Chapter 1: Thunderclap

Four hours prior—

Regis was feeling blessed. Early in the morning on August 12th, the newspaper containing Beclard’s testimony had gone into circulation. The capital was now in an uproar over these allegations that had come right before the prince’s coronation. The public pressed the palace for answers, but none were provided. It was all going as he had predicted.

Sipping coffee in the café space of Carol’s bookstore, Regis was finally able to devote his time to reading. The letter he had written was en route to Fort Volks: an encoded message that would inform the princess of his survival and which included a proposal for their next plan of action. It would take a few days for the letter to arrive and for him to receive a response; in the meantime, he could enjoy the peace and tranquility of a short respite...

“Regis!”

Or so he thought. Fanrine had rushed over to him, concerningly pale-faced.

“Wait. You can’t call me that out loud,” Regis said. “That’s a little problematic.”

“Aah! I’m sorry! Regina! Big trouble!”

Regis was still cross-dressing to remain hidden in the capital. There was no real need for him to remain in the city, but he did so anyway, immersed in books in the name of gathering information. Cross-dressing was of very little consequence to him now that it was affording him time to read.

“What’s wrong?” Regis asked. “There’s hardly anything in the world serious enough to warrant yelling in a bookstore.”

“Princess Argentina’s knights have set up formation on the eastern hill!”

“Whaaat?!”

Much to his disappointment, Regis’s peace had lasted not even half a day. He hurriedly made his way back to the Renard Pendu camp. Third Prince Bastian, his friend Elize, the activist Bourgine, the journalist Claude, the injured Franziska, and her little sister Martina all remained in the capital.

No sooner had Regis arrived than Jessica, the interim leader of the mercenary brigade, fixed him with a stern glare. Her features were pretty enough, but she still exuded an unmistakable intensity. “You are back rather late, Sir Aurick. It is almost sunset,” she said.

“U-Um, I believe I sent a letter regarding my situation. Did it not reach you?”

“You were reading, I presume.”

“Urk...”

Regis and Jessica hadn’t known one another for long, but she had already seen right through him. Perhaps that much was to be expected; she wasn’t known as “the Magician” for nothing. As far as Regis was concerned, her insight greatly surpassed his own.

Jessica had already spread out a map before them. “There are five hundred cavalry atop the hill and four thousand foot soldiers behind,” she began. “The White Hares of the First Army are taking formation at the base of the hill.”

“I saw them mustering the soldiers on my way out of the city. The First Army will send approximately ten thousand. In fact, they may have already headed out by now; we left from the opposite side of the city and took a detour to get here.”

“Is your Princess Argentina planning on waging civil war?”

“She can’t be...”

“This is your fault, you know.”

“Mn... I sent a letter, but if she’s here already, she must have missed it.”

“So, what are you going to do? Will you sit and watch?”

“Heavens, no! I’m going to meet with the princess.”

Jessica nodded, having anticipated that response. “You have my cooperation, as promised,” she said.

The mercenaries had already made all the necessary preparations and were ready to move at a moment’s notice. Regis had expected to head out alone, but he was open to any assistance.

Upon leaving the camp, the brigade made for the eastern hill, numbering around seven hundred in total. Regis accompanied them in a rattling box carriage, together with Fanrine and Jessica. As per usual, he was unable to ride a horse.

“The Fourth Army’s in sight!” the driver called out.

“What now, Sir Aurick?” Jessica asked.

“Please raise a white flag! We’ll spur an attack if we press on like this!”

“Understood!”

Fortunately, the First Army hadn’t made any moves. Regis was able to reach the Fourth Army without incident...although whether he was completely out of the woods was yet to be seen.

As the soldiers of the Fourth Army readied their bows and spears, cautiously eyeing the unfamiliar band of mercenaries, Regis climbed out of the carriage. He recognized a few of the gathered troops. Once they recognized him in turn, they would surely call Altina.

Regis waved at the wary men with a smile, but their response was not what he had expected. Rather than return the gesture, their cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Were they not soldiers of the Fourth Army?

Upon his arrival, Regis had thought he was finally back where he belonged...but something didn’t seem quite right. He was starting to feel as though he had inadvertently wandered into someone else’s house.

Understanding the situation, Fanrine came up behind the tactician and whispered in his ear, “Regis! Your clothes!”

“Ah?!”

He had completely forgotten—as he was now, he looked nothing like the tactician they all knew. He was disguised so perfectly that even the observant journalists had been unable to tell he was a man.

But what will the soldiers think if they see me take off my wig...?

