Former Red Skulls Camp – Southern Border. Morning.
Wisps of acrid black smoke still drifted from the scorched remains of tents, but the deafening roar of battle had been replaced by a heavy, hollow silence. The warm morning sun illuminated a scene of stark contrasts: on one side stood the Iron Duke, drenched in oil yet looking magnificent in its triumph; on the other, thousands of mercenaries sat in dejected clusters, their hands bound.
Sir Riven sat perched atop his black tank, idly tossing a crisp red apple he had scavenged from the enemy's supply tent. Crunch. He bit into the fruit, letting the sweet juice coat his parched throat. His legs dangled off the edge, his mud-caked iron boots swinging rhythmically against the hull.
Below him, the Red Lion recruits were busy sorting through the salvaged armory. Piles of muskets and sabers grew steadily higher, their steel glinting in the dawn light.
"Incredible," Captain Garrick murmured, wiping sweat from his brow. He stared at the line of prisoners that stretched nearly a kilometer. "We brought fifty men and a single tank, yet we managed to bag three thousand prisoners. Uh, Lord Riven... how exactly are we going to feed them? This many mouths could bankrupt the castle."
Riven swallowed a mouthful of apple and pointed north. "Don't ask me, Captain. Ask our Minister of Finance, the Matriarch. But in my opinion... it's a waste to just dispose of them. A waste of perfectly good manpower."
Across the field, Rianor and Rumina were in a "playground" of their own. They were circling the row of enemy Howitzers that had been seized intact before they could be spiked.
"Rianor, look at this!" Rumina exclaimed, tapping the cast-iron barrel with a wrench. Clang. Clang. "The iron quality is subpar; it sounds tinny. No wonder their accuracy was all over the place."
Rianor nodded, stroking his chin, which was now shadowed by a thin layer of stubble. "But the barrels are thick. We can smelt them down. A single one of these muzzles contains enough material for a hundred meters of railway tracks, or perhaps the structural piles for a bridge."
"And Varg's wrecked War Golem?" Rumina pointed to the steam robot with the severed neck.
"It's junk," Rianor said flatly, adjusting his spectacles. "The steam system leaks at every joint. The energy efficiency is pathetic—barely fifteen percent. Strip it completely. Salvage the transmission system, and sell the rest to a scrap dealer or melt it down for dam foundations."
To Rianor, a military victory wasn't about medals of honor. It was about the cost-free acquisition of industrial materials.
Temporary Command Tent.
Riven stepped into the tent, dragging the heavy chains that bound Colonel Varg's wrists. The former commander of the Red Skulls looked broken; half his face was scorched, his ornate uniform was in tatters, and the last vestiges of his arrogance had evaporated with the camp's smoke.
"Sit," Riven commanded.
Varg slumped into a wooden chair. "What do you want, Sudrath? Want to torture me? Go ahead. I'm a professional soldier. I'm not afraid of pain."
"Tch, why would I waste the energy? My hands are sore enough as it is," Riven replied casually, tossing a rolled-up map onto the table. "I have a business proposition for you."
Varg spat on the floor. "I don't do business with the enemy."
"You have exactly two choices, Colonel," Riven said, gesturing toward the tent's exit. "One: I hand you and your men over to the Kingdom of Aethelgard. The sentence is clear—mass hanging for attacking a legitimate noble house."
Varg's face turned ashen. He knew Aethelgard's military laws held no mercy for failed mercenaries.
"Two," Riven continued with a thin smirk. "You work for me."
"Work? You want me to be your personal mercenary?"
"No. I want you to be a laborer," Riven grinned wide. "I intend to pave a fifty-kilometer road from Northreach to the Southern Port. I need physical labor that is disciplined, tough, and used to hardship. Your men are perfect for the job."
"You... you want to turn the elite Red Skulls into road crews?!" Varg felt his chest tighten at the sheer humiliation.
"Three meals a day. Tobacco rations and warm barracks. If the project is finished in six months... I'll provide severance pay and ship tickets for you and your men to return to the Iron Empire."
Varg fell silent, staring at the floor in a desperate internal struggle. A meaningless death on the gallows, or paving roads with a full stomach? As a leader responsible for three thousand lives, there was only one real choice.
Varg lowered his head. "We'll need shovels. And don't be late with the food."
