The Year 791 of the Ingelvig Calendar.
A fine, persistent rain fell from the sky, washing over the ravaged land. It rinsed the blood from iron armor piece by piece, and the knights tilted their heads back, letting the rain seep into their divine suits to cool their overheated bodies. Pale steam rose from the plates of their armor, like ghosts quietly exhaled.
The battle was drawing to its end. The enemy's formation had been shattered by the knights' charge. Most of them wielded outdated weapons; when their blades struck well-forged armor, they produced nothing more than a few scattered sparks. Only a handful possessed divine armor of their own, yet each of them had been engaged by seasoned knights—enough to ensure they could not turn the tide.
Count Stuart slowly withdrew his blade from the enemy's body. His movements were painfully sluggish. As the sword left the ruined flesh, great swaths of blood spilled forth. He had struggled with this knight for a long time. In the final moment, Stuart seized an opening, struck him unconscious with the pommel, and then ended it with a single thrust to the throat.
He was old now. Even this short exertion left him gasping for breath. Leaning on his cross-bladed sword, he lifted his head slightly and let the cool rain fall upon his face.
"Ah… what day is it now?"
Beneath the helmet, his eyes felt nothing but heat. He turned, surveying the battlefield littered with corpses. Smoldering embers still burned among them. Some knights lay fallen forever; others struggled to stand.
The Count removed his helmet, his weary gaze sweeping across the land. He tried to rally the men, raising his sword high. The knights answered him in kind, though the forest of blades looked sparse and desolate.
It had all begun days ago. Fishermen here had seen a great number of ships pass through the White Tide Strait and land in Ingelvig. They were no fishermen—heavy armor weighed upon their bodies.
The report quickly reached the nearby lords, including Count Stuart. The old count sensed something amiss. Beyond the White Tide Strait lay Gaulnalo. If this were their army, he should have received word in advance. Yet there had been nothing.
He was grateful for his vigilance. He mustered his forces at once, and on the very next day, enemies from Gaulnalo surrounded his castle.
They intended to take this place. Once Stuart's domain was seized, its resources would be enough for their follow-up forces to rest and regroup—perhaps even to use it as a base to push deeper into Ingelvig.
And so Count Stuart made a bold decision. He ignored the advice of others and chose to stand his ground.
He became a nail—driving himself deep into Stuart's territory, pinning Gaulnalo's army in place. If they turned to attack other lands, the burden of marching would be immense, likely leading to failure. And so he did not retreat. He held on, all the way to this day.
He sent only his trusted retainers on horseback to carry the news to other domains, one by one, all the way to the Platinum Palace of Old Dunling. Through these long days of resistance, he waited for reinforcements that never seemed to come.
Once more, the knights repelled the enemy, driving them back through a breach in the walls. Then more men rushed forward to reinforce the damaged fortifications.
Count Stuart was too old—so old that even he could feel it. He sat down on the steps at random. From the shadows, his attendant approached cautiously.
It was a boy who looked somewhat timid. He scarcely dared to meet the old man's eyes. With practiced motions, he began to remove the armor piece by piece. Count Stuart let out a long breath, feeling as though his very soul had been released.
"How are things today, Navis?"
Navis swiftly removed the last piece of armor and stacked it neatly with the rest. His hands moved deftly as he spoke.
"Worse and worse. We've been surrounded for four days now. Supplies are still sufficient, but everyone's uneasy. And… and…"
Seeing his hesitation, the Count laughed. The wrinkles of time folded together on his face, like the bark of a withered tree.
He liked this attendant for a simple reason: the boy was honest. He told him every piece of good news and bad news alike, never lying, never betraying. Though born to a farming family, he possessed a noble soul.
"Because I'm old?"
He faced his age with a smile. There was no shame in it—only the twilight of a hero.
Once, Count Stuart had been a peerless knight, wielding war hammer in one hand and sword in the other—a living meat grinder on the battlefield. After every battle, his armor would be drenched in blood, and people called him the Red Knight of Stuart.
But now the Red Knight was old. Even lifting his sword felt exhausting. His people thought him old as well, believing that these towering walls could no longer protect them.
Navis hesitated, then nodded.
The Count's smile remained, but it slowly faded, turning hollow and helpless. Pain spread across his face. He began to cough violently. Navis panicked and rushed to support him, but nothing eased the agony—until the Count lost consciousness.
When Count Stuart awoke again, he found himself in a familiar room. Dark crimson curtains hung from the four corners of the bed. The chamber was empty, save for Navis, seated on a chair outside the door, head bowed as if asleep.
The old man struggled to rise, but every movement sent waves of pain through him. He let out an involuntary groan, waking the attendant. Navis rushed in, panic written all over his face.
"What's wrong with me?"
Gripping Navis's arm, the Count's voice was weak.
"The physician says you're ill."
Navis helped him back onto the bed. The aged body sank into the soft mattress. Though he had just awakened, exhaustion still clung to him—not only of the flesh, but of the spirit.
"How long was I asleep?"
"A day and a half."
"And the battle?"
"…"
Navis fell silent. Faintly, the sound of crying reached the room. The Count turned his gaze toward the window. This was his chamber, the highest point of the castle, from which he could overlook everything. Yet now, all he saw were flames and thick smoke. The outer fortress was burning—and upon it flew the banners of Gaulnalo.
The Count felt no excess emotion, as though he had expected this all along. He asked again,
"What happened?"
"It was… Lord Mader. After you fell unconscious, he took command of the defenses. In last night's battle, he led the knights in a charge… and then… then he didn't return."
"I see… so it came to this."