As Regis mused over his situation, the soldiers of the Fourth Army parted to reveal a figure with fiery red hair, carrying over her shoulder a sword that was longer than she was tall. Her crimson eyes stared straight at him.

“Regis...?”

“Huh? A-Altina!”

“Regis, Regis, Regis, Regis, Regis, Regis!”

The young woman threw herself at him, hugging him with all her might. And in her tight embrace...

“Gweh.”

...Regis let out a croak like the death throes of a crushed frog.

✧ ✧ ✧

Inside the Fourth Army’s main camp, six people sat gathered in a tent: Regis, Altina, Eddie, Abidal-Evra, Jessica, and Fanrine. Eric kept watch over the entrance.

Once Altina had gotten over the excitement of their reunion, she stared long and hard at Regis. It wasn’t the first glare he had received from a woman since waking up that morning. Today was evidently one of those days.

“So? What’s going on?” Altina asked. “Why did you appear as a woman with enemy mercenaries after Latrielle reported that you had died in battle? Ah, I just don’t know anymore!”

“I’m as puzzled as you are...”

Regis couldn’t blame Altina for being confused. As he looked at her, he could feel his cheeks naturally loosening into a smile.

“What are you grinning for?!” Altina demanded.

“Me? Am I grinning? I didn’t notice...”

“Is it that amusing to see me at a loss for words?”

“No, I’m just happy that I get to see you at all.”

“Wha—?!” Altina’s cheeks burned red.

Eddie burst into laughter. “Real smooth! I’ll need to use that one myself when I’m back at Fort Volks,” he said. His beloved, Fifth Princess Felicia, had remained behind.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Regis stammered, starting to panic. “That’s not what I meant!”

“You’re more silver-tongued than ever now that you’re a woman, Regis.”

“Don’t even joke about that, Sir Eddie.”

“Do you really have time for such bantering?” a voice interjected. It was Jessica, speaking as coolly and as calmly as ever. “The sun is already setting. Will you prolong this staring match?”

Regis offered a wry smile. “No, there really is no reason for us to keep this up. Let’s have the soldiers sleep somewhere warm tonight. Could someone fetch me a pen and paper?”

No sooner had the words been spoken than a maid entered the tent. In her hands was a tray, on top of which was a writing set. Her response had come so immediately that it was as though she had predicted the request.

“Oh...” Regis swallowed his breath.

Clarisse set the tray on the table without so much as a word. Because there were others present, she opted to remain silent and expressionless, but Regis noticed a slight redness to her eyes. She had no doubt been crying.

“Thank you, Ms. Clarisse,” Regis said with a smile. “I’m, um... I’m back.”

“Of course. Welcome back...” She paused for a moment and then, in a voice that was barely loud enough to be audible, added, “Mr. Regis.”

With that, Clarisse bowed and exited the tent as if nothing had happened.

“She could have at least said a little more,” Altina murmured. “Especially considering how long you’ve been gone for.”

“...It’s fine,” Regis replied. As far as he was concerned, Clarisse had conveyed her joy at his safe return better than she could have in ten thousand words.

Regis picked up the pen that Clarisse had prepared for him and noticed that it fit perfectly in his hand. It was the pen he always used—the one he had left behind at Fort Volks. Clarisse must have believed in him, even though the troops had marched on the news of his death. She had known that he would have an opportunity to use it once again.

Or perhaps she intended to lay it on my grave... he noted to himself as his pen flew across the page. He then rolled up the letter he had written and pressed Altina’s seal into the wax.

“You use the princess’s seal as if doing so comes naturally to you,” Jessica chided him again.

“Yes, well... You see... Altina fails to seal these letters properly one out of every three times.”

“You even call her by a nickname.”

“I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand, but...”

Regis had called her “Altina” before everyone gathered. He didn’t want any rumors spreading among the soldiers and endeavored to speak courteously in public, but now that it had come to this, he decided that he would reveal their relationship to the Fourth Army’s officers.

“I am Altina’s tactician, nothing more and nothing less,” Regis continued. “It’s just, the princess and I are both terrible with needless formalities.”

“Actually, I’ve grown quite accustomed to formal speech by now.”

“H-Huh?” Regis was completely taken aback; that refutation had come from the very last person he had expected.

“I continue to permit such casual speech because it’s you, Regis,” Altina explained.

“W-Well...thanks.”

“I reached out to you as a tactician. But more than that, I wanted a comrade who shares my ambitions.”

“...Yes, that is my intention. We strive toward the same ideals.”

