Gold Lionheart Fortress.

The morning light of winter always arrives slower. The torches on the city wall had burned all night, and the freshly added firewood was still burning in the braziers, casting long shadows of the garrison soldiers.

Marcus tucked his hands under his armpits, hunched his shoulders, and leaned against the battlement. His nose was red from the cold, his lips were chapped, and a thin layer of morning frost had formed on his eyebrows.

"This damn weather," he muttered, burying his face into his collar, leaving only his eyes to stare at the vast white wilderness outside the wall.

Cole crouched beside him, leaning back against the city wall, stretching both hands under the torch to warm them.

His fingertips were purple from the cold, looking like two smoked sausages in the firelight.

"Stop complaining," Cole said, staring at his own fingers. "It's much better than yesterday. Yesterday we didn't even have torches. Standing guard all night would have frozen your toes off."

Marcus gave him a sidelong glance.

"When have you ever had your toes frozen off?"

"Glen from the next squad, the one with the scar on his face, the one who likes to touch his nose when he talks."

"Oh, him." Marcus thought for a moment. "Didn't he have his toe amputated because his frostbite got infected and turned to pus?"

"That's still from freezing," Cole retracted his fingers and rubbed them. "Same difference."

Marcus didn't reply.

He withdrew his gaze from the wilderness and let it fall on the empty ground below the city wall.

He remembered that at this time last year, the area below the wall was still crammed with a large cluster of shacks made from broken planks and old canvas.

Those shacks housed refugees fleeing from the north—old and young, men and women, wrapped in rags, their faces wearing a numb expression.

Every morning, a sour, foul smell would waft from those shacks. At night, the sounds of coughing, children crying, women weeping softly, and drunken men cursing would come from inside.

Now there was nothing.

The shacks had been dismantled, the garbage cleared, the ground leveled. A drainage ditch had even been dug along the edge of the open space, its bottom paved with cobblestones, its banks lined with neatly cut stone blocks.

The drainage ditch extended all the way to the small river east of the city wall. The water flowed beneath the ice, making a faint, fragmented sound.

"It's so much cleaner than before," Marcus remarked with emotion.

Cole stood up, followed his gaze, looked for a while, and nodded.

"It is cleaner. Last year it wasn't this clean. They even planned to plant trees here. The holes were already dug."

Marcus remembered those tree pits.

Neat rows, each pit the same depth and width, the bottom layered with leaf mold, the sides piled with black soil brought from elsewhere.

He had been curious back then about what those slimes were doing. Later, he asked a merchant who stayed at the fortress as a translator and learned they wanted to plant a row of oak trees there.

"Plant trees? What for?" he remembered asking.

The merchant shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they want the place to look nicer."

Marcus thought the merchant was talking nonsense at the time.

Who plants trees on the walls of a fortress?

Could trees block enemy arrows or stones hurled by catapults?

But now, looking at that clean open space, those neat new streets and buildings, he suddenly felt planting a row of trees wasn't so bad.

At least it was better than those shacks.

He withdrew his gaze from the open ground, looked up, and stared at the large cannons on the city wall.

Those cannons were installed during the Slime Kingdom's occupation of the fortress. Each one was a full size larger than the Merchant Alliance's standard cannons, with longer barrels, thicker bores, and the barrels covered in intricate runes.

Marcus counted; just this section of the wall had six installed.

He walked over and patted the barrel of the nearest cannon.

The barrel was made of black iron, very thick, like the iron scales of a giant dragon. It made a dull sound when tapped.

"Too bad these things can't be used," he clicked his tongue.

Cole looked over curiously.

"How do you know?"

"Mages came to look yesterday. They said they couldn't understand the runes on them and just left."

Cole chuckled. "Then why install them? Could it be those slimes just put them up to scare people?"

"Who knows," Marcus walked back and leaned against the battlement again. "Maybe only those magical creatures can operate them."

Cole stood up, walked to his side, and also looked at the cannons. The two fell silent for a while, neither speaking.

"Have you heard?" Cole suddenly spoke up.

"Heard what?"

"About the big shots."

Marcus frowned slightly.

"I've heard. That tribunal matter is causing quite a stir. Hard not to know."