A faint smile tugged at the Count's pallid face. Mader was his nephew. Stuart had never married and had few relatives. Mader was, in truth, his only blood kin—and that was why he had remained at the Count's side all this time. For he knew well that once the Count died, everything here would belong to him.
"Do you think he's dead?"
Navis said nothing. The Count knew exactly what that silence meant.
On the first day of the siege, some of the knights had already opposed his orders. They had fine warhorses—strong enough to break through the encirclement of the Gaulnalo forces with ease. Yet the Count had crushed the proposal without hesitation. He commanded them to hold the castle.
Because the knights had horses and armor.
And the civilians had neither.
"This is desertion," the Count said calmly. "He will be nailed to the pillar of shame."
But this time, Navis could no longer restrain himself.
"My lord, we must withdraw. The fall of the castle is only a matter of time. And we have no knights left to fight."
All the knights had followed Sir Madel when he fled. They were the castle's final strength. What remained now was nothing but civilians.
The Count shook his head.
"If there are no knights left, then the Gaulnalo should already be inside the castle. So tell me—why are we still alive?"
"I–It's the civilians," Navis replied. "They're holding the inner keep with whatever weapons remain."
"Then you see," the Count said softly, "we still have knights."
Light flickered in his eyes. Even cornered by death, he could still smile. Navis had served him for many years, yet only today did he feel as though he were seeing the Count for the first time.
"Go, Navis. The lowest drawer. There's a parchment there. Bring it to me."
Though confused, the attendant obeyed. He retrieved an ancient parchment, its surface covered in inked names, one after another.
The Count coughed violently, pain wracking his frail body, yet he still took the parchment. He picked up the pen beside the bed and slowly unrolled it.
"Navis," he asked, "what is your full name?"
Navis didn't understand why, but he answered nonetheless.
"Navis·Dodd."
The Count nodded and wrote carefully upon the parchment. When he finished, he rolled it up again and handed it back.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "This is all I can do. I hope your father will forgive me."
Navis accepted the parchment—then froze. His body began to tremble, as though he had seen something unspeakable.
"My… my lord, this isn't possible. How could I— I'm just a farmer's son."
"A farmer's son does not remain a farmer forever," the Count replied gently. "Even the ancestors of the Stuarts were farmers once. For all we know, they tilled the land worse than your father ever did."
Count Michel·Stuart forced himself up from the bed. His body swayed, fragile as a dying flame, yet he steadied himself. Navis stood frozen in shock, unable even to reach out and support him, his lips repeating the same broken words.
"But I… I'm only a far—"
"That doesn't matter."
"Then… why?" Navis asked, fear in his eyes. There were too many things in this world he did not understand.
"There are many reasons," Michel said slowly. "The civilians need hope. They need a symbol—someone they can follow with dignity, even into death. And," he added with a faint smirk, "if you happen to survive, I'd rather not let that bastard Madel reap the reward."
"Navis. Kneel."
The sharp command shattered his racing thoughts. At some point, Michel had taken the sword from the wall. The blade was scarred with days of battle, as aged as the man who held it. His back was hunched, like a wounded lion refusing to lie down.
Navis hesitated—then knelt.
He forced himself to breathe, to steady his heart. The cowardice faded from his face, replaced by resolve. His eyes, once evasive, finally met Michel's gaze.
The old man smiled.
"They need a Red Knight," he said. "Not a Stuart."
The blade rested gently on Navis's shoulder. Michel was too old—his grip faltered, and the edge drew a thin line of blood. Navis felt the pain, yet he did not move. He stood as still as stone.
"You inherit my will," Michel said. "And I grant you my honor."
Still smiling, he performed the ancient rite.
"Swear to me, child."
…
After Count Stuart was carried into the depths of the castle, the great gates opened once more.
The civilians stared into the darkness beyond with held breath. In the past days, rumors had spread unchecked—some said the Count was dead, others that he had fled through a secret passage. After Madel and the knights deserted, panic had grown unbearable.
But now the gates opened.
The Red Knight emerged, clad in armor. Something about him felt different—but soon they realized why. The Red Knight who once thundered across battlefields now held his warhammer and sword again.
"But we have no knights left," someone said. "Only civilians."
"Then is there anyone here who can still raise a weapon?" the Red Knight asked.
Countless hands lifted steel.
"You see," he replied with a smile, "there are still many knights."
"But we're only farmers, butchers, blacksmiths—" the man protested.
The Red Knight was silent for a moment. Then he raised his sword and placed it gently upon the man's shoulder. He looked beyond him, toward the crowd, and called out:
"Kneel. Swear to me."
As the chorus of oaths surged through the dim halls, the old man closed his eyes in peace.
…
In the year 791 of the Inglvig Calendar, the Gaulnalo launched an unannounced invasion, assaulting the southern regions of Inglvig. When they reached the lands of Stuart, they were met with fierce resistance led by Michel·Stuart, halting their advance inland and buying critical time for troop mobilization.
Michel·Stuart later died of illness within the castle. After his death, his son Navis·Stuart knighted every civilian within the fortress and held the line for two more days until reinforcements arrived.
Days later, Inglvig formally declared war on Gaulnalo. The century-long War of Radiance had begun. Navis·Stuart and the knights he had raised marched tirelessly across the southern front.
Over the long years of war, armies were shattered and reforged. Those once-civilians—now the Stuart Knights—spread throughout the Inglvig nobility. Bound by wartime ties, they formed a vast aristocratic bloc under the banner of House Stuart.
In 876, the improved steam engine ignited the Second Industrial Revolution, turning the tide of the War of Radiance.
In 907, the century-long war ended in victory for Inglvig.
In 925, an outsider named Lloyd Holmes arrived in Old Dunling.
In 931, the story begins.