Jessica nodded. “I understand that you share a special bond.”

“It’s...somewhat hard to explain,” Regis said.

“Fear not. At the very least, I could tell at first glance that your relationship is not a romantic one.”

“I-Is it really that obvious?”

“Do you not know who I am?” Jessica asked. Her observational skills were entirely to be expected of the esteemed tactician of such an infamous mercenary brigade.

“Hmm...” Abidal-Evra furrowed his brow. “I don’t think anyone would deny that Sir Aurick is an extraordinary talent, but this complete disregard of decorum is...”

Eddie cut him off with a reassuring pat on the back. “Now, now! They’ll act all proper during ceremonies and official business.”

“A military meeting is official business.”

“Well, what does it matter if Argentina’s asking for it? Keeping things casual makes it easier for us to work, and right now, results are more important than decorum.”

“C-Certainly...”

Now more than ever, they needed to allow Regis to freely exhibit his talents. The very future of the Fourth Army was at stake.

Regis lowered his head. “Sorry. It’s all my fault.”

Abidal-Evra frowned. “Oh, er... I can understand the reason you don’t speak formally around the princess, so...please be at ease around me too. It would make me feel irreverent otherwise.”

“Ah... Aha ha...” Regis gave an awkward chuckle. “I will do my utmost... I mean, I’ll do my best.”

“So, what about the letter?” Altina asked Regis, pulling the conversation back on track. Now that he thought about it, he had explained only that he intended to give the soldiers a warm place to sleep.

“It will be delivered to Latrielle, of course.”

“You’re sending an envoy, right? I was able to work out that much, but I was hesitating over who to send.”

“Hmm? It doesn’t matter who.”

“Really?!”

“The First Army is stationed close enough that you could even send a fresh recruit.”

“What are you going to ask Latrielle?” Altina asked. “About whether he put you to the sword? Ah, no... I suppose he couldn’t have.”

It was hard to believe that the second prince had asked for Regis’s assassination when Regis was in their very presence and clearly still alive.

Regis smiled bitterly. “Oh, he did—or at least, he tried to. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have spread the news that I died in battle.”

“Ah, that’s right!”

“But we can put that matter aside for now. First, about the envoy. At this distance, we just need to have someone deliver our message. Latrielle can reply with a letter in turn.”

“I see.”

“Again, I’m sorry. This was my mistake. I should have appointed someone knowledgeable about these things as your deputy officer. Sir Everard would have done nicely.”

“Oh, of course...”

Everard was currently serving as the head of the Fort Volks garrison, but he was a veteran warrior. He was Jerome’s trusted retainer and was likely well versed when it came to negotiating.

Regardless, they couldn’t just sit around talking. Regis called a runner, entrusted him with the document he had written, and then sent him to the First Army.

Altina cocked her head. “So, what did you write?”

“Wait. Didn’t I show you before I sealed it?”

“Aha ha... Sorry. I was staring at you the whole time, Regis.”

Upon hearing that, Regis felt his cheeks grow heated. “I-I see...”

“I was just making sure you weren’t transparent.”

“Transparent? I’m not a ghost.”

Altina and Eddie chuckled at that remark.

Abidal-Evra seemed restless; he was no doubt still unaccustomed to this casual atmosphere. Jessica, in contrast, seemed a lot more composed. She must have already had a good idea of what the letter was about, as she sipped her tea without paying it much mind.

Eric remained as steadfast as a guard should be, so it was up to Fanrine, who was seated at the foot of the table, to ask the pressing question. She raised her hand to get everyone’s attention and then said, “I’m curious about it as well. What did you put in the letter?”

“Er... First, I wrote about myself—that there were certain reasons that caused my disappearance from the battlefield. I also apologized for troubling the marshal general on the matter and added that I had safely returned to the Fourth Army.”

“You didn’t address the fact that you’ve been pronounced dead...?”

“Regardless of whether we offer our opinion on the situation, Latrielle will apologize and issue a correction. It does happen from time to time that someone declared dead is discovered to actually be alive.”

“But Latrielle plotted to assassinate you.”

“We have no evidence to prove that.”

More importantly, if they prompted further investigation into the matter, it would come to light that Renard Pendu had killed the lookouts. Nothing good would come from prodding that sleeping bear.

Altina smiled. “But I’m sure Latrielle is going to be shocked. Receiving a letter from the man he thought he killed! It’s unfortunate we can’t see his face!”

“I don’t think he’ll come out of the palace. He had a duel with Colonel Coulthard of the High Britannian Army and suffered wounds so severe that he couldn’t even ride a horse. I believe his recovery will take a couple of months.”

