CHAPTER 3:

THE PRIVY COUNCIL'S
DECISION

1

Greylancer rose to his feet and offered no explanation in his defense. Resuming the bearing of an overlord ruling over his lowly human subjects, the Noble glared.

A shock wave of contempt and anger ripped through the four intruders. They were sent reeling on their heels, and two of the men fell onto their backsides.

“The door was open, so you are forgiven for not knocking or announcing your presence. I shall take my leave.” Greylancer moved toward his cybernetic horse without so much as acknowledging Michia.

“My lord,” said the voice of a younger man. When Greylancer did not slow his pace, the voice called out, “There’s something you should see.”

Sensing an odd confidence in the frightened voice, Greylancer turned his head.

A horrible chill stabbed like a stake at his immortal heart.

A youth of about twenty with his head wrapped in bandages stood clutching a rusty cross in his outstretched hand.

The others let out a cry. Though there were only four men including the chief, their voices rang across the stable with the force of an entire division of men.

“So it works,” said the youth. “I was wandering around some old religious ruins and came across an ancient tome. I guess what was written in it was true—the Nobility fear the crucifix.” He nodded at the others behind him, but two of the men were paralyzed with fear, as the stakes and hammers trembled in their hands. “Don’t just sit there! Do it!” yelled the youth at the top of his lungs.

“Chief, Chief…” Greylancer gnashed his teeth.

The chief was struck motionless by the fury in Greylancer’s voice. The cross was supposed to render the Noble unconscious, or so the youth had said. But though the Noble had averted his eyes, he hardly appeared shaken, much less about to fall into a swoon.

Greylancer hulked over the chief like a mountain. “Have you any idea what you’re doing?”

“I-I know it,” stammered the chief. His teeth chattered as if to rebuke the temerity of his actions. “Th-this is an act for…for all humanity! A day that will live in history. This night will sound the starting shot of humanity’s revolt against the Nobility!” The last words tripped off his tongue, not from growing calm but from desperate abandon.

Meanwhile the youth with the cross ran up to one of the feckless men on the ground and seized a stake and hammer. “Father!”

Chief Lanzi winced.

“Ah, so he is your son, is he? You also spoke of a daughter.” Greylancer’s voice took on a scornful tone that seemed to threaten not only Chief Lanzi but also his progeny in the present and extending into all eternity.

Lanzi’s son shoved the two weapons to his father’s chest. “Father, stab him in the heart with this.”

The stake and hammer rattled in the chief’s arms, as his entire body trembled.

“Father!” cried his son. But when Lanzi continued to shake, he yelled, “Then hold this. I’ll end him!” The youth shoved the cross in his father’s hands and took the stake and hammer in his own.

As he stood ready to lunge at Greylancer, Michia intervened for the first time. “Stop it, Lanok. You must stop. Lord Greylancer is—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” cried Lanok. “You’ve been a good mother to us. You never hit us or threw us out in the dead of winter for disobeying you, like our real mother. You were fair, but firm, an ideal mother. Leticia and I have always thought of you as our real mother. But now, look at you! Throwing yourself into the arms of this Noble. You’re a traitor! A traitor to Leticia, my father, and me, your friends, the village, the Frontier, and all of humanity! Leticia is lucky she isn’t here to witness this. As soon as I finish the Noble, you’re next!” These baleful words were enough to paint over the night with sorrow.

Lanok rushed forward with the stake pointed at Greylancer’s chest and lifted the hammer over his head.

Tackling his side to intercept his advance was Michia.

The two tangled and spun around several times in the other’s clutches before tumbling to the ground.

The cybernetic horses let out a loud whinny.

“Chief Lanzi,” boomed Greylancer. “Put down the cross!”

The old chief dropped the crucifix as if he’d been struck by a thunderbolt.

Greylancer’s right arm traced a wicked arc.

It was easy enough to call it a sudden flash of steel. But the tip of the lance exceeded three meters and its grip easily five meters in length.

