Four years had passed since the Great Karak Eight Peaks Expedition.
While four years might be enough to turn raw human recruits into battle-hardened veterans, or to mold a fledgling into an elite knight through trials of blood and fire, for the dwarfs, it was but a blink of an eye.
According to the information Lucien brought back, Belegar had spent these four years focusing on three major undertakings:
First, he resumed excavation work on some of the mines around Karak Eight Peaks. Belegar personally led expeditions into the depths with miners and soldiers, scouting numerous tunnels. While most of the mines were sealed off with explosives and rune barriers, a few veins were reopened for mining. This endeavor alone consumed two years of the dwarfs' time.
Second, reconstruction efforts took precedence. Breweries, weapons workshops, barracks, temples, and the royal palace were all under construction. By the time Lucien returned, only the breweries and weapons workshops were complete. Without the human armies and artisans recruited under Lucien's command, the barracks might not even have made it to the planning stages.
Third, as Lucien reported, the dwarfs waged over a hundred skirmishes around Karak Eight Peaks, effectively clearing the surrounding areas of Skaven and Greenskin threats. New watchtowers were established, and Belegar confidently projected that the region would remain secure for at least the next decade.
The dwarfs, however, were a race marked by hardship. Unlike the High Elves of Ulthuan, who had their mystical sanctuaries, or the Dark Elves with their unnaturally high birth rates, the dwarfs lacked such advantages. Their declining population, with births failing to keep pace with losses, meant their gradual decline seemed inevitable.
But human collaboration had significantly alleviated this burden. Never underestimate humans—their population growth rivaled that of Greenskins and Skaven.
"Lucien, I have a question," Ryan began, testing his returned commander. "If the Three Badlands Legions face a large-scale Greenskin invasion, what would you do?"
"Stage a phased retreat, securing key defensive points along the way," Lucien replied decisively. "Fighting in the desert requires conserving our strength, but more importantly, we must make the Greenskins feel 'bored.' That is, fortify strongholds and engage in slow, grinding battles. Greenskin armies will quickly dissolve if they find no opportunities for excitement or loot."
"Excellent," Ryan nodded approvingly. "What if Greenskins and Skaven allied against you?"
"In that case, I would abandon the Steel Guard and Armory Guard, retreating entirely to Eight Peaks. I would also immediately send envoys to the High King of the Dwarfs, the Gate of Sea King, and even the Empire for aid," Lucien answered earnestly. "Engaging such a coalition recklessly would be unwise. However, we could still take calculated actions to disrupt their cohesion."
"And what if the undead joined the Greenskins and Skaven?" Ryan pressed further.
"In that scenario, I would reach out to Queen Khalida of Lybaras—or even other Tomb Kings. The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Lucien responded without hesitation. "Such a coalition is inherently unstable. The key would be to exploit diplomatic channels to secure allies and identify weak links in their coordination. In this case, military tactics would become secondary to strategic diplomacy."
"Excellent!" Ryan smiled. He thought to himself: No wonder Lucien hails from François' lineage. His actions carry a shadow of my father-in-law's approach. While Lucien's military prowess fell short of François', his abilities in internal affairs and diplomacy were already showing the ruthlessness François was known for.
Ryan had made up his mind.
"Thank you for your hard work, Lucien," Ryan said warmly. "How many of your forces wish to return to Bretonnia? And how many are willing to stay in the Badlands?"
"It's about fifty-fifty," Lucien replied, accepting a cappuccino from Olica. He felt honored—after all, this was a drink personally served by the King's personal maid. Lucien awkwardly nodded his thanks. "Thank you, Lady Olica."
Olica gave him a sweet smile, though her true thoughts remained a mystery.
"That works," Sulia interjected with a smile. "Those who wish to return to Bretonnia will be handled by me. As for new recruits, you won't need to worry. We have more than enough volunteers to replenish your ranks. Managing them might be a bit of a challenge, but don't worry—Ryan and I will fully support you."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Lucien replied, visibly relieved. He wasn't fully updated on recent domestic developments but was glad to hear recruitment wouldn't be an issue. The Badlands were a harsh environment, and the soldiers stationed there often complained. Only the generous pay had kept morale up.
After Lucien left, Ryan and Sulia sat in the reception room. Sulia gracefully poured herself some tea, knowing her husband was deep in thought. She didn't interrupt, instead turning to Olica. "Where's Sylvia? She's been very busy lately. Was that your doing?"
"She has one final lesson to complete, my lady," Olica replied with a sweet smile. "I assure you, she will become an excellent courtier. I promise."
Sulia wanted to ask more, but Ryan broke his silence. "The list of ten marshals is finalized."
"You've made your decision, dear?" Sulia asked, redirecting her focus.
"Yes, I've made up my mind," Ryan confirmed.
"Then let's arrange the order of precedence."
As the marshal ceremony approached, envoys from across the Old World gathered in Couronne to attend and offer their congratulations.
In recent years, Bretonnia had risen to unprecedented heights, embodying righteousness and strength. Most Order factions sent representatives, both to show respect and to observe whether Ryan's domestic and foreign policies would shift.
