Chapter 851: The Blood-Stained Crown

Chapter 851: The Blood-Stained Crown

“Wait… isn’t the coronation ceremony the day after tomorrow? Please let me see General Gulian… Have you gotten the time wrong?”

In the solemn courtroom of Westport Court, a sparse crowd of about a hundred people stood scattered about.

Looking at the hastily assembled guests on the jury bench, Akbar initially wore a bewildered expression, then turned to the Valiant man standing nearby to voice his discontent.

According to the original plan, he was to be crowned in the presence of his father’s old ministers, becoming the undisputed new emperor of the Brahmin Province.

But now, only a few counts and viscounts were witnessing this moment.

Worse still, some on the jury bench weren’t even nobles, staring at him with foolish excitement, their faces practically screaming their lack of sophistication.

Those fellows were clearly commoners.

How could such an important event allow these people to join in the spectacle?

What nonsense was this?

As for the young emperor’s displeasure, Pete couldn’t be bothered to respond, merely saying impatiently,

“General Gulian is busy with important matters and has no time to see you. It’s going to rain the day after tomorrow, so we moved it up.”

Rain…?

What kind of excuse was that?

Akbar was dumbfounded, his mouth agape, momentarily speechless, staring blankly at the Valiant man before him.

The people seated on the jury bench, however, hadn’t heard their exchange.

Apart from the titled nobles and the knowledgeable elders, the others wore expressions of eager curiosity, chatting animatedly among themselves.

“That young emperor has the look of a ruler—truly a fine figure.”

“As befits royalty, such handsome features!”

“Xilan is saved!”

“Hurry up! Why hasn’t it started yet?”

Standing in the center of the courtroom, Pete glanced at his watch, growing impatient himself, and shot a look at the stunned figure.

“Are you going through with it or not? If not, we’ll find someone else.”

Startled by this remark, unsure if it was a bluff, Akbar hastily spoke up.

“I will! I will… Wait, this throne is mine by right!”

“Then get on with it.”

As if wasting another word was beneath him, Pete turned his gaze to the judge standing nearby.

The judge wore an expression of indignation but ultimately said nothing.

That Gulian was doing this on purpose.

Staging this farcical monkey show in his courtroom was nothing but an insult.

He had to admit, the man was petty and had low standards—perhaps just a notch above the monkeys in this courtroom.

“The coronation ceremony begins.”

Like announcing the start of a trial, the judge uttered these words in a solemn tone, then turned and left.

Pete didn’t watch him; instead, he nodded to an old Brahmin man standing nearby.

That lion-man was the court’s janitor, whom they had arbitrarily given the title of count and instructed on what to do.

The old man, holding a golden crown in both hands, stepped forward timidly.

Around him, eager eyes lit up, but he kept his head low, afraid to meet the prince’s gaze.

“Your Majesty… please be crowned.” His voice trembled slightly as he slowly knelt.

Akbar didn’t recognize the count before him, but he found no fault with the deferential etiquette.

“Hmm.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, then reached out, took the golden crown, and solemnly placed it on his head.

Everyone present, except the Valiant men, immediately knelt on both knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground.

Commoners and nobles alike.

At that moment, they all shouted in unison.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty, on your coronation!”

“Long live the Emperor!”

“Long live Xilan!”

The rising and falling voices echoed through the solemn courtroom, like a symphony missing its conductor’s baton.

But Akbar’s lips curled upward, and the gloom that had been on his face melted away, replaced by an irrepressible smile.

So this was what his father had borne—his chest swelled with a surging emotion.

This feeling was…

Absolutely exhilarating!

Akbar extended his hands forward, lifting them slightly, adopting a benevolent posture.

“Rise, my beloved subjects!”

He had practiced this in front of a mirror countless times, and now he finally had the chance to perform it before everyone!

…

“Get down!!!”

At the border between Westport and Ox Province, boiling flames raged over the scorched earth etched with trenches.

The centurion, lying prone on the ground, let out a hoarse roar, shouting for his comrades behind to drop and take cover.

Thirty seconds earlier, a deafening explosion had erupted from the direction of Westport.

By the time anyone could react, the blinding white light and searing flames had descended upon the Brahmin border army’s positions.

Before the 902mm heavy artillery, the trenches dug by the Brahmin national army soldiers were like toothpicks, flung into the sky along with the earthworks outside them.

As the first blast subsided, a row of 100mm cannons followed with their own roar.