The blade stopped not on Lanok, who’d scrambled to his feet, but at the throat of his companion, who was left twitching helplessly on the ground.

The Noble cast a smile that might rightly be called benevolent. With his eyes trained on the boy before him, Greylancer addressed the rebel leader. “Lanok, was it? As overseer, I have governed over this land by example. My regard for you humans is no different than that of other Nobles. But I will not promise your safety and leave you to fend for yourselves in a wasteland not even beasts or monsters dare inhabit. Nor will you be laid to slaughter for my gain. And in return my demand is this—absolute loyalty. It is easily given. Do not cross me, do not talk back in anger, and do not lie. And never raise a sword against me. They are the commandments I have passed down to you at my appointment and have repeated time and again. You have been allowed to live in peace ever since. A peaceful life. Is that not what you humans desire?”

“Ruled by the Nobility, surviving on what rations you toss our way—peaceful? Even if that were true, it’s no way to live. We live and breathe! As long as we are subjugated by your rule, we might as well be dead. What good is living in death? There are enough living dead already! Cursed vampires, cold-blooded bastards! This planet was born for us warm-blooded humans!” Lanok shouted, “You will die proudly, Hendry!”

“Hmph, did you hear him,” Greylancer said to the youth named Hendry. “A mere boy who must be defended by his mother. Will you listen to him?” The lance dug into the boy’s throat. Blood snaked down his neck. “Tell me that you want to be saved. Cry and scream that you do not want to die. Grovel before me and beg for your life. Then you will be allowed to live. Then you shall have the honor of serving me.”

When Hendry heard this, a certain look floated across his face. Lanok let out a groan.

A servant of the Nobility—a human who is bitten and dies by the hand of a Noble returns to life with the same abilities of the Nobility. As one of the living dead. A vampire. When he submits to his station as a well-heeled dog of his master, he ceases to be human. Most such servants would think of themselves as better than human.

A most sweet proposition. A delectable existence indeed. Those humans who joined the lowest ranks of the bloodstained world became informants and traitors against their brethren.

At that moment, a certain look came across the faces of these humans—one of terror, panic, guilt, and an avarice that exceeded all of the former. It was the very look that had crept across Hendry’s face.

“Die, Hendry!” Lanok shouted again.

“No!” cried his friend. “I didn’t want to pick a fight with the Nobles in the first place. You dragged me into this. I don’t want to die. God knows I don’t want my head torn off and tossed in the streets for crows and monsters to pick at.” Hendry turned to Greylancer and continued, “Yes, make me your servant.” Hendry turned over onto his knees and touched his forehead against the dirt.

“Very well.” The giant came forward. Throwing back his cape, Greylancer grabbed Hendry by the hair, pointed his face upward, and buried his face in the boy’s neck.

“Hendry!” Lanok let out a heartrending cry.

Soon anguish and an indelible look of rapture spread over Hendry’s face. Lanok imagined the blood of another world pouring into his friend’s veins.

Hendry’s body convulsed violently.

Aside from the two crimson lines trickling down his throat, a bloody flower began to spread its petals over his chest. The tip of a deadly stake tore through the wool shirt and emerged from his chest.

“Vachss?”

As the others remembered the presence of another youth, the boy named Vachss drew back the stake he’d driven into his treacherous friend’s heart from behind and swung for Greylancer’s chest.

The spike had pierced through Greylancer’s green and gold embroidered shirt and clear through his chest.

“Well done. So you are a lad with some courage.” Greylancer glanced up at Vachss as he passed a free hand across Lanok’s face, which was set in an indescribable expression. “Alas, too late. Your friend has already fallen prey to my kiss, and you will have to die. A most brutal death.”

“Why…why…do you not fall?” Vachss’s mouth opened and closed like that of a fish found in a market.

“Pray,” said Greylancer. “Pray to the god you believe in. Or you will never destroy me.”