“Say what?!”

“Has that information not spread through the military? I suppose it’s being kept under wraps so that the ceremony isn’t postponed. Latrielle seems to be in quite the hurry...”

“The coronation is tomorrow, right...?”

“I noted in my letter that the Fourth Army has come to offer its blessings.”

Altina grimaced. “Like we’d come here to celebrate him...”

“We can’t spin our arrival any other way. It’s the only reasonable excuse we can give for having arbitrarily mobilized the Fourth Army.”

“It’s Latrielle’s fault for sending nonsense reports!”

“Are you going to tell that to the Ministry of Military Affairs?”

“Grr...”

Altina was unable to wipe away her discontent, but she stomached it nonetheless. Perhaps she’s grown a little from when she said she didn’t want me to leave, Regis mused. If only she had the composure to gather some information before moving an entire army...

“But this should be effective in itself,” Regis said.

“What do you mean?”

“I believe that emphasizing the Fourth Army’s presence to the citizens of the capital—especially the nobles—will be quite beneficial henceforth.”

“You’re making a nasty face again, Regis...”

“Am I? Well, I can’t play nicely all the time. I’ve already been killed once.”

“Right! Ah, by the way...there’s something that’s been bothering me.”

“What is it?”

Altina reached out her hand and stroked Regis’s hair. “Why did you decide to become a woman? Clarisse laughed herself to tears.”

Wait, so when I saw that her eyes were red... Those weren’t tears of joy?!

“No, this is—”

“We disguised Sir Aurick, as per his request,” Jessica stated plainly.

“N-No, I mean, that’s not untrue, but please don’t phrase it in a way that could cause misunderstandings!”

“Pff...” Fanrine stifled a laugh.

Left with little choice in the matter, Regis explained the details.

In a large tent in the First Army’s encampment—

The sun had already begun to sink behind the western hill when a horseman sped over, waving the flag of a messenger.

“They’ve sent a runner, sire,” Germain called out. He had made a habit of reporting everything he saw, acting as Latrielle’s eyes.

“Indeed,” the prince replied. His right eye had mostly recovered, but his left was as bad as ever. To make matters worse, a medical examination had determined that he would eventually lose his sight entirely.

“Do you think it’s a declaration of war?” Germain wondered aloud. “Or a petition regarding the death of their tactician?”

“No, I doubt it.”

Latrielle was seated, having come away from the siege with thin but deep cuts on his left shoulder and right thigh. His injuries were bad enough that the doctor had wanted him bedridden, but that simply wasn’t an option. Now unable to ride a horse, he was forced to move by carriage.

Germain looked at the prince quizzically. “Why else would they send a messenger?” he asked.

“The group that met up with them... You said they looked like mercenaries, correct? That explains how the tactician and that woman managed to cross the mountains.”

“Ah!”

“I presume that messenger is coming to report the miraculous survival of Sir Regis.”

“But if you’re right and Regis is still alive...shouldn’t we still expect a declaration of war?”

“Against the First Army, with those paltry forces? Bear in mind we have another fifty thousand stationed in the capital.”

“Th-That’s...true...”

“Fear not. No matter how great of a tactician Regis is, he cannot overturn our vastly superior might. Furthermore, a civil war only benefits our enemies. It is inconceivable that we might see any hostilities.”

Latrielle spoke firmly, but inside, he was gravely uncertain. In truth, his words were mostly to convince himself. Regis had exhibited an abnormal amount of skill while commanding and strategizing during the liberation of Grebeauvoir; the prince couldn’t shake his fears that the tactician might come out with a plan the likes of which he couldn’t even fathom.

It wasn’t long before the messenger arrived. Germain received and unfurled the correspondence. Latrielle could have read it himself under better lighting conditions, but he struggled when evening came around.

“I-It’s as we feared!” Germain stammered. “Regis d’Aurick is alive!”

“Is that so...”

“It follows with an apology for all the trouble he caused you, sire. And a statement that the Fourth Army has mobilized to celebrate your coronation.”

“Hmph... Who does he think he’s fooling?”

“What shall we do?”

“He’s speaking nonsense, but we cannot aggravate the Fourth Army. A civil war is going to harm me the most.”

“Sure enough... Five hundred horsemen and four thousand foot soldiers is a bit much for the fourth princess’s guard detail, and the remnants of the High Britannian Army are still scattered across our land.” It was not completely absurd to say the entire nation was a battlefield.

