Forr Red Skulls Camp – Southern Border. Morning – Sunrise.
Black smoke still billowed thinly from the remnants of charred tents, but the battle was over. The warm morning sun illuminated a scene of stark contrast: on one side, advanced war machines glittered in the light; on the other, thousands of rcenaries sat dejectedly on the ground with their hands bound.
Sir Riven sat relaxed atop the roof of the Iron Duke (Titan MK-1), munching on an apple he had found in the enemy’s logistics tent. His legs dangled off the side, swinging his boots which were caked in dried mud.
Below him, the Red Lions were busy gathering enemy weapons. The pile of Muskets and swords grew higher by the minute, forming a small mountain.
"Insane," Captain Garrick muttered, looking at the line of prisoners that stretched nearly a kiloter long. "We brought only 50 n and one tank. Yet we’ve captured 3,000 prisoners. How are we going to feed them all, Sir?"
Riven took another bite of his apple. "Don’t ask . Ask our ’Minister of Finance,’ Duchess Aurelia. But as for ... it’d be a waste to kill them. Too much potential labor."
On the other side of the field, Sir Rianor and Lady Rumina were in their "Playground."
They were swarming over the captured enemy Howitzer cannons that Riven hadn’t managed to blow up.
"Brother, look at this!" Rumina exclaid enthusiastically, tapping the cast-iron barrel with a wrench. "The iron is low quality, full of air pockets. No wonder their accuracy was trash."
Rianor nodded, stroking his chin. "But the barrels are thick. We can lt these down. One cannon could provide enough material for... hmm... 100 ters of railway? Or bridge pilings?"
"And Varg’s War Golem?" Rumina asked, pointing at the steam robot with the severed neck.
"That’s junk," Rianor said ruthlessly. "Its steam tech leaks everywhere. Energy efficiency is barely 15%. Dismantle it completely. Take the gearbox, sell the rest to a scrap dealer, or turn it into cast iron for a dam foundation."
To Rianor, war victory wasn’t about honor. It was about Acquisition of Free Materials.
Temporary Command Tent.
Riven entered the tent, dragging a chained Colonel Varg behind him. The forr Red Skulls commander had one side of his face scorched, his uniform was in tatters, and his pride was utterly shattered.
"Sit," Riven ordered.
Varg sat down heavily. "What do you want, Sudrath? To torture ? Go ahead. I’m a soldier. I’m not afraid of pain."
"Why would I bother torturing you? My hands are tired enough as it is," Riven replied casually. He tossed a rolled map onto the table.
"I have a business proposal."
Varg spat on the ground. "I don’t do business with enemies."
"You only have two choices, Colonel," Riven said, pointing outside the tent. "One: I hand you and your n over to the Aethelgard Kingdom. The sentence: mass hanging for attacking a legitimate noble."
Varg’s face turned pale. He knew Aethelgard’s war laws were brutal toward failed rcenaries.
"Two," Riven continued. "You work for ."
"Work? As soldiers?"
"No. As laborers." Riven offered a wide grin. "I want to pave a road from Northreach to the Southern Port. It’s 50 kiloters. I need strong, disciplined, and resilient physical labor. Your n are perfect for it."
"You... you want to turn the elite Red Skulls into road workers?!" Varg felt insulted.
"Three als a day. A tobacco ration. Warm barracks. And if the project is finished in six months... I’ll give you a severance package and ship tickets back to the Iron Empire."
Varg went silent.
Die by hanging... or pave roads with food and a (small) salary?
As a leader responsible for the lives of 3,000 n, the choice was obvious.
Varg lowered his bald head.
"We’ll need shovels. And don’t be late with the food."
Riven smirked. "Deal. Welco to PT. Sudrath Infrastructure."
Iron Hearth Castle Gate – Midday.
The victory convoy returned to the castle.
It wasn’t a grand parade, but a procession of wagons filled with looted scrap tal and rows of prisoners carrying shovels.