Vachss had a god he believed in. He would not be able to endure this world otherwise. Though he tried to intone a prayer, memory failed him.

“I heard that if you pray from your soul, God will be by your side. And I am unable to lay a hand on him. I want to see this god. Pray.”

The Noble’s inexplicably solemn voice seemed to summon Vachss’s memory.

Amid the stench of blood beginning to fill the stable.

“Lord…I will fear no evil…for thou art with me…” The others listened to the horribly arid voice that came haltingly at first and then turned into a desperate echo. “…the Lord is my shepherd…He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters.”

Perhaps someone among them was aware that Vachss’s god had been born in a manger. Were that the case, perhaps bearing witness to another birth in this stable did not seem strange.

Soon the prayer ended.

A pious calm pervaded the barn, like moonlight on the Holy Night.

“Do you see Him?” Vachss asked—of whom, it was not clear. Perhaps Greylancer, or Chief Lanzi.

“Y-yes…” The chief nodded. “He—”

“—is not here.”

The instant Vachss recognized the voice belonging to Greylancer, his head twisted 360 degrees. The sound of his neck bones being crushed reverberated across the barn.

“What’s the matter, Chief? Lanok?” After dropping the dead body atop the corpse of the other boy, Greylancer shot a look at Lanok standing dumbstruck. “So your god does not come, even when you give prayer. I must say I am disappointed.”

The Noble’s long lance howled once more, cutting a path for Chief Lanzi’s neck.

His head sailed through the air in a gush of blood as the lance took aim at a new target.

Greylancer let slip a gasp.

Before the sidelong sweep of the lance could slice Lanok’s chest in two, Michia had jumped out in front of her son. The blade was wedged halfway into her torso.

2

Greylancer stared down at the young mother as she fell to her knees in a spray of blood. This mortal wound was evidence of either a lack of skill or the Noble’s singular ability to halt his lance mid-swing.

“Run,” said Michia in a blood-gurgling voice, prompting the Noble to turn toward the young insurgent.

After being pushed to the ground again, Lanok recovered his feet and tried to go to where his mother lay.

“Don’t—” Michia rasped. “Hurry, you must run.”

Lanok whirled around and eyed the door behind him. “Mother.”

“…quickly.” Then Michia collapsed.

Lanok chose to do his mother’s bidding.

As he let out a mournful wail and ran for the door, Greylancer pointed the lance at the boy’s back.

“Don’t.”

The woman’s thread-thin voice halted the bloodshed. When the Noble craned his neck downward, Michia was clinging to his right leg. Fresh blood trailed behind from where she had fallen and crawled. Blood that he had spilled.

Greylancer’s face betrayed a look of confusion, perhaps for the first time in his life.

“You defended me and defended your son, and for that, you will die by my lance. Why? Why do you protect two enemies?”

“…neither is…an enemy…of…mine…”

The thread began to break.

“My lance will kill you. You protected your son, knowing this. You could have lived another day. Do you not value your life?”

“A life…which you once saved. I am…content…to be able…to do the same. It will take time for…my son…to understand… so do not forget…that I saved you…and Lanok.”

“I will remember. You have my word,” said Greylancer, surprised by his own heartfelt reply.

Michia collapsed and did not stir again.

“Now you are dead.” Amid the stillness and stench of blood pervading the room, only the low murmur of Greylancer’s voice drifted about. “You humans all die so quickly. Flesh decays, and bones are left to bleach and crumble away in the wind. Why do you die so quickly? Why do you give your life for others, knowing so? For your son, I understand. But why did you not hesitate to save mine?” Greylancer hoisted the lance high in the air and stared at the blade. “I have taken the life of one who protected mine.”

If one’s voice told the secrets of the soul, no doubt the Noble named Greylancer was harboring a certain emotion.

An emotion called grief.

†

Bistoria, the capital city of the Northern Frontier sector, was eternally dampened by fog and rain. The cities heavily populated by Nobility were deliberately designed to maximize shadows, where Nobles could amble down the stone-paved streets or otherwise rush past the gaslights in coaches.