“And as marshal general, the blame for High Britannia reaching so far into our territory rests with me,” Latrielle said, irked. Although the letter came across as rather benign, it was clear that his foe would take full advantage of any careless mistakes. He cursed to himself. This much was to be expected of a plan from that tactician; he had prepared the prince’s own countermeasure for him.

“Then...how shall we respond?” Germain asked.

“We congratulate Regis for his safe return and apologize for the misunderstanding. Award him the medals he should have received at Grebeauvoir, invite Argentina to the coronation, and give a warm welcome to every soldier in the Fourth Army. That should cover it.”

I’m practically accepting all of their demands... Latrielle thought. He clenched his fists, only to feel two hands rest atop them.

“Please settle down, sire... This is a fine play on your part. The fourth princess shall also have a storm in her heart as she celebrates the enthronement of a political enemy. You are going to be sharing the pain.”

“I’m aware of that, but I’m not the one who thought up my response. It was the tactician. He created a situation where this is my only recourse.”

“What are you talking about? Even when Regis was operating in the capital, the most he managed was a dubious article in some gossip tabloid. You’re still the one ultimately taking the throne.”

“Hmm...”

“In fact, the fourth princess’s attendance will show everyone who the true emperor is. Are you sure Regis isn’t the one holding his head right now?”

“You’re right, Germain. I must be growing anxious, what with my coronation before me.”

“You’re just tired. Let’s write our reply and return to the palace; we can leave the rest to the White Hares.”

“Right... I’ll take your advice. For tomorrow’s sake.”

And so, Latrielle hopped aboard his carriage and started on his return to the palace. Under Batteren of the White Hares’s command, the First Army solemnly marched back to the capital, the Fourth Army following behind them.

The sudden addition of around forty-five hundred soldiers caused an uproar in the supply chain from top to bottom, but...just as Regis had proclaimed, it did seem the soldiers of the Fourth Army would have a warm place to sleep.

Sparks had been flying between the two armies since midday, but now, at nightfall, they were marching down the main street in two lines. Spectators flooded to the sides of the roads. It was a peculiar sight indeed, but the civilians, anxious at the prospect of civil war, could not help but smile and cheer.

✧ ✧ ✧

The next day—

It was rainy, but that would not stop the coronation. A splendid stage had been erected in the plaza in front of the palace—the same plaza where Bourgine had once given her address. Soldiers clad in glistening full plate saluted in rank and file.

“You’re late, newbie!” yelled a man with large ears and suntanned skin, dressed in a leather flatcap and a seedy business suit. He was Claude, a reporter from The Weekly Quarry. A short girl was running after him.

“Please...don’t just...run ahead...like that!” the girl panted. She wore a similar cap and jacket, but she had pale skin and blue eyes. Her blonde hair was tied behind her head.

“Put this on,” Claude said, handing her a wooden board with a symbol burned into it, attached to a thin leather cord so that it could be worn around the neck. He was wearing one as well.

“What is it?”

“A press pass. You can’t even get close enough to see the nobles’ faces without one. See, if we try joining that crowd now, we won’t be able to hear Latrielle’s speech.”

“He’s amazing. People have gathered from all over the Empire. Forget the plaza; the streets are packed to the brim.”

“Don’t be stupid; there are a hundred thousand here at most. That’s a mere fraction of the Empire’s population.”

“That’s still pretty crazy!”

“Maybe... And I must be crazy, entrusting this once-in-a-lifetime event to my junior. Especially seeing as you overslept.”

“Th-That’s only because you wouldn’t let me sleep!” the girl protested, her cheeks turning a bashful red.

“Because your article was so piss-poor, we had to spend all night correcting it!” Claude shot back through gritted teeth. He urged her forward with such a strong push that she almost toppled over, but still, she pressed on.

“Wah! Ah, seriously... Still, I’m surprised you actually managed to get press passes.”

“Yeah.”

“The Weekly Quarry’s pretty much become the representative of all the dissidents raising hell around the capital. Honestly, how did... Huh? Wait, this isn’t right, sir. The name on my pass is wrong.”

“You think so?”

“Look! It should say ‘Betty.’ This isn’t even close! Huh? The company name’s wrong too... And, wait, your name’s completely wrong, sir!”

“Pipe down. There’s no way the Ministry of Ceremonies was ever going to give The Quarry a permit.”

“So these are forged...?”

“Think. How do you expect me to get my hands on a branding iron, especially at such short notice?”

“Then...you stole it.”

