to merit. If he snatches the initiative again, will we be left to drink the north wind?"
Duran raised his hand to stop the commotion, his gaze sweeping over everyone, finally settling on the blank space for Italica City. "Military orders are like mountains. There is a reason for this arrangement."
The words 'military orders are like mountains' struck the water like a giant rock, stirring not obedience but deeper suspicion. The dukes exchanged glances. Duke Ligier watched Duran leave the military tent, a faint, cold smile curling his lips. The wind outside the tent rustled through the grass and swept past the tent, making a sobbing sound, as if playing an inauspicious prelude to this outwardly harmonious, yet inwardly discordant, military conference.
***
In the dead of night, the people of Italica lived in fear. No one knew their fate, only weeping in the darkness.
The lord's castle's conference hall was brightly lit, the candlelight reflecting on the tense face of Count Formar—Oleks. His fingertips tapped on the city defense map on the table, the gleaming iron armor reflecting everyone's faces.
"I knew the Empire's greed long ago. How can a mere piece of paper (non-aggression pact) restrain this mad beast?" He looked up at everyone, his tone carrying the directness characteristic of a warrior.
"But that also represents national credibility. Has the Empire no shame?" The elderly retainer sighed, but the young official disagreed. "It's not the first time they've torn up treaties. Only fools believe in the Empire's credibility." "Silence!" "What business does a young child have interfering in military council matters!" The hall devolved into chaos, resembling the clamor of a morning market.
"Enough!" The Count roared, and the hall's clamor seemed to vanish as if it had never occurred. Only the crackling of the bonfire could be heard. "I called you here for ideas, not for you to quarrel."
"Father!" Casper, the Count's eldest son and the heir to the territory, was 19 years old this year. If nothing unexpected happened, the Count would pass on the position of family head to him in a couple of years. He stood up abruptly, the clashing of his armor remarkably loud.
"What do you want to say?"
"I've already sent out scouts to reconnoiter the enemy situation, but it will take time for the news to return. We can't just wait during this period."
Oleks grunted, turning his gaze to his second son. "Linus, what about your side?"
Linus, the Count's second son, was 17 years old this year. When he stood up, his clothes made of high-quality fabric were particularly eye-catching, forming a stark contrast with his elder brother's armor. "Father, I've sifted through the refugees and selected one who is lucid and speaks relatively coherently. He is waiting outside the hall right now."
"Bring him in," Oleks's voice was decisive.
When Amir recounted, "The messenger with an arrow in his back collapsed right at my doorstep," and, "Thick smoke was rising from the direction of Karelia City," the candlelight in the conference hall seemed to grow a few degrees colder. Captain of the cavalry, Bruno, clenched his fist fiercely, Sergeant Heinreich's expression was somewhat moved, and even Captain of the Royal Guard, Ralph, looked frightened at this moment.
"Even... even the walls of Karelia couldn't hold?" a young retainer murmured. Others chimed in, "Indeed, without at least a hundred thousand troops, how could it be taken so easily."
Amir thought everyone didn't believe him and almost burst into tears, "They held for a day and a night... in the end, it was truly a fight to the death with the city..."
Oleks suddenly slammed the table, the sound of armor collision making the candlelight jump. "These beasts of the Empire!" He stood up, the beast patterns on his pauldrons seeming to writhe and claw in the firelight. "Karelia was caught off guard. We are prepared!"
Casper immediately followed up, "Let the refugee continue. How did you escape? Did the Imperial Army not pursue you?"
Amir wiped away his tears, his voice hoarse. "After hearing the news, we fled overnight. We were intercepted by bandits halfway. We all thought we were dead for sure... Suddenly, an Iron Giant appeared, as tall as the city gate, and split the bandits in two with a single sword!"
"Iron Giant?" Captain of the cavalry Valerius scoffed. "Boy, have you lost your mind from fright?"
"It's true!" Amir exclaimed. "He also had a staff that shot fire. The bandits were blown into blood mist, even their horses were blown to pieces!"
"Is it really that powerful?" Casper began to doubt if Amir was delirious and speaking nonsense.
"He saved us, set up a camp for us, and even helped bury the dead... But who would have thought that the person inside was actually human."
"A human inside?" Heinreich started to feel uneasy. "A human-controlled Iron Giant? This is unheard of."
"If it truly exists, it would be a revolutionary weapon," Casper's eyes were sharp; he clearly understood the role of mecha in warfare.
The conference hall immediately devolved into an argument. Some said Amir was crazy, others speculated it might be some kind of siege weapon. Only Oleks remained silent, his fingertip drawing a circle on the map. That spot was the location of an ancient ruin—Mount Olympus.
"Enough!"
With a dull thud, Posses slammed her jade-like hand onto the table. She was the Count's youngest daughter, 16 years old, with beautiful golden hair. Two locks of curly hair hung down from both sides of her temples, a style known as French rolls. Her beauty was comparable to her second brother's.
However, judging by the force of her hand slapping the table, Posses was not as delicate as her appearance suggested. Her shoulders beneath the steel armor were held perfectly straight. "Whether it's true or not, won't we know if we go see?"
"We can go," Bruno frowned, "but who should we send?" His implication was that merely sending someone to confirm the truth wasn't enough; they needed someone who could communicate effectively.
"If he is truly that powerful, we must recruit him to our side." Posses's almond-shaped eyes shone with astonishing brilliance. "I'll take the Yellow Rose. With light cavalry and fast horses, we can make a round trip in a day. Didn't the refugee say he knew the man in the iron armor? Let him come with me for an introduction."