What Greylancer found waiting for him upon his return from the Frontier was an order to report to the Capital at once.

This is sudden. What do they want? he mused to himself.

Quietly, Greylancer boarded the emergency aircraft. The flight to the Capital was three hours.

Inside the halls of the Privy Council Ministry, ten members of the council, awaiting Greylancer’s arrival, were discussing matters of the war against the OSB. Two members were not present. They had gone missing several days ago.

Moonlight flooded in from the narrowly cut windows, and flames flickered in the bronze candle holders affixed throughout the hall. The artificial lighting was more of a habit than a natural predilection of Nobles endowed with night vision.

“Any progress in developing the technology to detect the OSB transformations or to prevent them outright?”

“We haven’t heard anything more from the Central Research Center.”

“The attack against the enemy’s moon base?”

“We’ve been systematically attacking the base with unmanned aerial vehicles and long-range missiles but have not been able to penetrate the enemy’s upgraded barriers. The best course of action would be a manned attack exploiting any momentary tears in the barrier. Aside from wooden stakes and steel blades, the OSB have yet to discover any weapons we’re not proof against. In hand-to-hand combat, we will be victorious. Their shape-shifting attacks will be ineffective against us. Even if they take another form, we will simply destroy everything in our path. Even their atomic cannons will be useless.”

“What about signs of religious behavior? Both the Theological Institute and Phenomena Bureau report that if the OSB find spirituality, their god might be able to discover our weaknesses.”

“We needn’t concern ourselves just yet. Their religion has only achieved a penetration factor of twenty percent to eighty percent for a scientific worldview. It will take some time before they consider the supernatural.”

“How long?”

“Perhaps a millennium.”

“Hmph, the blink of an eye.”

“Still, time enough to devise a strategy to annihilate the enemy. We need only blast a hole in the wall and send in the infantry. When their current deployment does not return, their home planet will think twice about invading this solar system. Then we shall only be too glad to return the favor.”

“With regard to the war on this planet, what do you know about the number of OSB incursions, their incursion route, and rate of human transformation?”

“I’ll answer in order. To date, there have been seven reported incursions within fifty kilometers of the Capital, all of which have been neutralized. Rather like parachuting into the middle of our military. Based on the knowledge acquired from the humans they assimilated, they naturally narrowed the incursion point to the Frontier. There have been sixty-six confirmed incursions this month. The four overseers reported that every invader had been neutralized, but given how members of the Statistics Bureau have been attacked in the field, no doubt many more OSB have infiltrated the Frontier and taken human form than have been reported.”

“What are the overseers doing?”

“Overseeing the Frontier sectors carries with it difficulties unimaginable to those of us here in the Capital. Which is precisely the reason why the overseers have been given a wider reach of powers than we wield over the Capital.”

“If it is a matter of competence, why do we not replace them?”

“The current overseers have achieved the highest success among any of their predecessors. None of the four are easily replaced.”

“What about the trouble in the Western Frontier sector?”

“Are you referring to Mayerling? The South and East report that he has become too involved with the humans.”

“Any reports from the North?”

“The Noble Greylancer.” Silence enveloped the spacious hall as soon as the name was expelled into the air. “He has reported nothing. You’re aware as well as I, he is not given to exposing the misdeeds of others.”

“Indeed, he is a born warrior. Were he here, this war would not have lasted as long as it has. Though were he in command, every one of us would be sent to the front lines.”

Another silence fell over the council members, one of universal agreement this time.

“No matter, he is presently in the Frontier. Now that these old bones have escaped being sent to the battlefield, let us lay out a strategy against the OSB, shall we?”

And then a synthetic voice announced, “Lord Greylancer is here.”

As tumult rippled among the men, one of the council members finally looked upward. “Tell him we’re engaged in an important meeting.” No sooner had he said it than the door that could not be opened from the outside slid open, inviting the navy-caped figure inside.