Among the visitors was Count Metternich, the Empire's envoy to Bretonnia.
Welcoming him was Talleyrand, Ryan's Chief Diplomatic Minister, distinguished by his elegant cane.
"You've botched everything, dear Talleyrand," Metternich grumbled. "I've done so much for you, yet you've given me nothing in return. Business isn't conducted this way."
"I've already helped you plenty, Count Metternich," Talleyrand replied, enthusiastically embracing him. "I convinced His Majesty not to annex Kislev, persuaded him to lend funds to the Empire, and even urged him to rest and avoid further conflict. You should be thanking me."
"Perhaps you're unaware," Metternich countered with a sly smile. "It was I who convinced the Emperor not to impose additional tariffs on your agricultural imports. All for the sake of human unity, of course. You should be thanking me instead."
"But wasn't that clause already included in the Imperial-Bretonnian Friendship and Mutual Assistance Treaty?" Talleyrand retorted, motioning for Metternich to follow him. "I don't recall you taking credit for that."
"Grain, not agricultural by-products—especially cash crops."
"In that case, you should thank me. I persuaded His Majesty not to prosecute you for spying on our affairs," Talleyrand said playfully. "If I were to accuse you, the Empire certainly wouldn't protect you."
"Well then, Talleyrand, you should thank me. That exorbitantly priced pastry shop of yours hasn't been shut down—that's my doing," Metternich quipped.
"Shall we call it even?"
"Agreed."
"Hahaha!" The two diplomats shook hands.
The Couronne Palace was abuzz with activity. Nobles and dignitaries from across the Old World filled the halls. Even the High King of the Dwarfs sent representatives to congratulate Ryan, though Belegar of Karak Eight Peaks dismissed the formality with a simple message: "No need for theatrics between brothers."
Among the notable attendees was Lileath, the Wood Elf prophetess with her signature topknot. Her resemblance to certain individuals often amused Ryan.
Also present were Veronica, Teresa, and Aurora, representing the mage's assembly. Dressed in their finest gowns, the three sorceresses added to the grandeur of the occasion. However, Aurora, spotting Catherine in her noblewoman's attire, turned visibly pale with rage. She responded by exuding an icy aura that warned everyone to keep their distance.
The ceremony began with Ryan formally elevating Calard to the rank of Marquess of Gallamont.
Unlike counts, marquesses held the authority to raise armies and wage wars independently. Calard's unwavering loyalty and accomplishments made his promotion both logical and deserved. He would oversee vigilance against Beastmen in Arden Forest and serve as a secondary line of defense for the Grey Mountains.
Following this, Lileath herself awarded Calard the Supreme Order of the Lady, Bretonnia's highest chivalric honor.
Next came the main event: the appointment of the Ten Marshals of Bretonnia.
A luxurious chest was opened, revealing ten gold-plated, dwarf-crafted masterwork rune marshal batons, prompting a wave of awe throughout the audience. Even François, usually composed, stood up in astonishment.
One baton alone was worth more than an entire vineyard estate!
Ryan called the names.
"Lord Berenmont!"
"Present!"
Berenmont marched onto the stage, resplendent in his new marshal's uniform. Lileath handed him the baton and insignia, symbolizing his authority as the First Marshal.
No one disputed Berenmont's appointment. As a direct descendant of Arthur, the First Knight King, he held the most prestigious bloodline. His exceptional military acumen and personal valor made him the obvious choice.
"Lord François!"
"Present!"
The Duke of Bastonne ascended the stage with dignity, receiving his baton and insignia from Lileath. He performed a graceful bow, embodying his refined nobility.
François' appointment as Second Marshal was equally uncontroversial. His vast experience, numerous victories, and steadfast support for Ryan—bolstered by his relationship as Sulia's father—secured his place.
After these two appointments, the third marshal became the subject of speculation.
Who would it be? All eyes turned to Ryan.
"Lord Bodecrick!"
Gasps filled the room.
It wasn't Lawn. It wasn't Bertrand. Nor was it the favored Calard. Instead, it was Bodecrick, the Duke of Bordeleaux, known for his dual faith and status as the chosen champion of Mannan, the Sea God.
This choice carried significant political implications, causing many present to furrow their brows.
But the ceremony continued. Bodecrick ascended the stage with pride, receiving his baton and insignia from Lileath. Tears of joy streamed down his face as he passed the baton to his son, Federmond.
Ryan grasped Bodecrick's hand with a mischievous grin. "You… don't know how to fly a gyroplane, do you?"
"Of course not, Your Majesty. Why do you ask?" Bodecrick replied, puzzled. "Besides, I've seen the Enterprise's gyrocopters—they're far too small for me."
"Good. Those machines are unstable. Leave the flying to the dwarfs," Ryan said seriously.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Bodecrick replied nervously.
"Speak up, Marshal!" Ryan teased.
"YES, YOUR MAJESTY!" Bodecrick bellowed.
"Good! Next!"
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