Explosive flames boiled across the positions, and shrapnel rained down like a storm, covering the entire depth of the defensive line.

The bombardment lasted a full ten minutes before stopping.

The once-sturdy positions were now riddled with craters, and the soldiers lying in the trenches were more than half dead or wounded, their terrified faces etched with panic.

They didn’t even know what had happened before the Legion’s shells suddenly came crashing down.

Hiding in a shell-proof bunker, Isher gritted his teeth, digging through a pile of debris to retrieve the fallen telephone.

The phone line connecting to the front-line radio had been severed, cutting off communication with the forward century company. But fortunately, the line to the rear was still intact.

Without hesitation, he dispatched a messenger to the front to assess the situation while quickly contacting the rear command post to report the status on the border.

“This is the 111th Thousand-Man Unit of the Northwest Sector Defense Line. We are under artillery fire from the direction of West Sail Port! Repeat, we are under artillery fire from West Sail Port!”

After a brief crackle of static, the voice of the rear operator came through at once.

“What’s the situation? Have you seen the Legion’s troops?!”

The operator’s voice was also flustered, clearly inexperienced, and the rear command had not anticipated this at all.

Isher cursed under his breath and continued roaring into the phone.

“The phone line’s been blown to bits—I can’t reach the frontline! Those big-noses have even brought out heavy artillery; this is no mere warning shot!”

The sound of a chair being pulled came from the other end, and the operator spoke hurriedly.

“I understand… I’ll report your situation immediately.”

Isher bellowed.

“This is war! I’m not joking with you—I need reinforcements now! Now! Damn it, if you’re late, just come collect our corpses!”

On the other side, at the very front of the Northwest Sector Defense Line.

The century, originally at full strength of one hundred and twenty men, no one even knew how many were still alive.

Having barely regained his wavering consciousness, Centurion Dumt picked up the rifle that had fallen beside him.

The smoking soil was scorching hot.

Yet he dared not risk rising from the ground, gritting his teeth against the heat that could fry an egg.

“…Damn it, where’s our radio?! Get word back to the rear!”

Though he thought anyone not deaf could hear the commotion, he still shouted at the signalman behind him.

That signalman was still alive, crouching in the trench and fiddling with the radio.

But seeing his sweat-drenched face, Dumt’s heart sank, knowing trouble was coming.

As he had feared, the signalman looked up in despair.

“The radio’s been destroyed!”

“Damn it!”

Dumt punched the ground hard, cursing in the direction of West Sail Port.

Fortunately, the impact point was still some distance away.

Even so, he felt as if his insides had been jarred out of place.

Biting back the pain in his belly, Dumt looked at the shattered trench behind him and roared at the top of his lungs.

“Everyone, prepare for battle! We will not let those big-noses take another inch of land from us!”

Ever since those Valiants had come to this land, his people had been bleeding.

Every time he read the reports in the Survivor Daily, saw the slaughtered families, a fire of rage burned in his chest.

Now the Valiants wanted to push further, to let that devouring hell spread into the heart of Boro Province…

No matter how Abusek appeased them, he would never take a step back!

“Ooh-rah!”

“Fight those big-noses to the death!”

“Screw them!”

Cries rang out from the broken trench—clearly, he was not the only one thinking this.

Hearing the high-spirited responses, a smile crept onto Dumt’s face.

Good.

It seemed many of his brothers were still alive.

His expression grew stern, and he shouted behind him.

“Each squad, report numbers!”

As his words fell, voices rose one after another from the rear.

“One!”

“Two!”

“…!”

“Report! Squad One has five men left!”

“Squad Two has seven!”

“Squad Three! We’ve got two!”

“…”

Dumt did a quick mental count: the entire century had fifty-seven men left.

If it came to a fight, buying the rear five minutes should be no problem.

Just as he was thinking this, a figure appeared at the edge of a distant field.

Dumt raised his rifle and aimed at the man, but saw he was not a Valiant.

He was a Boro.

“Listen up, you up ahead!”

The man stopped at the field’s edge and shouted toward the trench.

“General Gurion’s troops are heading to Gouzhou to fight the rebels! Get out of the way now if you don’t want to die—make way for the Legion!”

“That last barrage was just a warning! If you keep being stubborn, don’t blame the shells for having no eyes—”

Before he could finish, a gunshot cracked.

The bullet landed at his feet, kicking up a puff of dust.

Startled, the man stumbled and fell, then scrambled up and ran back without daring to look behind.

