Imperial Year 2515, June.
As King Ryan and the Lake Witch Morgiana returned from Duolong City, bringing with them a Norscan dwarf army comprising over a dozen regiments (it's worth noting that a dwarven regiment consists of only about 200–300 soldiers, compared to a human regiment of 1,000–1,200), everyone knew that the great King Ryan had once again achieved overwhelming success in politics, diplomacy, and military affairs.
The Exclusive Trade Agreement of Duolong City was signed, with King Ryan and a visibly pregnant Emilia representing the human side as signatories, heralding the establishment of a new trade system.
The war ended much sooner than expected. Upon Ryan's return, Emilia privately complained, "Why did you withdraw the army so early in June? I had prepared so much in terms of logistics, and now it's all gone to waste."
Ryan laughed. "It wasn't wasted."
Almost immediately upon the Norscan dwarves' arrival in Erengrad, trade between the two sides began.
Grand Duke Thorgard the Crimson of the Norscan dwarves presented his new human allies with a gift list that included 150 full sets of master-crafted rune-engraved plate armor, hundreds of rune weapons (primarily swords, shields, and polearms), as well as a large quantity of precious metal ores, jewels, and fine jewelry.
On the human side, dozens of cargo ships were loaded with grain, cloth, wine, meat, and fish to exchange with the dwarves. Even with this large offering, the value of the human goods paled in comparison to the dwarves' gifts. This caused considerable dissatisfaction among Imperial merchants who were left out. One particularly frustrated general from Nuln, Tim, wrote in his journal, "This isn't a trade; it's outright robbery! By Sigmar, is it that King Ryan is far too clever, or have the Norscan dwarves' heads been soaked in the filthy waters of the Chaos Sea?"
No one could say for sure. All anyone knew was that the Norscan dwarves were incredibly stubborn, only recognizing the banner bearing Ryan's personal family crest—the sword and fleur-de-lis—or traders officially authorized by Bretonnia or Nuln. Other human merchants, no matter how low their prices or favorable their terms, were completely ignored by the dwarves.
An immense amount of wealth flowed into the officially designated marketplaces. The bustling calls of vendors and buyers echoed throughout the knightly army's camp. While most of the Norscan dwarves' goods were swallowed up in official transactions, a small portion was allowed to be sold in makeshift markets set up in the military camp. Like sharks smelling blood, Ryan's father-in-law, François, immediately arrived at the scene alongside Duke Berchmond, declaring, "I'll take everything—now let's talk prices."
The Nuln camp was no different. The head of the Old Krupp Guild personally traveled from Hochland to Erengrad just to get in on this lucrative trade.
After two or three days of this exchange, Ryan finally announced in June that the victorious army would march back to Bretonnia.
At Erengrad's grand square, surrounded by hundreds of Old Guard soldiers, dozens of Bretonnian nobles, Grail Knights, and the Lake Witch Morgiana's Prophetesses of the Lake, King Ryan stood at the forefront, delivering a victory speech to the excited and proud soldiers gathering from all directions.
As Ryan stepped onto the platform, the nearly 20,000 soldiers crowded into the square fell silent. They spontaneously formed orderly ranks, waiting for their great king to address them.
"My soldiers—of Bretonnia, other human nations, and even other races of Order!"
Ryan's voice echoed through the ears of the soldiers, celebrating their victory and glory.
"Another grand victory is ours! Beastmen, greenskins, Chaos armies, Chaos Champions, and even the Everchosen himself have all fallen before us!" Ryan raised his fist. Under the blazing June sun of Erengrad, his voice was as fiery as his spirit: "Once again, we have shown the darkness that we will never yield, we will never surrender! Our victory illuminates this endless night. We have proven that mortals, too, can possess faith and honor. Our courage shall shine as a golden beacon in this dark era!"
"Victory! Victory! Victory!" A deafening roar swept through the square as soldiers cheered wildly. Their passion, courage, and resounding emotions echoed not only across Erengrad but even into the Realm of Chaos itself.
"Hope endures!" Ryan proclaimed proudly. "Even though Kislev has fallen, even though the Empire has been attacked, even though Ostermark has nearly been reduced to ruins, even though multiple coastal ports have been threatened—even though the darkness forced us into dire straits, we held firm. And we prevailed! I, Ryan-Malcador, am proud of you! My knights and soldiers, to stand among you is to know no fear!"
"Ryan! Ryan! Ryan! Ryan!" The soldiers' roars became a rolling tide. Every soldier shouted his name. Every knight removed his helmet in a gesture of respect. Every dwarf placed his weapon over his heart. Even the elves, with their innate pride, could not help but bow their noble heads.
