Chapter 390 — Gathering Forces

Byron opened his mouth, instinctively about to cook up another set of lies to fob off this earnest young man, but this time Gao Yang's plan was simply too dirty—even for an old hand with a silver tongue, he felt it couldn't be scrubbed clean. So he could only click his tongue twice: "The lord is considering the bigger picture. He has no choice but to sacrifice knightly honor."

Philip thought it over and nodded: "Ah."

Byron looked at him in surprise: "Hm? Have you turned over a new leaf? Why aren't you agonizing over knightly honor like before?"

Philip thought again, then waved a hand: "I recently realized something—namely, that I simply can't out-argue you. So instead of agonizing over knightly honor, I'd rather know: when are you giving me that Persuader railgun you promised me last time?"

Byron: "..."

In the final days of the Month of Revival, spring of Ansul 736, countless tides—some open, some hidden—surged through this ancient kingdom.

But because news traveled slowly and the southern region was itself isolated, when these tides first rose, almost no one in the South yet knew what they would face in the years to come.

In the east, in Glen Territory, Ropeni Glen saw off the envoy from the west. Watching the carriage bearing the Horsman family crest gradually disappear along the mountain road, a smile slowly surfaced at the corner of her mouth—one with no warmth in it at all.

"To have actually scraped together seventy thousand rabble..." the viscountess murmured to herself. "Truly insane..."

The middle-aged steward who had served her for many years came up behind the viscountess and said softly, "My lady, the knights and soldiers have assembled."

"Very good," Ropeni Glen nodded. "Have the knights set out first for Carroll Territory... I will give that good neighbor of ours some proper 'help.'"

The steward bowed and withdrew. Ropeni Glen turned and stood on the castle's terrace, gazing out at the rolling mountains of the southern region.

"Seventy thousand men... Duke Gao Yang, I hope you can truly deliver what you promised. This will be the last great gamble of my life."

In Cecil Territory, on the White Water River, accompanied by the steel roar of giant repulsion mechanisms and hinge devices, the massive mechanical bridge connecting the two banks slowly lowered and closed. The waiting lines of vehicles and pedestrians of every kind stepped onto the bridge deck. A messenger carriage bound for the Kant region raced at the front; as it sped along, a stack of newspapers in the carriage loosened from the jolting, and several ink-scented sheets fluttered out onto the bridge.

The newspapers bore striking headline text:

EXTRA — WAR THREATENS OUR PROSPERITY AND PEACE

Beneath it was a line of subheadings:

Mr. Godwin Comments on the Situation: Earl Horsman and His Running Dogs Do Not Want the People of Cecil to Live Well

A pair of feet in coarse cloth shoes walked along the mechanical bridge. Their owner stopped before this "extra," and then a thick, powerful hand picked up the sheet of paper.

Wright Evican read the contents of the extra over carefully. The article was utterly unlike Godwin Orlando's usual style, which, even when striving for plainness, still brimmed with an elegant cadence. This was spare, blunt, yet aggressive as a blade, its feeling intense and fiery. Of that there could be no doubt: even if Godwin had written it with his own hand, the substance of the piece was not something that "editor-in-chief and proprietor" from the capital could have conceived alone.

"The battlefield, is it..."

The pastor who had lost the Holy Light murmured softly, and slowly clenched both fists.