“Don’t be stupid. I graciously borrowed them from those who sympathize with our ideals. Let’s make the best of our good fortune, eh?”

“Th-This is a crime!”

“Fine. Give yours back if you’re so against it. I’ll go alone.”

Claude reached out, but Betty twisted to avoid him. “A-Actually, on second thought, you’re the one who stole them. I’m perfectly innocent. And I do want to see the ceremony. Latrielle’s super cool.”

“Hah! We’re writing an article to take him down, remember?”

“Really gets the heart racing, doesn’t it?”

“You’re insane. Not that any normal people ever apply to work for us...”

The two passed through the exclusive press gate and mixed in with the large crowd of reporters. The officials did ask for their press passes, but there were so many people barging through that the check consisted of no more than a cursory look over. In hindsight, perhaps even a crude forgery would have gotten them inside. They were, however, strictly screened for weapons.

The podium was in front of the palace gates. The nobles were seated facing it, while the reporters were sectioned off with a fence, positioned to watch from the side. It wasn’t a bad spot—as Claude had said, they were close enough to make out everyone’s expressions—but a line of armored soldiers stood in the way.

“Move! Or at least crouch down!”

It’s a little cute to see them cowering and squatting before seething reporters, Betty thought. Her short stature meant she had to stand on tiptoes to see the stage. “Hah... No sign of Prince Latrielle.”

“Given the rain, he’ll probably stay under shelter until the last possible minute. I don’t see Marquis Bergerac either.” Claude didn’t usually bother adding noble titles to such names, but he had to be mindful when there was no telling who was listening.

“Bergerac...?”

“Grr... At least remember the name of the minister of ceremonies.”

“Oh, that’s right! I remember! I totally remember! He’s the third prince’s grandfather. Aha ha... I have a hard time memorizing and recalling anything that doesn’t have to do with hotties.”

“Good grief...”

“I had such a hard time remembering you, sir.”

“Shut up.” Claude parted the reporters and started making his way closer to the stage. Betty was smaller, so she had to stick to his back if she wanted to press on. Upon reaching the front, Claude leaned over the low fence and pointed. “Look at those lines of nobles.”

“They’re positively sparkling.”

“You should memorize the order they’re sitting in.”

“What does it mean?”

“Front right is where the top noble sits, and they go down in importance from there. This seating order’s the result of a grand power struggle. You could call it a flat-out indication of each noble’s current political standing.”

“Oh, I see.”

“A new emperor means different nobles might be favored. And so the order changes.”

“I see, I see...” Betty nodded. She would have noted this information down, but all the journalists pushing her from behind made it a near-impossible task. There was a serious chance she would have been squashed flat by now had Claude not been there; he had resorted to pressing both hands against the fence to form a barrier of sorts for her. “Are the ones in the front the royal family?”

“The current ministers too. They’re special. They don’t need to nestle up to the emperor; in fact, the nobles are supposed to nestle up to them.”

“Hmm. Even the ministers?”

“The ministers are like the representatives of the nobles. Even the emperor can’t fire them without reason, otherwise there’ll be trouble. The nation won’t function. Worst-case scenario, there could be a large-scale civil war.”

“Oh really?”

“In short, they’re super nobles who can’t be ignored. Oh, look! It’s Princess Argentina!”

“Wowser! I’m a huge fan!”

The other reporters were in an uproar over the entrance of the woman who was second in notability only to the emperor himself. The fence grated and Claude’s arms began to tremble as the crowd pushed even harder; he was barely able to hold everyone back.

“Grr... Nghh...”

“Are you okay, sir?”

“Yeah... That red-haired, crimson-eyed young woman? Get a good look at her while you can. She became a lieutenant general at fifteen. She’s a hero who turned the tide of the war: Marie Quatre Argentina.”

“Talk about crazy!”

“If you’re a reporter, you should really do something about your vocabulary. Anyways, the guy next to her is even crazier!”

“Oh?”

“First-Grade Admin Officer Regis d’Aurick. They call him the Wizard. He’s dressed like a man today, I see...” Claude chuckled. “He looked better in a dress.”

Betty tilted her head. The man walking beside the princess was wearing a formal uniform, but he was slender and slumped forward. “Um... That spindly guy is Regis?” she asked. “He’s not just the princess’s bag carrier?”

“That’s Sir Regis to you. He might just be a chevalier, but he’s still a noble.”

“Yuck. My image of him is ruined.”

“Hey, I thought the same thing the first time I met him. Behind them is...the Empire’s Sword, Eddie Fabio de Balzac.”

“Whoa, a hottie!”