Gnashing his teeth at that traitorous lackey, Dumt roared.

“Son of a bitch! You’re the ones who should get lost!”

Shameful wretch!

He wanted to grind his teeth to dust, but in the end, he did not fire at the retreating back.

His people had already shed enough blood.

Maybe that man was coerced too…

Dark clouds had crept across the sky, blotting out all light, and a dull rumble came from the low-hanging clouds.

The wind grew stronger; it seemed rain was coming.

But Dumt remained unmoved, staring fixedly at the distant field, rifle aimed.

He did not expect to survive this battle.

But even if it cost him his life, he would take one down before he died!

Just then, the muffled roar from the clouds drew ever closer.

It did not seem to be thunder.

But something else entirely.

Vaguely, Dumut heard cries of alarm behind him, and so he looked up toward the sky.

In that very instant, his burning pupils froze in place.

It was a giant whale with wings spread in flight, its wings studded with rows of enormous propellers.

The roar came from those propellers, each massive blade tearing through the clouds.

But even more horrifying were the gun barrels embedded in the towering steel armor.

That thing had more cannons... than they had rifles in their hands.

"Damn it..." Dumut let out a groan of despair.

What the hell is that thing?!

There was no time left to think; flashing tracer rounds were already flying from that floating fortress, splitting into tens of thousands of bullets in the air.

This barrage was far more intense than before; the sound of explosions completely drowned out Dumut's roar.

In the blink of an eye.

He and his century, along with the trench beside them, were erased from the earth.

The long-brewing "thunder" finally came from the sky, reaching Ishar, who stood with his mouth agape in shock.

In an instant, three of his centuries were wiped out, completely lost to contact.

His hand trembled as he gripped the phone; his mind raced, but he could think of no solution.

It was utterly different from the time at West Sail Port—this time he faced not a wavering fence-sitter, but a pack of bloodthirsty demons.

The gap in strength was too vast; all stratagems lost their meaning...

Fighting on held no hope of victory, nothing but throwing lives away!

Ishar was not a man who feared death.

If he feared death, he would not have bravely stepped forward that night to save those innocent people.

Yet, even though he was prepared to die a martyr's death, he had to consider his comrades crouching in the trenches.

They should not die here.

They should survive, preserve their fighting strength, and bring back what they saw at the front to the rear, to think with more people on how to counter it.

Even if they had to die.

It should be for something more meaningful!

"Damn it..."

He gritted his teeth and cursed, then switched the channel to the frontline units and shouted into the phone.

"All units, hear my command! Withdraw from the positions immediately! Move southeast!"

As the order to retreat was given, the soldiers of Bharat left the trenches one by one, using the lulls in fire to evacuate the battlefield in an orderly fashion.

Shame was written on every face, yet they all knew that holding on any longer was nothing but suicide.

Their Ratfolk commander had made the hardest, yet most correct decision.

Against that kind of thing, trench warfare had become utterly useless.

Perhaps mobile warfare was the more suitable tactic...

...

The same thunder reached Ross as well.

Standing on the border of West Sail Port, he stared expressionlessly toward the northwest.

An officer walked up beside him and said in a low voice.

"Bharat's 111th Chiliarchy has withdrawn."

Ross's eyes narrowed slightly, and the corner of his usually taut mouth curled into a faint, barely perceptible smirk.

He seemed to see a rat.

And a cunning one at that.

But before absolute power, cunning alone is not enough—one must also sharpen one's teeth and claws.

Gazing at the smoke-choked battlefield in the distance, Ross ordered impassively.

"First Armored Century and Second Infantry Century, advance!"

The officer before him stiffened with excitement and saluted sharply.

"Sir!"

This moment had finally come!

He and his men had waited far too long for this day!

They would utterly shatter the last shackle binding the Valentians—the "Covenant of Shame" signed under the witness of the "poisonous remnants" of the War Construction Committee.

From now on, no one could stop them from pressing forward.

The frontier of the Valentians should lie at the edge of the solar system—nay, the galaxy!

And this was the prologue to that great epic.

Their descendants would forever remember this moment, and forever give thanks from the depths of their hearts!

The instant the order was given, the ten tanks parked at the edge of the field started their engines simultaneously.

Exhaust pipes belched thick black smoke; their grim armor, under the gaze of the giant airship, rumbled forward toward the shattered positions!

Behind those tanks, squads of ten men each followed closely, rifles loaded and ready.

