What happened today at Gehena will be the talk of the kingdom for years to come.
I saw it with my own eyes—his potential. His genius. The young prince led this campaign from start to finish, and we merely followed his orders. Our victory was not luck—it was the result of his mind, his plans, and the years of hellish training he put us through.
I am General Greg I. Maxwell, Commander-in-Chief of the Drakseid Army. I trained King Henry in the sword and Prime Minister Josh in the spear. I earned my position through strength, skill, and survival after the last commander was killed at Gehena.
And yet… I am willing to admit it.
Today, the young prince commanded better than me. He devised better strategies. Exploited every weakness. He accounted for everything—battlefield positions, weather, even the wind trajectory. He didn't just lead from behind—he set foot on the battlefield and ensured our victory with his own sword.
Strength and skill matter. But leadership—true leadership—is trust and obedience. The soldiers believed in him. He trusted their training. And together, we delivered victory.
Now that the Verdune army is gone, the prince has already set out for Verdune City. He left me in command of the fort and the cleanup.
It's not often a commander follows orders from a ten-year-old. But after today, I would follow him to the ends of the earth.
You must be wondering how a ten-year-old could accomplish this—and why none of the nobles or commanders stood in his way. The answer lies with his parents—King Henry and Queen Ester.
When they ascended the throne, they cleansed the court of corruption. The king and queen purged the corrupt nobles and incompetent commanders, ensuring that only the capable and loyal remained. Ever since Prime Minister Josh took office, no minister has dared to challenge their authority. These three form the foundation of our kingdom—and Rhydher is already building upon it.
There were objections, of course. The nobles scoffed at the idea of a child implementing military and economic reforms. But the king silenced them all with a single challenge:
"If any of you can devise a better reform, we will adopt it. If you can't—we use his. So… does anyone have a better plan?"
Silence. No response.
They couldn't challenge the reforms. They couldn't accept that a ten-year-old was smarter and more capable than them. When they couldn't refute the logic, they resorted to excuses—his age, his inexperience, whatever they could cling to. The king, queen, and prime minister dismantled their arguments one by one. In the end, the nobles had no choice but to accept reality.
One noble made a fatal mistake. He accused the queen of infidelity—a direct insult to the crown. The king killed him on the spot. No one condemned the act. We owe our survival to the queen. It was she who secured the funds and materials for the military reforms. Most of the ideas came from the prince—but only she could execute them with such precision.
As for me, I mostly stayed on the sidelines. Politics and economics were never my strength. I simply followed the king's orders. I did have reservations about the Spartan System we introduced into the military. It was brutal—relentless training that pushed our soldiers to the brink. I thought it was too cruel.
But months passed… and I saw the results.
Our soldiers grew stronger, sharper. The army's discipline became unmatched. King Henry and I had devised our own plans to raise a stronger army—but Rhydher's methods were better. More efficient. More lethal.
That's why I'm not surprised we suffered no casualties at Gehena. The Verdune forces broke through our first line, but they couldn't kill anyone. We have injured, yes—some critical—but no dead.
Our army isn't just strong anymore.
It's like adamantite—unyielding, unbreakable.
The battlefield was littered with Verdune's dead. Rhydher ordered the bandits we captured to bury the dead—both friend and foe. After we extracted what information they had, we gave those bandits a swift and painless death. Rhydher called it mercy—they would face neither prison nor the burden of ransom, nor would they endure further suffering.
The religion of Drakseid, the Lumidrak Covenant, prohibits us from keeping slaves, we have servants, yes, but we pay them wages. And ransom is out of the question as the Distia Empire itself is running on fumes.
Killing off the entire Verdune army may sound cruel and illogical but it was a tactical decision. Drakseid has neither the forces nor the resources to keep them alive and under control. In the long run, they'd only cause trouble. The Crown Prince leveraged the grudge and resentment of our army to wipe them out. I don't condemn him for it.
The new Duchess of Verdune didn't say much about it. Why would she? It made it easier for her to rule Verdune and shape it to her and Rhydher's vision.
As for our rescued comrades—they were sent home along with our injured, who numbered nearly a thousand. Each was given a small pouch of silver. Not much—but all we could spare. Drakseid's coffers are dry now. Rhydher plans to replenish them using Verdune's wealth and by establishing better trade routes with the Sapphire Empire and neighboring kingdoms and provinces.