“Noble Greylancer.” One of the men uttered the name that the others shouted silently to themselves.

“What urgent matter is this? Whatever your business, see that you call first.”

After waiting for the councilor to finish, Greylancer paid what respect he could muster and gave the men a perfunctory bow. “I come in response to your summons. The Privy Council’s transport brought me here directly from the airport. The driver handed me a pass, which is how I gained entry here.”

“Who would do such a thing?” shouted a councilor. No doubt the same question echoed in all their minds. All except one.

“That would be me.”

All of the eyes, including Greylancer’s, gathered on the owner of the voice.

The voice belonged to the old man seated in the chancellor’s chair at the far end of the long marble table.

Though he wore the same night-colored gown as the others, only his tiny sandaled feet stuck out from the translucent reddish-blue ball of liquid in which he was encased.

“Chancellor Cornelius.”

“But what possessed you to act alone in this way?”

“If I’d consulted you, the answer would have been obvious. I’ve prepared my resignation. You will have it in due time.” Each time the old man spoke, bubbles burbled out of his mouth. It was a peculiar sight, like seeing an aged infant floating in amniotic fluid inside the womb.

“State your business,” Greylancer said calmly, though it was clear to anyone that he would turn on his heel and leave in a second were he told he had been summoned without good reason.

“Tomorrow, an unprecedented number of OSB fighters will descend upon this world from their lunar base. We received a message last night that you are the only one who can intercept this attack and destroy the enemy’s moon base.”

Greylancer felt his body stiffen.

The chancellor of the Privy Council said he’d received a message.

From whom?

Looking calmly around at the men frozen like stone statues, Chancellor Cornelius continued, “My aides have made the necessary preparations. Dawn will break in little more than four hours. Your chariot awaits.”

“As you command.” Greylancer pressed an arm against his chest and bowed deeply. “However, I question the wisdom of giving me sole command of the counterstrike force. General Gaskell of the First Air Chariot Battalion, General Brewster of the Second Battalion, and General Nombusol of the Third Battalion are giants of uncommon ability. Taking command over them…” The thought hung in the air.

3

The Air Chariot Battalion buzzed like a swarm of crane flies around the saucer-shaped airship bristling with gun barrels.

As soon as the dimensional conversion wave crashed against the enemy’s barrier, a white tear appeared in the air. But only for a moment before quickly disappearing, making the enemy impervious to attack again.

“Ah, if only crushing them were this easy,” boomed a voice from above. An enormous hand knocked down the enemy airship along with the chariots.

The place was the Capital, in the War Ministry’s spacious meeting room. Like the Privy Council Ministry, the room was enveloped in moonlight and blue darkness.

The five generals of the Air Chariot Battalions were seated at various sofas some distance apart from the others; to anyone aware of the discord among them, they might have appeared to be a hundred meters apart.

They all wore khaki-colored capes identifying them as military and held staves bearing the commander’s insignia: a golden bat. What was most eye-catching, however, was the chain of fire clusters hanging from their necks.

True to their name, these nuggets of flame were burning replicas of fixed stars burning at six million degrees. They were medals awarded by the Privy Council for valor and victory in battle. Over a hundred such clusters hung from the five men’s chains, threatening neither to scorch their skin nor melt their garments. They were shielded in a dimensional barrier, shunting the six-million-degree heat into another universe, so that it might never touch the wearer’s cape a mere centimeter away.

Even one Sun Medal would earn a warrior the title of hero. The Noble army was teeming with foot soldiers with more than a hundred such medals, surpassing the records of even these generals.

Medals for the brave.

No society carried out this practice more diligently than the Nobility.