Crossing the battlefield plowed by shells, they meticulously checked every trench, every crater, every corpse, and finished off any who seemed still alive.

Watching the unstoppable steel tide and the tread marks pressing into the fields, the man cowering at the field's edge had a face flushed with excitement.

His name was Chetri.

Like Chiliarch Ishar, he too was a Ratfolk, but clearly a different breed of rat.

He had gone up earlier with good intentions to urge surrender, but the other side had taken his kindness for folly and repaid it with betrayal.

Luckily, that man was a poor shot and Chetri was fast, or he would have been done in by him.

Looking at the utterly smashed positions, he felt nothing but glee, almost wanting to cheer for those big-nosed men.

What goes around comes around!

"...Pathetic fools! The Valentians just wanted to borrow a road through your land, not attack you. But you had to rush to your deaths—wouldn't surrendering for peace be just lovely? Tsk, serves you right!"

Having finally vented the anger stuck in his chest, Chetri spat on the ground in relief, stomped it with his foot, and then left this place of trouble behind.

On the distant front, tanks rolled unimpeded across the Bharata Army’s defenses, like a storm sweeping the savanna, charging toward Dog Province, one of the three northern states.

During this time, Bharata launched several assaults, yet without exception, they didn’t even catch a glimpse of the enemy before being routed under the volley of horizontal and vertical fire.

The Legion’s troops didn’t even spare them a glance, marching straight through the muddy ground mixed with blood and flesh.

Leading the offensive was Olet’s 17th Myriarchy, commanded by the Wanfuzhang.

Their mission was to carve off the northwestern corner of Lion Province, opening a strategic corridor from West Sailport to the three northern states on the northwestern side of Bharata Province.

The spearhead of the attack was Ross’s 171st Mechanized Chiliarchy, supported by the airship “Horn.”

The front line advanced almost minute by minute, and the Bharata Army was routed, abandoning their gear.

Sitting in the command post, Wanfuzhang Olet gazed down at the map, a pleasant smile on his face.

“A battle with no suspense… I thought the natives here would be smarter than the freaks in the Great Wasteland, but I was wrong—they’re worse than those guys fighting with iron rods.”

Equipment is only one factor in battle, not everything.

And these fools’ stupidity lies in their delusion that they can defeat the Legion through trench warfare.

Before the Southern Legion’s “Horn” and 902mm heavy artillery, those trenches dug with shovels are a joke; staying put only increases their casualties.

Macron, standing beside him, smiled faintly.

“I feel much the same. The natives here are indeed mediocre, but it’s too early to claim victory.”

Olet looked at him with interest.

“You think they still have a chance to turn things around?”

Macron spoke in a gentle tone.

“The Alliance’s envoy is in the Celestial Capital. I don’t think they’ll pretend not to see it.”

“Heh, the Alliance… let them come,” Olet sneered, his face twisted with disgust. “I’ll teach them the price of meddling.”

“Mm,” Macron nodded lightly. “That price is unavoidable.”

After all, the price of not meddling is even steeper.

Every survivor of the River Valley Province knows this well…

And as for what would happen next, he had learned that lesson too.

At the same time Olet’s forces were charging northward, the roar of propellers drew near from the east above West Sailport.

Those were W-2 attack aircraft!

And a full hundred of them!

Some Verant soldiers stationed at West Sailport couldn’t help but look up at the sky, surprise spreading across their faces.

What surprised them wasn’t the planes themselves.

But that Bharata, founded less than three months ago, actually had pilots?!

Where did these bumpkins find time to train?!

Spotting the enemy aircraft, the airship “Horn” immediately halted its frontline support, turned course, and aimed its cannons at the skies over West Sailport.

Not only that, but West Sailport’s air units also scrambled, with nearly a hundred “Dagger” propeller fighters charging at Bharata’s air force.

Yet those W-2s didn’t head for West Sailport; after a feint, they dove toward the station and railway north of the port.

Watching the planes’ movements, General Gurion in the command post narrowed his eyes, clearly sensing something amiss.

Meanwhile, on the lead “Mosquito” fighter, an excited, piercing shout rang out.

“Time to stock up, brothers!”

“Release the safeties, ready for battle!”

The comm channel crackled nonstop, as lively as New Year’s.

Like those warlike Verants, they too had waited too long for this moment.

And as players, their reason for fighting was far purer than the Verants’—

Finally, a chance to cut loose and fight!

“Ooohhh!!!”