"Count Boris, you're taking it too seriously."
Aboard the Lagnark, flagship of the clearing fleet, a general approached the Count with a wine glass in hand. "It's just a cleanup of so Infected. If you ask , ten warships is complete overkill."
"Why dispatch so many when a single ship could finish the job?"
Count Boris turned to look at him.
Ah, Earl Leston. Naturally, he was dissatisfied. As a mber of the nouveau riche nobility, his family's influence was rooted in finance and urban real estate. The blizzard-swept northern tundra had little to do with them; that was the traditional domain of the old-guard aristocracy.
However, due to simple political checks and balances, when the traditional nobles moved to purge the Infected—especially with such a massive show of force—the rising nobles naturally inserted their own people. Earl Leston and the warship under his command were those interlopers.
This was hardly a prestigious assignnt. Ursus was a nation founded on war, but racing a Ferrari against a wheelchair isn't exactly glorious, even if you win.
If it were just one or two warships, you could at least manage a bit of a boast. But leading ten warships and ten thousand soldiers just to hunt Infected... you'd be too embarrassed to speak of it back in Deity Grypherburg.
How would that conversation go? One general might say he earned his rank with his life during the Bloodpeak Campaign against Higashi; another Earl might excitedly recount his command during the Tenth Ukas War. Finally, everyone turns to you and asks what you did on the battlefield.
Are you going to tell them, '? Oh, I took ten warships to the tundra to clear out so Infected'?
The sha would be unbearable!
Earl Leston made a mistake recently and needed to pay the price for his stupidity, so this task was dropped in his lap. Aside from his ship, the Osmond, the other vessels belonged to the old nobility. Thus, a grand fleet of ten warships and ten thousand troops set sail for the tundra.
Naturally, Ursus did not publicize this event widely. It ca back to that sa logic: deploying ten warships against a crowd of ragged Infected was...
Sowhat pathetic.
Everyone in the fleet felt the sa way, silently agreeing not to hold any grand banquets before their departure.
"Since the higher-ups arranged it this way, there must be a reason," Count Boris said, offering a hollow comfort. "We simply need to execute the order. Think of it as a unique kind of hunting excursion."
"After all, it isn't every day we can pull together ten warships and ten thousand n to fence off a hunting ground for us."
At this, the group shared a knowing smile.
Indeed, no one took this purge seriously. These were ten warships! How could those starving Infected possibly fight back?
"But there is one thing you must rember," Count Boris, the fleet commander, suddenly grew stern, looking around to caution them. "No matter how much you look down on the Infected, you must approach this purge with the attitude of fighting a regular army!"
"If we fail such a simple mission, the reputations of every officer from down to the bottom will be utterly ruined!"
The laughter in the banquet hall died instantly. They couldn't understand the need for such gravity.
They were just Infected.
But since he was a Count and their direct superior, they all beat their chests and promised not to slack off.
Yet, anyone could see the flippancy behind their eyes.
"To be honest, I think this mission is quite difficult," a young officer said, pushing up his glasses. "In a purge mission like this, the biggest fear isn't them banding together to resist, but them scattering the mont they see the fleet."
"We wouldn't even be able to catch them all then!"
"Major Dmitri, you worry too much," soone laughed, approaching with a glass. "How can two legs outrun a warship?"
"But we only have ten warships," Major Dmitri continued to frown. "Those Infected won't be polite enough to split into exactly ten groups to flee!"
The surrounding officers exchanged glances, thinking he was being paranoid. But since he had a background—a twenty-year-old Major, after all—if it weren't for his Duke father...
"Didn't you read the briefing I sent out?" Count Boris walked over to soothe him. "Dmitri, they won't run. Those Infected have occupied an abandoned mobile town, hoping to use it to withstand the fleet's bombardnt."
"Furthermore, they've gathered over twenty thousand people. In the winter tundra, such a large group can't stray too far from their base. If too few leave, they can't carry enough supplies and will starve in the no-man's land; if too many leave, our warships will simply track them down and crush them."
"They have no choice but to face us head-on. This is exactly why we chose to attack in winter."
"I hope so," Major Dmitri nodded, though his concern remained.
Count Boris understood his mindset. Though he was a Duke's son, he wasn't particularly favored; otherwise, a job like this would never have fallen to him. This was a thankless task. If you did well, it was expected and no one would praise you; if you did poorly, how could you show your face back ho?
The others didn't care because most were in their thirties or forties, the backbones of their respective families. They wouldn't suffer any actual loss over this, at most a bit of mockery.
Dmitri was different.
In reality, Boris didn't disagree with the general sentint. Ten warships... by any tric, it was overkill.
When he first received the Duke's orders, he thought he misread them. Just so Infected—was it really necessary to deploy this many ships? A three-ship squadron would have been generous.
But after seeing the footage of that knight striking his own flagship, he instantly cowered. Then, he realized the Duke's profound foresight. Against an enemy with such powerful units, one or two warships would indeed be awkward; deploying ten to crush them was the only way.
"Count Boris," Earl Leston chuckled as he leaned in again. "Truthfully, this operation is far too abnormal. Since when has Ursus ever looked the Infected in the eye?"
"But the Great Personage behind you broke character to demand ten warships... is there so inside story?"
"We're comrades fighting together now. If there's any internal news you could share, it would put our hearts at ease."