Riven laughed softly, patting Varg on the shoulder. "Deal. Welcome to the Sudrath infrastructure team."
Iron Hearth Castle Gate – Midday.
The victory convoy finally returned home. It wasn't a lavish parade decorated with flowers, but a procession of wagons overflowing with salvaged scrap metal and lines of prisoners carrying shovels.
At the gate, Duke Lucian stood tall, his wolf-fur mantle billowing in the wind. Beside him, Aurelia looked composed, while little Raveena waved her hands with boundless excitement.
As the Iron Duke's engine died with a long, wheezing hiss of steam, Riven leaped down.
"Reporting, General," Riven said, giving his father a mock salute. "The enemy has been neutralized. Casualties on our side: zero. Injuries: two, and that was just from some stray tree branches."
Lucian didn't return the salute. He stepped forward quickly and pulled his eldest son into a fierce embrace. Riven could feel his father's hands trembling slightly—an unspoken relief.
"Good work, Riven. Excellent work," Lucian whispered hoarsely. "You've made the Sudrath name feared again."
"And wealthy again!" Rianor added as he climbed down, clutching an inventory ledger. "Father, Mother... we've secured ten cannons, two thousand muskets, and five tons of gunpowder. If we auctioned this off, the value far exceeds the operational costs of the war."
Aurelia's eyes sparkled at the word "Value." "That much? Splendid! Get it all into the asset vaults. I don't want a single bolt going missing!"
Communication Room – Castle Tower.
Once the euphoria of the homecoming subsided, Rianor headed to the highest tower. There, he operated a secret device he had brought back from the Underground City: a Magitech Telegraph.
The device utilized high-frequency mana waves to send instant messages to a twin receiver held by Roland in the Capital. Rianor began tapping out the Morse code understood only by the family.
TEK. TEK. TEEEEK...
MESSAGE:
"PACKAGE SECURED. THE SOUTHERN STORM HAS SUBSIDED. THE SKULLS HAVE TURNED TO DUST. IT'S YOUR TURN TO TAKE THE STAGE, LITTLE BROTHER. MAKE MORVATH WEEP TEARS OF BLOOD."
Rianor pressed the SEND button. The blue crystal on the device pulsed, sending an invisible signal cutting through the sky toward the Capital.
The Capital, Sol-Regis – "The Golden Swan" Restaurant.
The atmosphere in the Capital's most prestigious restaurant was tranquil. The strains of a string quartet's classical music filled the room, which was scented with expensive coffee and toasted brioche.
At a balcony table, Sir Roland Sudrath was enjoying his afternoon tea. He looked impeccably fashionable in a tailored violet silk suit, his hair styled to perfection. Opposite him sat two officials from the Ministry of Justice, whom he was hosting with a high-end feast.
"So, Sir Roland," the portly official said while cutting into his steak. "Are you certain the accusations against Marquess Morvath are solid enough? He is a senior noble, after all."
"Oh, I never level accusations without concrete evidence, Your Honor," Roland replied with a charming, diplomatic smile that radiated confidence.
Suddenly, Roland's jacket pocket vibrated softly. A small, boxy pager emitted a brief beep-beep.
Roland pulled it out, reading the coded message on the small crystal screen. His polite smile slowly transformed. The corners of his lips quirked higher, and his sharp eyes glinted with a cunning light. It was no longer the smile of a diplomat; it was the grin of a shark that had just scented fresh blood.
"Forgive me," Roland said, tucking the device away. "I just received word from home."
"Bad news?" the official asked curiously. "Has your castle been razed by bandits?"
"Hah, quite the opposite," Roland stood, smoothing his unwrinkled suit. "Splendid news. Those vultures were just shot out of the sky."
Roland placed a pouch of gold coins on the table—payment for the bill and a generous "tip" for the officials.
"Gentlemen, save your strength. Tomorrow morning, I shall be requesting an emergency hearing at the Grand Palace."
"A hearing for what?"
Roland looked at them with a gaze cold enough to send a shiver down anyone's spine. "The professional execution of Marquess Morvath's career. I shall be bringing evidence that will leave the entire Capital in an uproar."
Roland stepped out of the restaurant with a light, effortless stride. The physical war had been won by Riven at the border. Now, it was Roland's turn to win the political war at the heart of power. And he didn't need a tank to do it; he only needed the law to take Morvath's head.