Translator: CinderTL
In the council chamber of the Crystal Glare Palace, the newly delivered intelligence was hurled to the ground, the scroll sliding far across the smooth marble floor.
"Treacherous savages of the plains!" Rodney XVIII's roar caused the crystal chandelier to tremble slightly. He tore open the golden button at his collar, "It's only been a few years since the peace treaty was signed, and they're already so eager to tear it apart!"
Earl Merlin bent down to pick up the intelligence scroll, speaking softly, "Your Majesty, my men have confirmed that Abal's golden tent has moved to the border of the Blackstone Plain."
The king's knuckles rapped heavily on the long table covered with maps. On the map, the small red flags representing the southern garrisons were densely packed—these were the defensive forces that had to remain after quelling Giles' rebellion.
His gaze swept over the northeastern part of the kingdom, marked as the "occupied zone"—it had now become a springboard for the Orcs' southern advance.
"At least we won't be fighting on two fronts."
Rodney XVIII suddenly let out a cold laugh, grabbing a silver goblet and taking a gulp of wine. The deep red liquid spilled slightly as it rolled down his throat, dripping onto the gold-embroidered collar.
"Last time these beasts attacked, we still had that old fox Giles lurking in the south."
A court attendant carefully offered a silk handkerchief, but the king waved it away. He turned to look out the window, where the rooftops of Crystal Glare City shimmered like burning armor in the setting sun. He seemed to hear the faint sounds of drills from the training grounds outside the capital—this was his much stronger confidence compared to the last war.
"Send a telegram to Alden Town!"
Rodney XVIII suddenly turned around, the wine stain on his chest forming a dark red mark, "The Orcs are preparing for war. Tell Paul's army to keep a close watch on the Blackstone Plain."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Earl Merlin replied, though he suspected that Alden Town had likely also received some intelligence about the Orcs, and the two sides should exchange information.
The king's fingers traced over the southern towns on the map that had not yet fully recovered, "Recall two main regiments. Giles' remnants can't cause much trouble anymore. The second-tier forces should be enough to deal with them."
He pressed his hand heavily on the royal crest on the map, his knuckles turning white from the force.
"Earl Merlin, do you remember the gossip among the northern nobles after the last war?" The king's voice was low but as hard as tempered steel, "They said it was Alden's guns that saved Aldor's dignity, while the armies under the royal banner only retreated again and again."
"This time is different, Your Majesty," the intelligence minister cautiously responded, "Our new army has completed its training and has been tempered by the fires of war."
"You're right!" Rodney XVIII said firmly, "The royal family must make a show of strength in this war. The eyes of the northern lords are all watching. If we let Alden's army take all the credit again... I can't even imagine how they would view the royal family."
...
The wheels of the carriage rolled over the smooth stone roads of Alden Town, making a rhythmic clattering sound. Dusan Bradley curled up in the corner of the carriage, his hands unconsciously rubbing his knees—where old injuries from his escape in the Yellow Earth still lingered.
The bustling sounds of the market outside the window reached his ears intermittently, the vibrant city forming a stark contrast to the gloomy and oppressive castle of the Bradley family in his memory.
Dusan licked his parched lips, his gaze sweeping over the two stern-faced inner guards seated across from him, as motionless as stone statues.
"How is Grayman's mood... recently?" Dusan ventured, his voice hoarse as if rust had grown in his throat. The older guard merely lifted an eyelid, while the younger one pretended not to hear, turning his gaze out the window. The carriage fell silent once more, save for the duke's heavy breathing.
"We're here," the guard suddenly announced, startling the duke.
The carriage stopped in front of the lord's mansion, the emblem hanging on the porch gleaming in the sunlight—the symbol of the Grayman family.
Dusan's throat tightened. He seemed to see two future versions of himself pulling at each other before his eyes: one bound and dragged to the trial platform, the other leading the Alden army back to the Yellow Earth.
How would Paul Grayman treat him? As the guard pushed open the carriage door, a beam of sunlight fell on Dusan's trembling fingers. There, he still wore the emerald ring symbolizing the Bradley family, though the gem had long lost its former luster.
The oak door of the reception room was gently pushed open, and Dusan Bradley shuffled in, hunched like a frightened mouse. When he saw Paul standing by the window, his knees visibly weakened, nearly causing him to collapse to the ground.
"Sit," Paul gestured to the armchair opposite, while he leisurely opened a document. "The Orcs are gathering their forces, preparing to invade Aldor again."
"What?!" Dusan sprang up from his chair, only to slump back down, his bony fingers gripping the armrests tightly. "That traitorous son! How dare he... invite wolves into the house to hunt me down..."
Paul raised an eyebrow, barely suppressing a laugh. He set down the document and studied the fallen duke with interest. "Lord Bradley, surely you don't think... the Orcs are mobilizing tens of thousands of troops just to hunt you down?"
Dusan opened his mouth, his sallow cheeks suddenly flushing red. Realizing his outburst, he quickly released the now-deformed armrests, though his nails had left deep scratches in the leather.
"I... I mean..." he stammered, his voice growing smaller, "That beast Lamost might seize the opportunity... to eliminate me as a threat."
"It seems you are indeed out of touch," Paul tapped the table lightly. "Abal's target this time is of immense significance, and you are hardly even an appetizer—if you are even considered a target at all."
"Enough of the small talk," Paul interlocked his fingers on the table, his gaze piercing as he looked at Dusan. "I need to leverage your residual influence in the Yellow Earth."
Dusan's back straightened slightly, a sharp glint flashing in his cloudy eyes.
He subconsciously twisted the worn family ring on his right hand, his knuckles turning white.
"My old subordinates..." the duke's voice suddenly became low and cautious, "There are indeed a few reliable ones left. But what do you want them to do?"
Paul's lips curled slightly: "Let the Orcs see what we want them to see. Can you... still do it?"
"Of course I can!"
Dusan was somewhat excited, believing that the Marquis was making a deal with him.
(End of the Chapter)
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