"Do you think the Slime Kingdom will attack?"

Cole didn't answer immediately. He took a cloth bundle from inside his coat, carefully opened it, handed a blackish piece of hardtack to Marcus, picked up another piece himself, and took a bite.

"Who knows," he said, his words muffled. "Maybe they will, maybe they won't."

Marcus took the hardtack but didn't eat it. He just held it in his hand, turning it over and over.

The hardtack was made from mixed grains—wheat bran, bean flour, and something else he couldn't identify. It was hard as a rock, with a thin layer of mold on the surface.

"I heard people say," he spoke slowly, "that after Lord Nolan returned from the Slime Kingdom, he said one thing in the Council."

"What thing?"

"He said, 'Don't provoke those slimes.'"

Cole's chewing paused for a moment, then continued.

"Lord Nolan is a smart man," he said.

"Smart men make mistakes too."

"But Lord Nolan wouldn't make a mistake about this." Cole stuffed the last bite of hardtack into his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his hands. "He's seen those things with his own eyes. He knows better than any of us how powerful they are."

Marcus sighed. "I still think they'll attack."

"Why?"

Marcus said, "Because if it were us, we'd attack too."

"Then we're dead."

"Try to get transferred out if you can."

Cole nodded, then suddenly asked, "How's your family?"

Marcus stopped chewing.

"They're fine. My sister married a blacksmith. They opened a shop in the harbor district. Business is okay. My mother lives with them, helps look after the kids."

"Your sister? Is that the one... what's her name..."

"Margaret."

"Right, Margaret." Cole nodded. "Wasn't she afraid of you when she was little? Every time you went to the docks to carry cargo, she'd hide behind the door, peeking out with half her face."

The corner of Marcus's mouth twitched into a smile.

"She's not afraid anymore. Last time I went back, she grabbed my ear and scolded me, saying I hadn't been home in half a year and hadn't sent any word."

"My brother-in-law just stood there, didn't dare say a word."

Cole chuckled. "Your brother-in-law is afraid of you."

"He's not afraid of me." Marcus shook his head. "He's afraid of Margaret. When that woman starts scolding, even the dock foremen are scared."

"What about you? How's your family?"

Cole shrugged.

"Not much family left. My old man died ten years ago. Mom passed the year before last. Just me left."

"Never married?"

"Married, but she ran off."

Marcus laughed. "Ran off, so be it. I'll introduce you to someone later. Lots of refugees newly arrived in the harbor district. Quite a few widows, decent-looking, hardworking."

Cole shook his head. "Let's talk after this war is over. Besides, we might not even make it back."

Marcus was about to say something when he saw Cole's expression change.

Marcus followed his gaze.

On the vast white wilderness outside the city wall, a black line had appeared.

The line was thin, straight, as if someone had drawn a charcoal line on the snow.

But it was thickening, extending to both sides, like a drop of ink falling on water, spreading irresistibly.

Marcus stared at that black line.

Then he remembered.

To the west of Gold Lionheart Fortress was a plain, flat and unobstructed.

Standing on the city wall, on a clear day you could see things ten miles away. Today was overcast, windy, snowy, visibility wasn't great, but that black line was already very close to the fortress.

Close enough that he could see the black line moving.

Close enough that he could hear a buzzing sound carried by the wind.

Close enough that his legs began to tremble.

The Demon King's Army... had finally come.

Misty Bay Harbor Council Hall.

The fire in the fireplace burned fiercely, but the warmth only circulated around the hearth, never reaching the center of the hall.

The councilors sitting on either side of the long table all huddled tighter in their coats, faces pale, whether from the cold or something else.

The battle report lay spread on the table.

The words on it were few, so few that everyone finished reading it at a glance, but after reading, no one spoke.

The hall was as quiet as a tomb.

An old councilor picked up the report, held it close to the candlelight to read it again, then put it down and pushed it to the councilor beside him.

That councilor glanced at it and pushed it to the next. With each pass, the air grew heavier.

No one knew what to say.

One hundred thousand magical creatures.

Perhaps more.

Setting out from the Dark Realm, heading east all the way, straight for Gold Lionheart Fortress. Those flying poison-stinger wasps, blotting out the sky, turning it black.

