Chapter 675 — The Age of Empire
Blade of Dawn · Page 1 of 4
This was not a coronation.
Calling today's ceremony a "coronation" was merely because most people of this age were more familiar with the word.
Gaoyang stood upon the skull of the false god as though upon a mountain peak, leaning on the Pioneer's longsword; the black platform carried a profound texture wholly unlike the royal style of old, steel-forged wings spread to either side of the platform, banners bearing the Empire's emblem trailing all the way down to the ground, and before that emblem, the steel ranger battle group was marching into the square.
Unlike the black armor of the mana infantry, their mystique-laden fully enclosed helmets, their more orderly formations, their more advanced weapons—the appearance of the second formation once again stirred a commotion among the crowds within and beyond the square, and that same shock rippled across the platforms of the castle district.
The nobles of the Royal Capital invited to witness the ceremony, the representatives of the merchants, the knight-officers of old, and the delegates of the Church—they had worn their most magnificent ceremonial dress, rehearsed dozens of times at home, and prepared themselves to welcome the sovereign's coronation and to cheer; yet when this moment truly arrived, nearly all of them forgot how they should react.
This was not a coronation. This was a display, and a "proclamation" of profound meaning.
Cromwell Whiteshan, Count of Whiteshan, stood on the platform of Silverhold; this knight-lord of dwarf blood stared fixedly at the soldiers marching in column and their uniform equipment, and only now did he finally realize that this force and the armies he had known were two utterly different things, and realize why the rise of Cecil had been inevitable.
He sighed softly. "Your Majesty Wales… so this is why you had me stay…"
"Seeing it with our own eyes does us survivors good," Count Ballin said beside him, straightening the bow at his collar as he spoke. This somewhat portly count glanced at the many faces on the platform—among them some bowed their heads in thought, some trembled faintly, but whoever they were, none could avoid a trace of awe.
Not far away, Duke Baiyu and Duchess Victoria were conversing, and that duke of the Western Marches murmured in admiration: "Only by first securing food production can education be spread on a large scale; only by securing basic education and food supply can factory-style production and the training of professional soldiers be carried out; only by securing equipment and food supply while subjecting professional soldiers to rigorous training and re-education can an army like this be realized. It is a complete chain, its links inseparably bound to one another."
The Northern Duchess nodded slightly. "The reason the New Policies failed back then was that we copied only a few of those links, and those few links all became bonsai for our own amusement, never a forest…"
Listening to the words behind him, Cromwell Whiteshan pondered, his gaze fixed on the square; along the broad road to the east, ranks of war chariots were entering in formation.
At the edge of Silverhold's square, the gathered citizens had recovered from their initial astonishment and bewilderment. Though they did not understand what this novel "coronation" was meant to signify, the sight of the Cecil Legion marching in formation was enough to fill these people—so lacking in daily entertainment—with utter novelty and delight.
The soldiers and chariots were majestic and awe-inspiring; on the battlefield they were without question a terrifying host that put the enemy to flight, yet here this army was no enemy—a subtle thrill stirred the people in the square, driving them to discuss with irrepressible eagerness, and at last to cheer again and again.