Before the gate, Duke Lucian stood tall with a wolf-fur cloak over his shoulders. Beside him, Duchess Aurelia cradled Raphael, while Raveena stood holding Grimm’s hand.
As the Iron Duke ca to a halt and its engine died, Riven jumped down.
"Reporting, General," Riven said, giving his father a playful salute. "Enemy neutralized. Casualties on our side: Zero. Wounded: Two n with scratches from tree branches."
Duke Lucian didn’t return the salute. He stepped forward and pulled his eldest son into a tight, bone-crushing hug.
The hug of a father relieved to see his son ho in one piece.
"Good job, son. Very good job," Lucian whispered. "You have made the Sudrath na feared once again."
"And rich again!" Rianor chid in, stepping down while holding an inventory logbook. "Dad, Mom, we got 10 Cannons, 2,000 Muskets, and 5 Tons of Gunpowder. If we sell it all, the value is greater than our total war expenses."
Aurelia’s eyes imdiately sparkled at the word "Value."
"Excellent! Move it into the asset warehouse. Not a single bolt is to be embezzled!"
Communication Room – Castle Tower.
After the euphoria of the welco, Rianor went straight to the highest tower. There, he had a secret device he had brought from the Underground City and modified with magic.
The Magitech Telegraph.
This device used high-frequency Mana waves to send instant ssages to its receiving counterpart held by Roland in the Capital. Distance was no longer an issue.
Rianor typed out a ssage in a Morse code agreed upon by the family.
TAP. TAP. TAAAP...
ssage Content:
"PACKAGE SECURED. THE SOUTHERN STORM HAS SUBSIDED. THE SKULLS HAVE TURNED TO DUST. NOW IT IS YOUR TURN TO SING ON STAGE, LITTLE BROTHER. MAKE MORVATH WEEP TEARS OF BLOOD."
Rianor hit the SEND button.
The blue crystal on the device flickered once, sending an invisible signal slicing through the Aethelgard sky toward the Capital.
Capital City of Sol-Regis – "The Golden Swan" Luxury Restaurant. Sa Ti.
The atmosphere in the Capital’s most expensive restaurant was serene. Classical music was played by a string quartet. Nobles dined politely, clinking crystal glasses.
At one of the balcony tables overlooking the gardens, Sir Roland Sudrath was enjoying afternoon tea. He wore a very fashionable purple silk suit, his hair perfectly styled. Opposite him sat two officials from the Ministry of Law whom he was "lobbying" (read: treating to an expensive al).
"So, Sir Roland," the portly official said while cutting into his steak. "Are you certain these accusations against Marquess Morvath are solid? He is a senior noble."
"Oh, I never accuse without evidence, Mr. Justice," Roland smiled warmly, looking utterly charming.
Suddenly, Roland’s jacket pocket vibrated.
A small rectangular pager (a strange object to the people of this world) beeped: Beep-beep.
Roland pulled it out. He read the coded ssage appearing on the small crystal screen.
His polite smile shifted.
The corners of his lips curled higher, his sharp eyes glinting with cunning. It was no longer the smile of a diplomat. It was the smile of a shark that had caught the scent of blood.
"Forgive ," Roland said, putting the device back. "I have just received word from ho."
"Bad news?" the official asked. "Is your castle already leveled by bandits?"
"Quite the opposite." Roland stood up, straightening his jacket.
"Excellent news. The vultures have been shot down."
Roland placed a bag of gold coins on the table to settle the bill (and a "tip" for the official).
"Gentlen, save your energy. Tomorrow morning, I request an ergency hearing at the Palace."
"A hearing for what?"
Roland looked at them with a cold gaze that made the officials shiver.
"An execution hearing for Marquess Morvath’s career. I will bring evidence that will stun the entire Capital."
Roland walked out of the restaurant with a light step.
The physical war had been won by Riven.
Now, it was Roland’s turn to win the Political War. And he wouldn’t use a tank. He would use the law to decapitate Morvath.
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