"What's wrong, Ryan?"
"Your Majesty, what happened?"
Morgiana, Bertrand, and Davout all asked almost simultaneously.
"Two pieces of news." Ryan raised a letter and, after a brief pause, continued, "First, Von Zhukov Castle has fallen. Apart from Oleg von Zhukov leading 8,000 men to retreat toward Wolfenburg, the rest of the Empire's forces have been completely annihilated. Ostermark Marshal Mordell committed suicide, and even Oleg's mother, Elector Countess Ivanna, died during the breakout. Morkar has ordered a total massacre across Ostermark. The entire castle has been razed to the ground, and the slaughter continued until the moment I received this intelligence. On the first day alone, 70,000 Imperial and Kislev citizens were killed. It's said that the ancestral tomb of the Von Zhukov family was unearthed by Morkar… It seems the rumor was true—Oleg did destroy his homeland during the Norscan Grand Expedition."
"How many troops does Morkar's Chaos Army still have?" Morgiana turned toward Talleyrand.
"About 100,000, give or take. My lady, I am merely a messenger," Talleyrand shrugged, doing his best to appear humble. "I expended considerable effort to come here, so please don't make things difficult for me."
"Your Majesty, if that's the case, the situation is dire," said Bertrand, the commander of the Old Guard, stepping forward. "If Morkar holds such a deep grudge against Ostermark, we can almost be certain that his next target is Wolfenburg. Talleyrand, how many troops are stationed in Wolfenburg currently?"
"Besides the core members of the Order of the Bull and Oleg von Zhukov's 8,000 battered remnants, there are only 30,000 new recruits undergoing basic training. These recruits can barely march to the beat of a drum." Talleyrand leaned on his cane, adding with a touch of sarcasm, "I could divide them into three categories: those who flee at the first touch of battle, those who retreat upon seeing the enemy, and those who scatter at the mere rumor of conflict."
"Very well. We must act quickly," Ryan nodded repeatedly before lifting the letter again. "The second piece of news is also far from good. Word from Stirland is that the undead of Sylvania are stirring. The last Vampire Count, Mannfred von Carstein, has revived again. Stirland and Averland troops cannot be mobilized."
"Once more, we must rely solely on ourselves," Davout remarked disdainfully. "Talleyrand, can't you ever bring us good news?"
"I'm just a messenger, gentlemen," Talleyrand quipped humorously. "Objective reality does not bend to my will."
"That's enough, Talleyrand. I know what you're up to," Ryan said, looking up coldly at the High Elf. Only after Talleyrand's composed mask faltered slightly did Ryan relent. "But that's not important now. Since you're here, assist with logistics and supplies."
"Of course, Your Majesty! Leave it to me!" Talleyrand bowed and hobbled away briskly.
"Why is he here?" Morgiana couldn't shake the feeling that Talleyrand's sudden appearance was suspicious.
"He's here to claim a share of the credit," Ryan sneered, shaking his head. "A sly fox, always quick to pounce at the scent of opportunity."
"Claim credit?" Morgiana was about to say more, but Ryan signaled her to let it go. The Knight King instructed Morgiana, Bertrand, and Davout to make preparations. It was still morning, and he planned to spend half the day inspecting Middenstang's surroundings to refine their strategy.
Meanwhile, as Talleyrand exited the castle hall, his face darkened. Ryan had seen through his little schemes.
This High Elf from Ulthuan genuinely admired the human world and truly wanted to make a name for himself. Since his assignment to Nuln as Ryan's envoy, he had tirelessly worked for Bretonnia's interests. As the Imperial Countess's personal advisor and Ryan's representative, he had helped Emilia secure numerous court victories and amassed considerable resources and influence.
But it wasn't enough—far from enough. Talleyrand aspired to join the Knight King's inner circle, to be part of the decision-making elite. Yet he lacked one crucial credential: military achievements.
Unlike the bureaucrat Belial, who had also followed Admiral Ivan and earned significant military merit during the critical Eight Peaks Expedition, Talleyrand had none. Military achievements were the currency of recognition in Ryan's court, the difference between a comfortable retirement and mere obscurity.
This was why Talleyrand insisted on delivering the letter in person. With war imminent and Ryan's track record of miraculous victories, the shrewd cripple knew he had to be present when the battle unfolded. Whether or not he participated, as long as he was in the camp during the fighting, he would have his share of the glory.
"Now, where should I start?" Talleyrand mused, leaning on his cane as he sought his place amidst the preparations. Soon enough, he spotted an argument between the Imperial and Bretonnian quartermasters. The High Elf limped over. "Gentlemen, stop! As the Knight King's envoy, Talleyrand-Maurice-Bennister, how may I assist you?"
With his elegant demeanor, eloquence, vast knowledge, and sharp understanding of both human laws and human nature, Talleyrand resolved the quarrel in under three minutes. The two quartermasters even shook hands to express their apologies.
"Soldiers have their battlefield, and I, Talleyrand, have mine."
...
While Talleyrand smoothed over most of the internal conflicts within the human coalition forces, Ryan and Morgiana embarked on their inspection. Accompanied by a single company of Old Guard and a dozen Grail Wardens, the pair strolled through Middenland's winter landscape. Despite being an inspection, Morgiana cherished these moments with Ryan. She spent a little time applying light makeup and wore a gray-blue mermaid-tail gown with moss-patterned trim. Her dress's slit revealed glimpses of her legs in ultra-thin unicorn silk tights, while white pearl-strapped heels adorned her feet. Riding her unicorn, Silfan, she matched Ryan's stride.
"Does it always snow like this in Middenland during winter?" she asked.
"Not just Middenland; Nordland is the same," Ryan reminisced. "When I was in Nordland, I hated winters the most. Constant snow, unbearable cold, and nothing to do. But I also loved winters—it meant less farming and training. I'd spend my time reading by the fireplace, munching on apple pies my foster mother baked."
"Apple pies? I'll make some for you next time," Morgiana promised, resolving to learn how to bake them upon her return.
Their inspection of Middenland's camps revealed troubling conditions. Ryan grimaced as he observed the soldiers' rations.
While Bretonnian troops received adequate supplies—barley bread, beer, meaty stews, and some dairy—Middenland's conscripts subsisted on black bread, potatoes, cabbage porridge, and greasy meat broth. For the naturally ravenous Middenlanders, it wasn't nearly enough.
Bertrand voiced his concerns, "Your Majesty, these rations might suffice in peacetime, but on the eve of battle, this diet won't sustain them for long. Within hours, they'll be hungry again. Should we remind Elector Count Boris?"
"Boris must already be addressing it," Ryan replied, leading the group onward.
As expected, they soon encountered Boris Toddbringer and his retinue entering a farmstead. The Elector Count noticed livestock still alive in the yard and immediately ordered the door knocked upon.
What unfolded inside was a poignant scene: a widow, alone after losing her husband and two sons to Boris's wars, reluctantly yielded her animals for the sake of the army. The heated exchange ended with a tearful but resigned sacrifice from the farmer.
Witnessing this, Morgiana remarked to Ryan, "You would never face such treatment in Bretonnia. The people adore you."
"That's because I win battles and avoid excessive conscription. War spares no one, and it's often the innocent who suffer most—from both enemies and their own side," Ryan replied gravely. "We must not fail. For these people, for their sacrifices, we cannot lose."
The group returned to camp, and by dawn the next day, the human army marched out from Middenstang.
Beastmen and Greenskin forces, already smelling blood, prepared for the clash.
The horns of war echoed across the land.
Since the Great Holy War, Middenland had not seen such a grand confrontation. The battle had begun.
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