“The enemy’s barrier grows more powerful by the day. They refuse to be satisfied by the success of the previous day. Our military can learn from their example.” The giant standing two meters tall touched the air with a finger. An OSB airship ten times larger than the previous incarnation floated up in the void. “But we have finally succeeded in creating a dimensional cutter capable of cutting a tear into their barrier.” The giant’s finger made a slash mark across the flank of the enemy ship. The ship tore in half along the mark and burst into flames. “Any complaints, Nombusol?” The tall man in the bi-horn helm growled and drank from the gold cup in his hand. He wiped the liquid from his mouth with the back of a hand. Blood. The contents of the others’ cups were the same, as was fitting for a gathering of vampires.

“All is easier said than done, Brewster.” General Nombusol answered proudly as if he’d found a comrade’s error. “The reality is the cutter is barely capable of creating a tear in the new barrier and will not be able to do any damage on the airship or moon base. It will come down to a ground attack.”

“Hence the reason why the Nobility’s bravest have been secretly chosen for this counteroffensive. The matter cannot be left to androids.”

“The OSB have full knowledge of the extent of our resources. Surely you haven’t forgotten how our android soldiers turned against us in the assault before last. What this counteroffensive requires are flesh-and-blood warriors seething with the will to achieve victory and a thrill for carnage.”

“Then I suggest you hand over command to me,” said General Vilzen, seated closest to the entrance. His entire face was silver. Roughly hewn slits for the eyes and mouth. A mask. Ever since the generals here first encountered Vilzen in his youth, he had worn the same mask, albeit a different size. They could only surmise that his face had been terribly disfigured. No rumor or consensus on the matter existed, as anyone who initiated such rumor perished. “My three hundred Sun Medals are second to none. The enemies I have felled exceed five thousand. Surely, it is I the OSB fear most.”

“An impressive number. The same number of fatalities you’ve incurred, I might add,” sneered the white-haired man sitting farthest away by the window. Despite his white mane, the childlike face and high-pitched voice revealed this Noble’s relative youth. It was what was commonly called a tinny voice. Yet the staff in his hand strangely suited him. “Indeed, you have disposed of over five thousand of the enemy. However, it is your methods that I take issue with. They were effective in recklessly shooting down the OSB airships. But while you were onto the next target before finishing off the first, the OSB crash landed on Earth and massacred humans on the ground. To date, roughly ten thousand Nobles on the Frontier have perished at the hands of the OSB, a third of those fatalities brought about by your slipshod command. No, I shall take command of this counteroffensive.”

“Damn you, Minsky.” Vilzen rose to his feet, his mask refracting the moonlight like sparks.

“That’s enough, both of you,” said another voice, one hoarse like that of a man on his deathbed. The wizened old man had arrived first and had been nodding off in the chair beneath the moonlight when the other generals arrived. One touch—or breath—might rend him in pieces. Yet his eyes, now open, emanated an eerie glint that froze the others. “General Brosius.” He mumbled his name through his gums, not because he was senile or because the other four had forgotten his name. He did so partly in jest and in part to intimidate.

Hopping out of the chair, he tottered forward like a drunkard and approached the large table. “I’m not yet awake. I would have preferred never to wake. Perhaps you will help me.”

He waved his staff.

Another miniaturized figure of an OSB airship appeared in the air. Unlike the blue and white schematic that Nombusol had produced, this one was a full-color, three-dimensional model—an exquisitely rendered miniature.

Crimson rays blasted out of its gun barrels.

Atomic beams. One shot through Old Brosius’s face and flashed a brilliant ball on his right shoulder and fizzled.

Another beam obliterated Brewster’s face from the nose up. A ball of light appeared on the right side of Nombusol’s chest. Another on the left of Minsky’s chest. More beams shot holes through the ceiling and floor.

“Now I’m awake.” There was a gaping hole in the middle of Old Brosius’s face, the view behind him visible through the hole in his face. When he tapped the holographic airship with the staff, the hole disappeared.

“A most rude awakening,” grumbled Nombusol, the hole in his chest already mended.

“Now where is Gaskell?” Old Brosius regarded the men and asked.

“He went to the western outskirts on reconnaissance last night and was shot down. A rescue squadron has been dispatched, but nothing, at present, is known about his whereabouts or safety.” It was Vilzen who answered.