“Rumor had it he disappeared during the national day celebrations... I guess he really did follow the fourth princess.”

“What sort of person is he?”

“He’s the best swordsman in the Empire. Never lost a sparring match, although I heard he hates the battlefield.”

“Hmm.”

“He was apparently working as First Prince Auguste’s bodyguard. But now that Auguste has retired and put his support behind Argentina, I guess he’s in the princess’s faction. Just as expected.”

“I don’t see Prince Auguste anywhere.”

“Or any silver hair, at that.”

“There is some brown hair, though.” The other reporters had noticed too; their surroundings were astir as surprise spread among the nobles.

“Seriously...” Claude groaned. “That’s Third Prince Heinrich Trois Bastian! I never thought he’d express his support for the princess too! And on the day of the coronation, no less! This is getting interesting!”

“Mm... Huh? What’s so interesting?”

“Think about it. Second Prince Latrielle is gonna take the throne. The smart thing to do is to support him—even an idiot could see that.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Despite that, Third Prince Bastian, on the very day the match is decided, chooses to publicly associate with Princess Argentina!”

“Are you sure they didn’t just happen to enter together?”

“This ain’t your everyday bar! If they didn’t want to show their alliance, they would have entered separately.”

“Ah, I see.”

“You don’t get it, do you? He chose to side with Princess Argentina because of our coverage. This is the best!”

“Eh? Is that true?!”

“Oh, right. You weren’t there. I’ll explain when we get back.”

Betty offered a vague nod in response. It must have been the illegal sort of reporting if he can’t talk about it here, she concluded.

A sinister smile played on Claude’s lips. “Aha ha... Emperor Latrielle’s a ship setting out in a storm. The fact that Prince Bastian is supporting Princess Argentina practically screams that those rumors about Prince Latrielle killing his father aren’t complete nonsense.” It was clear to see why the nobles were so boisterous, and with that thought, he turned his gaze to Regis. “Did you set all this up...?”

“Sir.” Betty pointed at the seated nobles. “What about the ones in the second row?”

“Up front, you have those from around the capital—the important central nobles. Latrielle’s faction, so to speak. Not only do they have wealth and military might, but the prince they’re backing is about to become emperor. They must be jumping for joy.”

“The rich get richer. Can’t say I like that.”

“Next up are the new nobles from the south. Do you know about the Gaillarte Garden Party?”

“O-Of course I do,” Betty replied, her eyes wavering in contrast to her already feeble assertion.

Claude sighed. “I told you to read up before we arrived. They hold vast tracts of fertile land to the south and have built up a fortune trading with the many small nations in the area.”

“So they’re loaded?”

“Yeah, and they can put up a good fight against the power-hungry central nobles. I thought they were in the princess’s faction, but...I guess, even then, that still puts them above the western nobles.”

“So the western nobles come third?”

Claude nodded. “They were second during the previous emperor’s reign... They have a prestigious history, but the old, established houses in the west have fallen. Now they’re little more than poor nobles in the countryside. They suffered the most damage in the war against High Britannia.”

“Ah, right. Makes sense if they’re in the west.”

Behind those three powers, the other miscellaneous provincial nobles lined up. They were viscounts and other lower ranks—houses with minimal assets. Similarly to the common spectators, they weren’t even afforded seats.

“Hmm?” It was then that Betty noticed something. “The eastern nobles didn’t come?”

“There’s a rumor going around that Latrielle assassinated Juhaprecia. War could break out in the east at any second.”

“Pff... Aren’t we the ones who spread that rumor?”

“Hey. Keep quiet about that,” Claude chided, although he was clearly holding back laughter as he said it. On closer inspection, every noble seemed keen on getting even a single seat ahead. Meanwhile, there were a surprising number of vacancies among the high nobles.

“Is it because of the rain?” Betty asked.

“No... There are a few nobles claiming lèse-majesté and protesting that the suspicions of the prince assassinating the emperor were never addressed. They’re the sorta folk who would hold a duel for their honor.”

“Come to think of it, the empress consort isn’t here either.”

“Hm? You’re right... Oh, it’s about to start. Remember the order; we’re putting it in the article.”

“Leave it to me!”

The greatest disturbance in the Ministry of Ceremonies had been caused by the empress consort, Latrielle’s mother. Soon after The Weekly Quarry had divulged the grand chamberlain’s testimony, she had disappeared from the imperial court. Even now, her whereabouts were unknown, and so this empty seat in the frontmost row invited quite a bit of speculation.