The bustling banquet fell silent as everyone looked their way.
Count Boris thought carefully and decided he really did need to warn them. If they went into battle in their current state and a boarding party executed a decapitation strike on a warship, it would be disastrous.
Normally, he wouldn't release such vital intelligence so easily. He would have squeezed the other party for a bit of a kickback first. But for the sake of the Duke's orders, he couldn't afford to be petty.
"As for the specific details... it's not convenient for to say much," Count Boris said, knitting his brows. "I ask everyone to strengthen your defenses after you return. Especially the bridge and decks—they must be guarded by elites to prevent boarding."
"Uh, Count, did I hear that right?" an officer stamred. "Boarding? How could those Infected possibly board a warship? Setting strength aside, can they even breach the hull, or can they jump twenty or thirty ters straight onto the deck?"
"Our defensive weaponry isn't just for show."
Most of the officers shared his skepticism. To them, they were just Infected.
"I know what you're thinking," Count Boris sighed. "But I must remind you: beware the enemy's decapitation tactics."
"As for the situation... just assu you are facing a battle-hardened, special-model Steam Knight. She can land on the deck of any ship at any ti, breach the command tower, and execute a decapitation strike."
"A Steam Knight?!" The room erupted in an uproar. "Has Victoria intervened?"
"But if Victoria has made a move, why only send our ten warships? Shouldn't we be massing troops on the southwest border for an explanation?"
"Exactly! With Victoria currently fractured, they dare move against the Empire?"
"Quiet! Quiet!" Boris felt a headache coming on. "I only said there is a unit with combat power and tactics similar to a Steam Knight. I didn't say Victoria has intervened!"
Because this mission was generally looked down upon, most of the arrivals were second-line units and ships, so the quality of the personnel varied wildly.
While this was part of the Duke's plan—using these 'misfits' made it easier to conduct shady backroom dealings without sharp-witted generals noticing—the price of using misfits was their limited comprehension.
"Oh, so there's just a similar unit," the officers breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought Victoria was invading."
"But that's a Steam Knight. Who could have combat power that strong?"
"There is one. That Patriot, the Sarkaz who defected during the late Emperor's reign," soone spoke up. "His individual strength is imnse. But can he manage a solo boarding and decapitation?"
"Sarkaz are not to be underestimated," an older officer said, shaking his head. "Two hundred years ago, when the four nations besieged Kazdel, those Sarkaz could take down a Steam Knight with their bare hands, rip out the pilot, and kill them."
"Though Steam Knights were primitive then, it proves the strength of Sarkaz individuals. I've witnessed Patriot's power before. It's not a proud mory, but he really could hold off a thousand of my n alone."
"But what era is this?" a younger officer countered defiantly. "What are Sarkaz? No different from the Infected."
"Though, that Patriot seems to be a Wendigo, and a pureblood at that. Such a rare specin isn't seen often," he said, turning to Major Dmitri. "I heard your father, Grand Duke Ural, loves collecting rare trophies. If you brought his head back to the Duke..."
A glimr of interest flashed in Dmitri's eyes.
"Forget it," Count Boris said, his head throbbing as he cut him off. "Buldrokas'tee was once a hero of Ursus. How can you insult him like that!"
"He's just a traitor," Major Dmitri frowned in dissatisfaction.
"Even if your father were here, he wouldn't dare say those words!" Seeing Dmitri give him attitude, Boris's expression soured as he barked, "If you dare do such a thing—if you take his head back to claim credit—you're a dead man!"
"That is an order! Do you hear , Major!"
The room went dead silent. No one expected the Count to take this so seriously.
Major Dmitri's face turned pale and then flushed with rage. As a Duke's son, no one had ever barked at him like that in public.
But Count Boris didn't care. I am not your father's vassal. Usually, I'm happy to play along for the Duke's sake, but don't you dare forget who is in charge here.
Who was Patriot Buldrokas'tee? The last pureblood Wendigo. Truthfully, Boris didn't care if he lived or died, but he could not be insulted. It wasn't because Boris had high morals; it was simply because the man wasn't alone. The half-blood Wendigos were still in the desolate north helping Ursus fend off the Collapsals.
Now, if you kill their patriarch—fine, he defected first, there's a logic to it, and those half-bloods need Ursus's protection—but if you turn his head into a decoration... do you still expect them to work their hearts out for you?
To put it bluntly, even if Patriot were truly killed, the Emperor of Ursus himself would likely inquire about it and give him a dignified funeral, just to appease those hard-working half-bloods.
These people knew nothing of the Collapsals' existence. After all, they weren't big enough figures. Yet they were actually thinking of doing sothing so reckless. Thank goodness he made it clear at the banquet. If soone had acted first and asked later during the battle, Boris felt he would have had a heart attack.
"Do you hear , Major!" he roared again.
"...Yes, Count," Major Dmitri lowered his head in humiliation.
"Good," Count Boris said, scanning the room. "And the rest of you—sharpen up if you encounter him. You may fight, but you absolutely must not insult him!"
A few scattered responses echoed back.
Boris felt a wave of exhaustion. He felt like he was taking a group of toddlers on a field trip, constantly having to prevent them from causing trouble. No wonder the Duke made him the commander; anyone with a lower status wouldn't be able to keep these people in line.
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