Oleks made a decisive move. "Daughter, take more men with you. If such a person exists, I shall grant you proxy lord authority. If necessary, you may sign a treaty of submission on my behalf."
"I understand." Posses accepted the ring her father handed her, which bore the family crest. In emergencies, it could be used to seal wax in place of a seal.
As she turned, her golden hair swept past the candlelight, casting a sharp shadow on the stone wall. The sound of hooves quickly echoed from outside the hall, a gust of wind with twenty riders, heading towards the hill where the ruins were located.
Oleks gazed at the empty doorway and suddenly said to Linus, "Linus, take my personal letter and request aid from the Royal Capital." He paused. "Until the situation turns around, you will travel between the city-states. Don't come back for now."
***
Under the night sky, a cool breeze blew, and the breathing of the refugee camp gradually deepened. Because the elderly and children had gone to sleep early to avoid disturbing them, Chén Yàn and the men moved outside the camp, sitting around a campfire, chatting and talking. Through this casual conversation, Chén Yàn grew familiar with the two.
"The beer you mentioned… will it work?" The man with the sprained ankle was named Hawk. He had been a hunter before, but due to livelihood difficulties, he did odd jobs in the village before fleeing.
"Not just in the city, but for everyone who drinks barley wine." Chén Yàn poked the embers with a branch, the orange-red light flickering on his face. "Your barley wine is sour and astringent, as bad as horse urine. But beer is different. It's brewed with hops, giving it a slightly bitter, fresh aroma. Chilled...". He paused, recalling iced beer on a summer night. "It's like drinking sparkling spring water."
Hearing this, the men all laughed. "According to you, how much can that drink sell for?" The man with the injured arm was named Barry. He was a carpenter before, not only able to build houses and make furniture but also to make small toys for sale.
"It can be exchanged for three times the amount of barley," Chén Yàn drew a circle on the dirt with his branch. "We'll test the waters in Italica City first, by collaborating with taverns. Once word gets out, we'll build workshops ourselves and have passing merchant caravans stop to load up." He pointed at the refugee camp's stone wall. "By then, this wall will expand three times outward, building blacksmith shops, stables, warehouses... The children won't have to flee anymore. They can learn bookkeeping, brewing, how to bargain with merchants..."
Barry choked on his saliva as he swallowed. He covered his bandaged arm and asked, "Sir, do you really believe we can succeed?"
"If I didn't believe in you, why would I teach this?" Chén Yàn threw the branch into the campfire, sparks crackling. "But not now. The materials, equipment, and techniques for brewing are not available here, plus the Imperial Army's situation... In short, now is not the time." He stood up and brushed the dust off his pants. "How about this: production will be carried out by my base for now, and you will act as intermediaries. Once the market opens, we'll transfer the brewing technology to you. This gradual approach is more stable. It's late, I'll be going back."
The men watched his retreating figure without speaking. Only after Chén Yàn's footsteps disappeared into the wilderness did Barry quietly say, "He truly considers us his own people." Hawk didn't reply but instead stoked the campfire higher.
The wind at the base was cooler than at the refugee camp. Chén Yàn stood on the terrace of the headquarters building. The shadow of the mecha was like a silent mountain in the moonlight. Argo's optical lens turned towards him, the light sound of its metal joints rotating remarkably clear in the night.
"Are you really going to teach the refugees the method for brewing beer?"
"Something like that," Chén Yàn looked in the direction of the refugee camp at the last extinguished light. "It's better to teach a man to fish than to give him a fish. When they can support themselves, the burden on our shoulders won't be as heavy, will it?"
"Indeed. Given their level of civilization, they would have researched it themselves soon enough. We're just speeding up the process a little."
"Yes, whether we can return to Earth or not, improving the quality of life is a good thing."
Argo's lens turned to the night sky, rapidly comparing star charts in its database, but still finding nothing. It finally settled on the direction of Karelia. "The night sky clarity is excellent, but there's an anomalous cloud mass in the northeast direction, with a rapid increase in humidity and a barometric pressure drop exceeding the rate of natural formation." Its electronic voice paused, as if simulating human emotion.
Chén Yàn followed its 'gaze.' The northeast night sky, which should have been the brightest, was now covered by a mass of ink-black clouds, like a blood-soaked rag.
"That's the direction of Karelia," Chén Yàn's fingers tapped unconsciously on the railing. "It's the mournful cries of the dead."
Argo's sensors emitted a faint hum. "I don't believe in ghosts, but burning houses and wood does indeed cause atmospheric water molecules to condense into clouds, which then precipitate."
The wind on the terrace suddenly shifted, carrying the pungent smell of grass from the distant plains, and a faint, almost imperceptible scent, similar to rust.
"Argo," he said softly, "I have a premonition that the Imperial Army will arrive before long."
"I agree with your assessment. From now on, concentrate all energy on building the fortress. It's estimated to be completed by noon tomorrow."
"Remember to accommodate the refugees when the Imperial Army is detected," Chén Yàn's gaze remained locked on that dark cloud. "This way, we can fight without reservations."
The mecha did not respond further, only the lens of its optical collector flashed a faint red light, as if agreeing with Chén Yàn's words. Under the night sky, the gate of the refugee camp gleamed coldly. Those inside were dreaming of beer and small towns, while outside the walls, in the darkness, something was creeping closer with the wind.