For now, both Drakseid and Distia are focused on rebuilding. Distia is too weak and unstable to reclaim Verdune, and we lack the resources to expand further. The kings and queens remain at the Round Table of Vermanyan, negotiating what comes next.
Our campaign relied solely on veterans—those trained by King Henry and me and who later underwent the Sparta System. The newer recruits, those still in auxiliary roles, remained behind to patrol the borders and manage day-to-day duties. When the dust settled, we stationed one thousand soldiers in Verdune and five hundred in Fort Gehena. Some troops were granted leave before returning to their posts.
This was the easiest campaign in Drakseid's history—a clean, decisive victory.
Most of the soldiers we rescued want to enlist again. They saw the crown prince in action, and now they speak of him like a legend. Some are older now—veterans burdened with the scars of war. Others are young, barely trained, and still haunted by the trauma of captivity.
Yet they all see him as their savior.
I can't blame them. After today… I feel the same.
I recall a conversation we had one early morning.
The soldiers were running their first drill of the day, the sound of heavy boots pounding against the dirt. I watched them from the garrison wall, my arms crossed with a stern look on my face.
"At this rate, they'll die from exhaustion," I said.
He stood beside me, calm as always, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
"At this rate," he replied, "they will become warriors. Better men. The human body is a remarkable thing. It can keep growing, adapting—if you push it hard enough. Potential is limitless. It just needs to be drawn out through training and devotion."
I frowned. "That's only true if they survive. Many of them are already planning to desert."
His gaze didn't shift. "They won't."
He turned toward me, eyes gleaming beneath the morning sun.
"And if they try—I will personally handle it."
I hesitated. "Is it the Sparta System you trust… or yourself?"
He smiled faintly.
"Both."
I met his gaze. "I don't trust either."
He chuckled. "You're an honest man, General Maxwell. You don't need to worry. They will endure it."
My gaze hardened. "And what if they don't endure it?"
Rhydher's smile didn't fade. "Then they were never meant to stand among us."
My jaw tightened. "They're not machines, Your Highness. They're men. Soldiers. And men's break."
Rhydher's eyes sharpened. "True. But men also rebuild. Weakness breeds failure. But those who survive—those who endure—they become more than men."
I narrowed my eyes. "At what cost?"
Rhydher's gaze darkened slightly. "Survival."
I exhaled slowly. "And if they resent you for it? If they hate you?"
Rhydher's expression didn't shift. His tone remained calm. "Hate is irrelevant. Fear is irrelevant. Only results matter."
I studied him carefully. His eyes—cold and calculating—belonged to someone far older than ten. His stance, his tone, his words… None of it matched the body of a child.
"You sound like a tyrant," I said.
His lips curled into a faint smile. "Tyrants force loyalty through fear. I will earn it through strength."
"You think strength alone is enough?"
"Strength inspires confidence," he said. "Competence earns respect. And results command loyalty."
My brow's furrowed. "And what if strength fails?"
Rhydher's gaze darkened. "Then I will adapt. And if I cannot adapt… then I will die."
The coldness in his voice unsettled me. But beneath that steel exterior, I caught a flicker of something deeper.
"You really believe that?" I asked.
He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the training field. Soldiers in bronze pushed through exhaustion, struggling to stay on their feet. A few stumbled—but none stopped moving.
"They're enduring because they believe in me," Rhydher said softly. "And if they're willing to suffer for me, then I must be willing to suffer for them."
Narrowing my eyes I asked, "Is that devotion or guilt?"
Rhydher's smile faded. "Perhaps both."
A heavy silence settled between us. The rhythmic pounding of boots on dirt echoed through the air.
"You're gambling with their lives," I said quietly.
Rhydher's gaze sharpened. "No, General. I'm preparing them to survive."
He turned toward me, his crimson hair catching the morning light. His young face was calm—his eyes cold and ruthless.
"Because when the real war comes," he said, voice low, "failure won't be an option."
For a moment, I said nothing.
Because deep down—I knew he was right.
He was right and that terrified me.
And that fear is what proves he's ready to lead.