"Now, we have driven the Chaos scum back to the north. We have crushed their armies, just as a lion tears through armor with its claws and fangs. We marched forward, forward, and further still, until those dogs fled to their wretched dens. We attacked them directly, burning every blasphemous banner and camp to ash. These memories will be treasures that accompany us for a lifetime. But we will never stop, not until we have achieved everything, for the Lady and the King, for Bretonnia!"
"For the Lady and the King! For Bretonnia!"
"For the Lady and the King! For Bretonnia!"
"Now, let us begin the journey home. Let us return to our homeland with honor and wealth. Sons of Bretonnia, we are going home!"
"Home, home, home!" The cheers reverberated across the city.
For the first time, the Bretonnians felt an overwhelming sense of pride in their identity. Their blood surged with passion as the glory of victory belonged to them.
Look! The man standing on the platform was no longer just a mortal king. He had become a symbol.
He was the embodiment of glory and victory!
After the speech, the celebrations began. Knights and soldiers indulged in hearty drinking. Ryan personally poured two glasses of Imperial stout, handing one to François. "Time to head home, my duke."
"Yes, time to go home, Your Majesty," François replied gracefully. The father-in-law had reaped significant rewards from this campaign and had once again proven his skill in commanding troops and the exceptional combat prowess of the Winford Duchy's army. In Erengrad, François had been appointed head of logistics and supply. His first act in this role was to "drown" a corrupt noble supply officer—literally throwing him into a cesspit—after the man was caught embezzling 15 kilograms of honey and sugar.
François was even stricter about logistics losses than Ryan. His report listed "transport losses" at only 5%–7%, a figure so close to actual wear and tear that it left everyone in the Old World astounded.
Ryan later learned that honey and sugar were considered luxury goods in this world, available only to nobles. The stolen 15 kilograms had a market value of over 100 gold crowns. Even so, Ryan couldn't help but wonder if François had gone a bit too far.
"If I'm not harsh, these people will never learn," François explained. "A warning must be set. Our spoils this time are particularly rich, and there will surely be many hands reaching for them."
"Ah, I miss Sulia," Ryan said, clinking his glass with François'. The two men downed their beers in one go. An Old Guard nearby immediately stepped forward to collect the empty glasses and fetch refills. Ryan chuckled. "We've been on campaign for over half a year. I wonder how Sulia is doing."
"Sulia will have everything under control, and she's surely looking forward to your return," François replied with a smile, downing another glass. "I miss little Devonshire, too."
"Hahaha, yes," Ryan sighed. This expedition, while shorter than the grand Eight Peaks campaign, had still lasted a long time. Raising his glass, he proclaimed, "To victory!"
"To victory!" François echoed. The two beer-filled mugs clinked together once more. François raised his glass briefly, then lowered it after only a sip. He casually asked, "By the way, about the rumors circulating in the army… Is it true you plan to appoint ten marshals?"
"I'm considering it," Ryan replied, narrowing his eyes. François was fishing for information, clearly aware that Ryan's growing authority meant centralization and bureaucratization were inevitable. Nobles who didn't align themselves with Ryan risked being marginalized.
This rumor about appointing marshals had been deliberately spread by Ryan through the Old Guard and First Lancers, intended to gauge the knights' reactions. Sure enough, François and the other traditional nobles had taken the bait.
It couldn't be helped—serving under Ryan came with too many rewards.
"Well then…" François probed further. "Perhaps you and Her Majesty can discuss it upon your return?"
"It's only an idea for now, François." Ryan thought for a moment. François had always been loyal, investing heavily in Ryan early on and tirelessly supporting
him both financially and militarily. It was time to reassure him. "Rest assured, you won't be left out—if it happens."
François nodded, half-satisfied but still curious. "And the other candidates?"
"Bread will come, milk will come, everything will come," Ryan said with a smile, offering no further details.
At that moment, Regent Lauen Leoncoeur approached with a serious expression, holding a mug of beer. "Your Majesty, may I discuss something with you?"
"What is it, Lord Leoncoeur?" Ryan asked, noting Lauen's grave demeanor and adopting a serious tone himself.
"I wish to stay behind in Erengrad," Lauen said, raising his mug.
"I want to serve as the commander of the garrison and the head of logistics here!"
"If possible, Your Majesty, I would like to entrust my duchy to you for governance!"
"What?" Ryan was genuinely surprised.
Lauen was actively aiding his centralization of power?!
