Chapter 36: The Emperor's Shadow and the Strategist's Heart
The air at the border had changed. It no longer smelled just of pines and mountain mist; it smelled of high-grade horse fodder, oiled plate armor, and the distinct, oppressive aura of concentrated power.
Inside the command tent of Castello di San Vigilio, the atmosphere was suffocating. Sitting at the head of a massive oak table was a man whose presence made the very shadows retreat: Emperor Frederick II. Flanking him were the heavyweights of the Empire—the Duke of Saxony, the Duke of Bavaria, and the son of the King of Bohemia, Prince Albrecht.
Julian and Arch-Marshal Conrad bowed low as the Emperor's gaze swept over them like a searchlight.
"Ah, the Philosophical Viscount," the Emperor remarked, his voice smooth but carrying the weight of a falling mountain. "How have you been, Julian? I hear the Italian relocation is suiting you. Your father is doing quite well in the County of Castile—an interesting promotion for such a... sudden move, wouldn't you say?"
Julian felt a flicker of the old Kaito—a surge of cold vengeance for the electoral pressure that had exiled his family to this frontier—but he pushed it down, offering a loyal, perfectly measured bow.
"My Emperor, the border is a place of clarity," Julian replied, his tone sarcastic but softened by enough courtly honey to pass as humility. "I am doing quite well here."
"Excellent," the Emperor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Report on the logistics and the 'Royal Guests' you've acquired."
Julian didn't hesitate. His brain, no longer muted by the system but fueled by a night of frantic research, moved with a different kind of speed. "The Queen and Prince are secure. I have information from my network in Naples that a thousand Royal Guards—the core of their military—escaped the final Spanish purge and are currently scattered. If we can rally them, we don't just have a Queen; we have a legitimate foothold in the South."
"And the refugees?" the Duke of Saxony grunted.
"Camps are sanitized, diseases are quarantined, and the banditry has been suppressed," Julian stated firmly. "My focus now is keeping the grain flowing so these people don't turn into a mob."
"Good," the Emperor said. "Because the play is moving. With Saxony's help, I have mobilized 50,000 troops in secret. This information stays in this tent. If a single merchant hears of this before the Pope signs the mandate, heads will roll."
The Christian King's Gambit
The map on the table was a mess of Spanish red and Imperial gold.
"Spain is moving faster than we expected," Arch-Marshal Conrad reported. "20,000 elite troops have landed in Sicily. They are opening fire on merchant ships. They are hiding a major offensive."
"Damn them," the Emperor hissed. "But we lack the moral ground. If we strike now, the Pope will call us the aggressors. We need legitimacy."
Prince Albrecht—the original Hero—smacked the table. "Why do we need to wait? We can faked an assassination! Say they killed a Duke and charge! We shouldn't be playing with papers when we could be playing with steel!"
"Reckless," Julian interrupted, his voice calm but cutting. "The Pope isn't a fool, Prince. If he finds out we faked a casus belli, we lose the support of every Catholic commoner in Italy. We are running on people's legitimacy here, not just Bohemian iron."
Albrecht glared at him, his hand twitching toward his sword.
"I have an idea," Julian continued, looking directly at the Emperor. "We corner Spain using the burial of the late King of Naples. We don't frame it as a military move. We frame it as the Burial of a Christian King. If we push the Pope to advocate for a holy rite, Spain is forced to choose: let us into the South for the funeral, or look like heretics who deny a martyr his rest."
The Emperor went silent. He looked at Conrad, then back at Julian.
"Julian and I have been discussing this, Sire," Conrad added, giving Julian the opening he needed. "It's the perfect diplomatic wedge."
The Emperor stood up, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Discreetly, then. I was never here. But Julian... prepare the Royal Family. Move them toward a Naples-friendly city. I want them close to the front when the Pope finally folds."
Human Logic and Cat-like Comfort
As the high nobles filed out in secret, Julian stood alone for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath.
[System Notification: Moral Performance—Excellence.]
[Status: You're actually better at this when you care about not getting everyone killed. Who knew?]
"Shut up," Julian muttered.
Outside, the camp was a hive of activity. Julian spent the next few hours training his 231 core troops, integrating the Neapolitan guards with his own musket-corps. Valerus, his captain, watched him with an arched eyebrow.
"You're more... human today, Lieutenant," Valerus remarked, leaning against a weapon rack. "Less like a statue, more like a man who actually wants to win a war."
"I always wanted to win," Julian replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "I just forgot that I was part of the army, not just the architect of it."
"Well, if you want those thousand scattered Naples troops, you'll need to do more than train," Valerus chuckled. "You need to charm that Queen. If she tells them to follow you, they will. If she doesn't, you're just a German kid in a fancy coat."
Julian groaned. "I'm working on it. But 'charming' a grieving widow feels... wrong."
"Why are you still pretending like you're not doing it?" Valerus laughed, walking off to drill the pikemen.
The Evening Anchor
Later that night, Julian collapsed into his chair in the command center. His PA—the cat-like Isabella—was busy sorting through the latest dispatches. She looked exhausted, her eyes drooping as she tried to finalize the supply routes.
Julian watched her for a moment. The "Cool Strategist" would have let her work until she finished. The "Kaito" in him felt a surge of genuine concern.
He stood up, grabbed his own fur-lined cloak, and draped it over her shoulders. "Isabella. Take a rest. I don't want my best strategist catching a cold or getting hurt."
Isabella started, her face flushing as she looked up at him. She didn't see a master looking at a tool; she saw Julian looking at her. She leaned into the cloak, the warmth of it—and him—briefly breaking her professional mask.
"My Lord... I'm fine," she whispered, her voice soft. "But thank you. If I get sick, I suppose I'd have to answer to the Duchess, wouldn't I?"
Julian placed a hand on her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "You only have to answer to me. And I'm telling you to sleep."
[Affection Update: Isabella: 40/100 (Deep Respect/Bonded).]
"My Lord," she leaned her head against his hand for just a second too long to be professional. "You shouldn't catch a cold either. What would I do if my favorite scoundrel disappeared?"
Julian's heart hammered against his ribs. 'Damn these emotions,' he thought. 'I'm a total weakling for courtesans.'
From the corner of the tent, Valerus was barely holding back a laugh, already mentally drafting a report to "the mistress" (Emilia) in exchange for a bonus.
Julian pulled his hand back, coughing awkwardly. "Right. The Queen. The Prince. The Burial. We have three days before we march. System, if you have any more 'humanity' to dump on me, do it now before the Spanish start shooting."
[System: Oh, I think you're doing just fine on your own, Julian. Between the wife, the aunt, the queen, and the PA, I'm surprised you haven't collapsed into a puddle of 'Humanity' already. Happy hunting.]
Julian looked at the map. The Emperor was ready. The Pope was leaning. And for the first time, Julian wasn't just playing a game. He was living it.