“Safety aside, his whereabouts are something of a concern. Could he have been taken captive?”

“Knowing him, he would rather drive a stake into his own heart before having to endure the shame of capture,” said Minsky. “Simple man that he is.” The general grinned, though not so much out of respect for Gaskell’s sensibilities.

“One less general suits me fine.” Nombusol bared his teeth and smiled. “So there are three candidates. And I shall include myself.”

“And I,” said Brewster, rapping his staff against his left hand.

Smiling, Old Brosius said, “Surely, an election will not do. You will all attempt to eliminate the opposition and then cast a vote for yourselves. In the first place, I find it odd the Privy Council has not yet appointed a commander.”

“Does the Council have a candidate in mind?” Minsky asked, his fangs gnashing.

No doubt the other generals present wanted to do likewise. The Air Chariot Battalion was an elite group chosen from the Nobility’s best warriors. Immortal as the Nobles were, they all varied by disposition. There were brave ones, and then there were cowards. Though the matter of training was left up to the individual, every last Noble with an aggressive disposition recognized himself a warrior and entered the Capital’s Training Center.

It was at the Center that Nobles were sorted and tested on their aptitude as warriors based on three factors: physical ability, self-possession, and belligerence. While this was comparable to humanity’s conscription system, whether these Nobles chose to become warriors and continue more advanced combat training was up to the individual.

Despite the incongruity of immortal beings serving on the battlefield, the Nobility had gained complete knowledge of supernatural phenomena known as the occult even before they gained supremacy over the world.

Phenomena that humanity had disdained as nonsense and child’s play had revealed themselves as unmistakable truths. Among them was the existence of unidentified flying objects—UFOs.

That UFOs, long considered nothing more than optical phenomena, had been aggressively engaged in infiltrating the planet was kept confidential among the world’s governments. The human world established an investigative agency, which concluded the UFOs were not merely engaged in observation but laying the foundation for invasion.

The Nobility had inherited that knowledge.

The enemy from outer space will someday bare its teeth and attack.

The Nobility prepared for this threat and developed weapons that took into account the distinct advantages of their immortality.

They also concentrated their efforts into their defenses so they could protect physical assets such as the Capital.

Thanks to advances in modern weaponry, hand-to-hand combat had been rendered all but obsolete. But the Nobility had resisted modernity tooth and nail.

Despite preserving the nuclear weapons once eschewed by humanity, plus an arsenal of antiproton cannons, dimensional oscillators, and DNA-destroying viruses they’d devised in the course of their war against the OSB, the Nobility deemed these weapons as last-resort methods to be deployed only in the face of wholesale slaughter and defeat. They instead concentrated the bulk of their efforts on antiquated military tactics.

Their plan was to destroy the OSB’s defenses, breach the lunar base, and then annihilate the enemy in hand-to-hand combat.

Imprinted in the Nobility’s DNA was a deep nostalgia for the past, as a bird’s-eye view of the Noble world so plainly made evident. That they insisted on adhering to the ways of antiquity even on the battlefield might best be attributed to their psyche.

If winning victory by plunging a sword, an arrow, a spear into the enemy was the measure of valor, then the Air Chariot Battalion was rightly the Nobility’s most elite group, and its commanders had earned universal respect as the best of the best warriors.

Thus the prospect of a newcomer taking over the reins of command was hardly news generals would welcome.

“Perhaps an errant shot of the antiproton cannon might encourage the Privy Council to reconsider,” said Nombusol, echoing what was surely on the minds of the others. Yet his suggestion was only met with silence.

Even dauntless generals of the likes of Brewster and Old Brosius glanced up at the sky as if fearing someone had heard.

“Hold your tongue, Nombusol!” said Old Brosius, making certain to utter the blasphemer’s name clearly. “The high chancellor of the Privy Council—he is the Sacred Ancestor.”

The face of the brazen general turned ashen.