A bugle sounded to mark the beginning of the ceremony, and then came the rhythmic beating of a drum. The coronation opened to a dignified musical performance.

✧ ✧ ✧

Inside a waiting room in the palace—

Latrielle was dressed in the Empire’s traditional robes and was quietly waiting for the coronation to begin when Germain entered the room. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to find the empress consort in time...” the adjutant said.

“I see,” Latrielle replied. “Then she will not attend.”

“Our surveillance loosened because of yesterday’s uproar. My apologies.”

“What are you apologizing for? Am I an infant who cannot host a ceremony without his mother?”

“No, that’s not what I—”

Latrielle leaned close to Germain and whispered into his ear, ensuring that nobody else would overhear. “She is a vile serpent who poisoned my brother so that her own son could take the throne. Be vigilant. She’s most dangerous when she can’t be seen.”

Germain swallowed hard. “I’ll double our search efforts at once.”

“Do so in moderation; the safety of our attendees is our top priority. My reputation will be tarnished if anything happens to my guests during my coronation.”

“Yes, sir. I won’t let you down!”

After giving a salute, Germain exited the waiting room. Latrielle was alone once more. He opened a wooden chest containing his personal effects and took out a painting small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Depicted on it was a black-haired woman in an apron.

“Beatrice... I’ve finally made it this far...”

There came a sudden knock on the door, which prompted Latrielle to return the painting to his chest. As soon as he stepped outside the palace, he was struck by the tune of the band and the cheers of the crowd. In spite of the rain, the square and the streets were brimming with people.

Latrielle approached the stage and slowly began making his way up its stairs—a mere eight steps. How much blood have I spilled to climb them? he wondered. Once he reached the fourth step, he could see who stood at the podium.

“Father...”

Before him was the shriveled face of the late emperor, a sword thrust through his heart. It was, of course, all an illusion. The man was already six feet underground, as was the sixth consort who stood beside him.

“Begone, witch...”

She was a demon who drained the lifeblood of the Empire; I feel not even a pang of guilt for what happened to her...

Or so Latrielle told himself. He climbed another step, this time trampling an enemy general he had defeated in battle. Then he trod on his own soldiers who had died under his command. By the time he reached the seventh step, he could feel his legs giving way.

“Auguste... My brother...”

Latrielle saw the young man his mother had poisoned. He saw his peaceful smile and the black blood that spilled from his purple lips. The cheers of the crowd warped until they sounded almost like the dire, vengeful wails of those forever damned to hell. He could feel the sweat beading on his brow before trickling down his cheeks. It was as though he were sinking into quicksand; his legs would carry him no farther.

Before Latrielle knew it, his composure had started to crumble. He no longer had the strength to stop his tears, which now streamed freely down his cheeks.

“Sire!” came a voice from behind him. “Eternal glory to the Empire!”

It was Germain. In an instant, the corpses—the hallucinations—were gone. Now before Latrielle were the stage, the lines of nobles, and the cheering civilians. He raised one hand in response.

“Naturally!”

Latrielle took the stage, and the cheers grew louder still. His gaze fell on the lined-up nobles; they were all dressed up like peacocks, their smiles practically dripping with greed. Among them, only Argentina and those around her looked at him with sharp, disapproving eyes.

Glare at me all you want. It’s too late.

The empress consort was still absent. Latrielle was not sad about this; rather, he found it somewhat uncanny.

Marquis Bergerac, the minister of ceremonies, stepped out and proclaimed the start of the ceremony to thunderous applause. He was so pale that he looked as though he might collapse at any second. Perhaps he was mindful of the fact that his grandson, Bastian, had taken Argentina’s side.

The ceremony proceeded without delay—the head of the church chanted a blessing and bestowed the crown upon the man who had moments ago been the second prince. Only in that moment did it truly feel real. Latrielle looked up at the lead-colored sky, at the rain that continued to pour down from above.

Even if the heavens disapprove, I am now the emperor. I shall be the serpent that swallows nations whole!

“The Belgarian Empire is the only superpower that belongs in these lands!” Latrielle declared. “With no enemies left to fight, I promise you eternal peace and prosperity. Follow me! And then, I shall give you victory!” He raised a fist to the sky, and cheers reverberated through the plaza like thunder.

“Vive l’empereur! Long live the emperor!” the people cried. As their celebrations continued, the band sprang to life once more, erupting into the Belgarian national anthem.

On August 13th, during the 851st year of the Belgarian imperial calendar, Alain Deux Latrielle de Belgaria became the new emperor of the Belgarian Empire.