Translator: Cinder Translations
...
Before Rodney XVIII summoned Giles's envoy, the preparations for war by the royal government had already begun long ago.
During that period, the busiest were the various logistics units within the military.
...
The Iron Casting Alley in the southern district of Crystal Glare was still shrouded in a gray-blue morning mist when logistics officer Edmund White kicked open the door of the third blacksmith shop.
The unfinished breastplate on the anvil still glowed with a faint red warmth. The old blacksmith, clad in a leather apron, looked up from the pile of charcoal, his cloudy eyes narrowing sharply upon seeing the emblem on the visitor's chest.
"You have three days left to deliver two hundred ramrods," Edmund's leather boots crunched over the scattered iron shavings as he slammed a metal clipboard next to the forge. "I'd like to inquire about your progress."
"Sir, the fire in the furnace hasn't gone out!" The burly old blacksmith raised his scarred hands, covered in burns. "But..."
Edmund immediately furrowed his brows, his thick eyebrows almost knitting together. "But what? I warned you, there can be no mistakes with this job. His Majesty the King is very concerned about the military's logistics."
"We're running short on iron ingots."
Edmund angrily retorted, "You really know how to cause trouble! All you care about is digging into His Majesty's pockets. Didn't you anticipate such difficulties when you took this order? If we don't meet the quota, both you and I will be in deep trouble!"
"I'm sorry, sir!"
The quartermaster paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back, before finally saying, "Alright, a batch of iron ingots will soon arrive from Westport. They were originally for military use, but I'll try to allocate some to your shop. However, part of the final payment will have to be deducted as a penalty."
The old blacksmith looked as if he had been granted a reprieve. "Thank you, Sir Edmund! The final payment is negotiable. I'll deliver on time!"
In Crystal Glare and nearby towns, many blacksmith shops had received similar military orders. While the royal government procured most of its military supplies directly from the Northwest Bay, where workshops produced large quantities of high-quality goods, less critical components, such as ramrods for musket barrels, were entrusted to local workshops under the government's control.
After all, they couldn't just pour all their silver coins into the Northwest Bay.
That said, the majority of supplies directly used in combat were still shipped from the western gulf.
Large-scale transportation of materials from Westport to Crystal Glare had been ongoing for half a month, including weapons like swords, spears, and armor, as well as essential raw materials like iron ingots.
To minimize attention, most of the transportation took place from night until early morning.
As the morning mist lingered, the last convoy entered the White Oak Camp outside the city. Figures moved in and out of the military warehouses, and the four-wheeled supply wagons formed a winding iron serpent. The newly cast steel bearings on the axles gleamed with a faint blue hue under the moonlight. These large wagons were said to be a secret invention of the Northwest Bay, capable of increasing load efficiency by at least four times compared to traditional carriages.
The lead chestnut gelding snorted white mist from its nostrils, its horseshoes crunching over the thin ice on the wheel ruts. The wooden crates on the wagons rattled with each bump.
The process of receiving the supplies was hectic. Soldiers tasked with moving the crates scurried back and forth like worker ants, carrying iron-bound wooden boxes into the warehouses.
Logistics officer Horne loosened his woolen scarf, his breath forming frost on his copper-framed glasses. His gloved hands, clutching the inventory list, were already covered in frost, yet he still managed to point accurately with a woolen pen: "Three fasteners on this crate are loose! Get a blacksmith to reinforce them—now!"
A nearby soldier acknowledged the order and hurried off.
In the old army, such issues would have been trivial, but the instructors from Alden had established a strict accountability system for the royal army. Thus, Horne was meticulous, ensuring that no detail was overlooked in handling the supplies.
"Be careful with that crate! Don't go near the torch!" he suddenly barked, startling the soldier carrying the box and nearly causing him to drop it. Several other soldiers quickly steadied the tilting crate, from which some black powder had begun to leak. Seeing the soldiers so close to an open flame, it was no wonder Horne was furious.
After much deliberation, Paul had lifted the restrictions on selling firearms to Crystal Glare, but only for smoothbore muskets and cannons that had been phased out by the Alden military.
Additionally, the gunpowder's formula had been altered, with impurities added to reduce its potency and make it harder to reverse-engineer.
The inventory check required careful attention. After a flurry of activity, Horne removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow.
The officer in charge of the shipment unfolded the inventory list, its edges already wrinkled from sweat. "This batch includes twenty crates of muskets, four six-pound cannons, and fifty barrels of gunpowder. If everything is in order, please sign here."
"Everything checks out," Horne replied, laying the list on the table and signing his name before returning it.
Similar scenes played out daily in the military warehouses near Crystal Glare. Under the orders of King Rodney XVIII, the royal war machine rumbled into action.
Or perhaps it was more like a steamroller, destined to roll south and crush the upstarts there.
However, Giles, the target of this crushing force, was far from pleased.
As the golden goblet smashed into the fireplace, splashes of wine sprayed across the tapestry, leaving behind claw-like stains. Duke Giles clutched the gilded declaration of war, the edges of the parchment crumbling into golden flakes between his fingers, as if he were trying to crush the crown of Rodney XVIII, which he found utterly revolting.
"That fledgling dares to declare war on me!" His temples bulged with rage, and his amber eyes burned with fury. "Hmph! Look at the force of this seal—the mark of a coward, yet brighter than the late king's!"
A maid's silver tray was cleaved in two by Giles's longsword in his fit of rage, sending candied cherries rolling into the ornate carpet.
Giles snarled, "I can't believe it. Just three months ago, he was writing to me like a dog, calling me 'brother' so affectionately."
Suddenly, he froze. He remembered—it was the marriage alliance with the Northwest Bay's Earl Grayman. That was what had solidified the royal family's resolve to wage war against him.
The copper mirror reflected his twitching lips. The man who had once forced the royal army to retreat to Crystal Glare was now trembling, like an old horse encountering a pack of wolves on a snowy night.
A hallucination flashed before Giles's eyes—it was the detestable face of Paul Grayman.
Grayman was mocking him mercilessly: "Your Grace, I recall you wanted to teach me a lesson about how cruel reality can be."
"Damn it!" Giles swung his arm violently, dispelling the illusion.
"Rodney, Grayman, since you've chosen war, then let it be war! Let's see whether my Undying Legion is stronger or your toy soldiers are tougher!"
(End of the Chapter)
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