More terrifying than the Magical Tides.

"Gentlemen, we need to formulate a plan." Simon, the representative leader of the Caldwell faction, spoke up.

Only then did a councilor speak.

"The Storm Fleet can dock at the harbor. We could try to lure the Magical Creature Legion into the harbor, then have the fleet open fire from outside, sink them all in the docks."

The old councilor sitting across from him shook his head.

"Those things can fly. What good is sinking the docks? They don't need to use the docks at all; they can just fly in from the sky."

"Then fight street by street in the city. Set up barricades on every street, turn every building into a fortress. Make them fight step by step, bleed step by step."

"Street fighting? Our soldiers can't even hold the city walls. What do you expect them to accomplish in street fighting?"

"Go to the archipelago." Another voice spoke up. It was a young councilor sitting on the right side of the long table. His face was somewhat pale now.

"Take everything we can. The fleet sails south, to the Coral City-States, to the Dawnlands, anywhere. Staying here is just waiting for death."

"You make it sound easy," someone sitting beside him said coldly. "The ships? How many ships do you have? How many people can you transport?"

The hall fell silent again.

Nolan sat in a seat toward the back, leaning against his chair, eyes closed as if dozing. No one knew what he was thinking.

Samuel sat beside him, holding a cup of coffee a servant had brought, watching a play whose ending he already knew.

"Surrender."

The speaker was an old merchant. His hair was already gray, his face lined with many wrinkles. He wore three gold rings on his fingers, which glittered in the candlelight.

"We can't win. Two great legions couldn't win. What do we have to fight with? We've fought all we could, lost all we could lose."

"Surrender. At least we can keep our lives."

"Surrender?"

Simon stood up.

He stood before the long table, both hands braced on the tabletop, leaning slightly forward, his gaze sweeping over everyone present.

"Gentlemen, I understand everyone's concerns. One hundred thousand magical creatures, perhaps more. Those things are indeed terrifying. We indeed cannot defeat them."

He paused.

"But the Merchant Alliance will not surrender."

When these words were spoken, some in the hall lifted their heads.

Not because they believed it, but because of the words themselves. At a time when everyone wanted to flee, to surrender, someone actually said such a thing.

"We still have strength," Simon's voice rose slightly. "The Merchant Alliance has been established for centuries, weathered countless wars, survived every time. This time will be no exception."

"The Caldwell family has been researching a power these past years. An ancient power passed down from our Visaji ancestors. Our ancestors used it to drive away the Dawnlands mages back then. Today, we will use it to deal with those magical creatures."

"I propose we engage in a life-or-death struggle with the Slime Kingdom."

"Councilor Simon, are you proposing a motion?" a councilor asked slowly.

"Correct. Let's vote. Let this vote decide the future of the Merchant Alliance."

Simon's gaze swept over all the councilors present as he asked loudly, "Who agrees? Who opposes? We begin counting votes now."

As soon as he finished speaking, the councilors of the Caldwell faction behind him raised their hands one after another.

"Agree," said the first.

"Agree," said the second.

"Agree."

The voices rang out one after another, echoing under the dome, like a group of trained parrots repeating the same phrase.

The councilors of other factions in the hall watched this scene, their expressions changing from surprise to something more thoughtful.

The corner of Simon's mouth lifted slightly.

"Any objections?" he asked.

The surrender faction fell silent.

The councilors of other factions also looked at him, but no one spoke.

Those councilors who had just been discussing surrender now closed their mouths, lowering their heads to look at the battle report on the table.

Simon's expression began to turn pleased.

This was the charm of power—it could make all opponents dare not oppose.

The Caldwell faction held the majority of seats in the Council. Even if someone objected, the vote could override it. He had calculated it, many times over. The result was the same every time.

He had even prepared to sit down.

"I object."

But a sudden voice shattered his power fantasy. The gazes of everyone in the hall followed the direction of this voice, looking toward the end of the seating.

Nolan had opened his eyes at some point. He sat in his chair, raising one hand.

He said calmly, "I object. Nolan Zachary Graham objects to this proposal."

Simon's brows furrowed. He looked at Nolan, looked for quite a while.

"Councilor Nolan, may I ask what brilliant insight you have?"