—— A Tide of History Unfolds ——
As the knightly army began its march home, retracing their steps…
In the Imperial capital of Altdorf, Emperor Karl Franz lay in his bedroom within the Imperial Palace.
Seated in a large, gilded imperial chair, the emperor wore a purple shirt and white breeches beneath a golden robe. He leaned back, looking unwell.
The emperor was ill. Stomach pains wracked his body, but he forced himself to continue working.
The northern provinces were in ruins. Ostermark struggled under Chaos's devastation. Spring had brought plagues and rumors spreading across the Empire, instilling fear among both citizens and soldiers. Many electors desperately needed aid and funds to rebuild their lands, but the emperor's coffers were nearly empty. If not for the High King's generosity—compensating for his inability to aid the Empire directly—Karl Franz would have had to dip into his personal fortune.
"Sire, Metternich has returned," announced the emperor's steward, Duke Arne Dunstad. "He brings the latest news. Shall I admit him?"
"Bring him in," the emperor said. Though he knew his bedroom was an inappropriate place for meetings, he had no choice—he was too ill to move.
Moments later, Metternich entered, bowing before the emperor. Karl Franz raised a hand. "No need for formalities, Metternich. As you can see, I'm not well. Speak quickly. Sit."
Metternich relayed the results of his negotiations. The terms he had secured were within the emperor's acceptable limits. Karl Franz nodded. "It seems things aren't as bad as we feared. The worst didn't happen. This is good news for us, for Reikland, and for the Empire."
"Good news? Sire, forgive me, but I disagree," Metternich replied. "Do you know the size of King Ryan's returning army? Nearly 50,000 troops, with a supply convoy stretching over ten miles! My men roughly counted—those damned Bretonnians and Nulnites have organized a massive train of over 40,000 wagons, carts, and carriages, all packed with food, luggage, and spoils!"
"In addition to the soldiers, at least 20,000 civilians are traveling with them—soldiers' families, merchants, peddlers, homeless refugees. Many women have become cooks, bringing their children along."
"It seems our Knight King has had another bountiful campaign," the emperor remarked dryly, leaning back in his chair with a faint smile.
Metternich had expected more of a reaction but continued. "There's one more matter, Sire. The investigation into Earl Walter's corruption and the confiscation of his estate is complete. We've recovered over 3,000 dwarf gold coins, 37,000 gold marks, and additional assets—real estate, antiques, and stockpiles—worth another 20,000 gold marks."
"And now there's a dispute among Reiksmarshal Helborg, Chancellor Amadeus, and Steward Arne over how to allocate these funds," Metternich added.
"I knew it," the emperor sighed, his frustration evident. "I understand the challenges of transporting goods north, the dangers of long journeys, and the inevitable losses along the way. But with a river route for most of the journey, there's no way transport losses could have reached 37%! By Sigmar, Walter's greed knew no bounds—he deserved death!"
"Walter has confessed," Metternich said quietly. "He only begs Your Majesty to spare his children. The Reikland Grand Assembly supports this plea."
"I see." The emperor considered for a moment before emphasizing, "Tell the court ministers this: priority must be given to military needs and aiding refugees. My personal expenses and the bureaucrats' back pay can wait. None of us will starve!"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Metternich replied, deeply impressed by the emperor's selflessness and dedication to the Empire.
"You've seen Ryan's army, haven't you? What's your assessment of their combat effectiveness?" the emperor asked casually. "Did you witness them in action?"
"Unfortunately, no," Metternich admitted. "The outskirts of Erengrad are extremely unsafe. Everyone advised me not to leave the city. However…"
"However?" The emperor noticed Metternich taking out a metal box. "What's this?"
Metternich opened the box, revealing a honey cake. "A cake, Your Majesty."
"I told you, Metternich, I'm not hungry. I have no appetite," Karl Franz said irritably, clutching his stomach as pain flared.
"This isn't for you, Sire. It's a honey cake made by Bretonnia's Old Guard to celebrate their birthdays," Metternich explained, offering the box. "It's quite delicious, prepared by their field kitchens, and hasn't spoiled despite the journey."
The emperor's eyes opened. He took the cake, sniffed it, and broke off a small piece to taste.
The bedroom fell silent as the emperor chewed. Metternich watched quietly, knowing the wise emperor would grasp the significance of this simple gesture.
After a long pause, Karl Franz finally spoke.
"I have a question, Metternich. Can you answer it?"
"Of course, Your Majesty."
"Why is it that Ryan always seems to grow richer and more prosperous the more he fights, while we in the Empire only grow poorer and more destitute?"
"That…"
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