Nolan put his hand down, resting it on the tabletop, his fingers tapping lightly twice.

"Brilliant insight is hardly the term. I just don't want to see certain people do something foolish."

He turned his head to look at Simon.

"You are Visaji. So am I. Precisely because of that, I understand Visaji people."

"What gives you the confidence to deal with that Demon King who could annihilate two great legions? Relying on that so-called mysterious power?"

"Mr. Simon, you and I both understand. The Dawnlands mages left here long ago. Even if you really found the mysterious power left by the Visaji ancestors back then, so what?"

He paused, his gaze shifting from Simon's face, sweeping over the standing Caldwell faction councilors.

"If we really had it, why didn't we bring it out earlier to deal with those slimes? Why wait until now?"

"I dare assert, unless it's a Legendary being, no one can stop that Demon King's advance."

"A certain member of the Caldwell family is vigorously inciting war, perhaps to seek some personal profit from it, disregarding this great ship of the Merchant Alliance that's already sprung a huge leak, and then planning to run away."

Simon's expression didn't change.

"Councilor Nolan, don't you know one shouldn't casually accuse others without evidence?"

Nolan looked at him, looked for a moment, then nodded.

"You're right. Without evidence, one shouldn't casually accuse others."

"Then let's vote. War or surrender. Let the Council decide."

Simon was taken aback.

He hadn't expected Nolan to yield so easily.

He thought Nolan would continue to argue, would produce some evidence, would incite the surrender faction to stand up and oppose him.

But Nolan did nothing. He just sat there, closed his eyes again, as if waiting for something.

"Vote," Simon said, his voice slightly louder than before.

The servants continued to move about.

They held pens and paper, walking from one table to another, from one person to the next.

The hall filled with the sound of hushed whispers. Some were talking in low voices, some were pondering, some were writing something on paper, then folding it and handing it to a servant.

Simon stood there. He looked at the faces of the councilors, their expressions, their eyes. Then his gaze fell on the Caldwell faction seats, looking at them one by one.

Some met his gaze, nodded, as if saying, "Don't worry."

Some shifted their gaze away, staring at the tabletop, at the battle report, at their own fingers.

Some had very calm expressions, calm like the sea surface before a storm.

A sudden sense of foreboding rose in Simon's heart.

He couldn't quite describe what that feeling was.

Not fear, not nervousness. It was like something was slowly sinking, sinking to a place he couldn't reach.

He glanced back at the Caldwell faction councilors behind him. They sat in rows behind him, like a wall.

Their eyes.

Some eyes were evasive.

When his gaze swept over, those people didn't dare meet his eyes. Not all of them, but more than one.

His palms began to sweat.

The servants collected the ballot boxes. Two servants stood before the long table, one reading, one recording.

"Agree. Agree. Object. Object. Object. Object. Object. Agree. Object..."

Simon stood there, listening to those voices, counting them one by one. His hands braced on the tabletop, fingers gradually tightening.

"Voting results," the servant's voice rang out. "Fifty-six votes in favor. One hundred and twenty-three votes opposed."

The hall was quiet for a moment, then someone slowly stood up.

A councilor clapped his hands together, making a sharp clapping sound. He was applauding.

Then a second person stood up, applauding. A third, a fourth, a fifth... The applause grew from sparse to dense, from scattered to unified.

The councilors sitting in their seats stood up one after another, clapping, their faces wearing expressions of relief, as if celebrating a victory.

Thunderous applause.

Simon's hands dropped powerlessly. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

He turned around, looking at those standing, applauding people. His gaze lingered on those familiar faces, then moved away.

No one looked at him.

Not even the Caldwell faction councilors.

Their gazes were all directed toward the end of the seating, toward Nolan's direction.

No one looked at Simon.

He stood there, stood for a long time, then slowly sat down. His figure, slumped alone in the chair, seemed very desolate.

Suddenly, he laughed. Not at others, but at himself.

He had thought that after driving away Thoth and his Thoth faction, the helm of this great ship, the Merchant Alliance, would be in his hands, sailing according to his will.

But Thoth was gone, and he couldn't hold on either.

Everything he had fought for, the power he had pursued for half his life, turned out in the end to be just a joke.