Chapter 635: The King

On the Gorgon River, aboard the broad-decked armored cargo ship Nabil, Captain Nabil pulled a slate-gray lever. The mechanical roar and vibrations thrummed beneath his feet as the immense power of the engine slowly pushed the mighty vessel forward. Ahead, several ships similar to the Nabil raised their own magical energy wings, faintly glowing veils of arcane dust drifting lazily across the river’s surface.

“Engine room operating normally, Captain!” came the voice of the chief engineer through the brass pipe beside him.

A breeze heavy with moisture blew in from the river, and the flag of Cecil fluttered proudly at the Nabil’s prow. The middle-aged captain stepped out from the cabin onto the upper deck, gripping the iron railing as he watched the colossal ship beneath him pick up speed. He breathed in deeply, feeling the surge of power coursing through the vessel’s core.

No matter the time or place, the sensation of cutting through wind and waves always calmed this man who had spent half his life at sea.

He had never imagined he would one day set foot on a battlefield. He was just a river captain, plying the Whitewater River with his three wooden cargo ships—his pride and livelihood. War had seemed a distant thing, irrelevant to his peaceful life. But then the Cecil family rose suddenly, and Count Peppobor requisitioned a large number of ships to oppose this new power—including two of Nabil’s vessels and nearly all his crew.

After the war, the “Nabil of the Whitewater River” lost most of its assets, left with only the oldest cargo ship and decades of sailing experience.

Then the Duchy of Cecil was established, the waterways reopened, commerce flourished, and new innovations emerged. Modern mechanical ships began to replace the old wooden freighters. Generous compensation and promising prospects rekindled the disheartened captain’s hope. He acquired a new ship, naming it Nabil once again—after himself, a common tradition among captains.

Then came another war. The government began recruiting ships and experienced captains from the civilian sector, promising generous terms. Nabil was tempted once more—perhaps partly out of a sense of “Cecil citizenship pride.” He answered the call, taking both ship and crew to the front lines.

The world seemed to accelerate suddenly, so fast that Nabil barely had time to grasp when it had changed. Perhaps most ordinary people lived like this—moving forward hurriedly in a world they could never fully understand, only to look back in surprise at the path they had taken.

Nabil inhaled deeply the fresh air over the Gorgon River. A squad of soldiers passed by on deck, inspecting the tarps covering the war wagons, checking the iron hooks and cables securing them. Their backs were straight, their steps purposeful and confident—fine young men all.

They had parents, families, relatives, friends—perhaps lovers and children. They left home clad in shining armor, maybe embracing kin and kissing loved ones goodbye, clutching small tokens or letters they hadn’t sent, along with iron dog tags stamped with their names and numbers. They had survived many battles to reach this day—though some would fall on the coming fields, while others would return home bearing honor, and perhaps wounds or disabilities.

Years from now, those who lived might tell their children stories of the battlefields they had faced—perhaps even this one, and maybe even the armored cargo ship that carried them, and the sentimental, adventurous captain who commanded it.

Nabil turned his gaze toward the misty river ahead. The Pioneer sailed proudly before them, its silhouette cutting through the waves, the flag of Cecil fluttering in the breeze.

On the upper deck of the Pioneer, Victoria stood beneath the snapping banner. After a long moment, she lowered her eyes from the northern horizon and turned back toward the bridge—the heart of this astonishing war machine. There, Gawain stood over a sprawling map, discussing with Byron the most likely points of attack along the upper Gorgon River and the situation facing the royal capital, Saint Suniel.

“We’ll pass the Stone River mouth in two hours,” Gawain said, looking up as Victoria approached the map. “It’s the first river mouth where we’ll need to slow down, and the first point where we’ll be completely separated from the main ground forces. The griffon scouts have taken off; I’m waiting for their reports.”

“This is going to be a risky operation,” Byron said with a wink, “but honestly, I kind of like a little adventure. When I get back, I’ll have a dozen stories to brag about to my daughter.”

“I’ve told Bertram that Saint Suniel must hold out at least seven days,” Victoria said, tracing her finger along the city’s edge on the map. “There are two ‘outposts’—one east, one west—attached to the outer walls. As long as those two fortresses hold during these seven days, reinforcements can arrive.”

Gawain closed his eyes briefly, the satellite-like view flashing through his mind. Saint Suniel appeared at the center of his vision.

The vast, ancient city still stood firm on the plain, shrouded in a shimmering magical shield. The faint glow of the barrier pulsed gently with the flow of arcane energy, making the capital seem like a slowly beating heart. Outside the southwest and southeast walls, two sturdy fortresses flashed with bursts of light.

Beyond the city, a writhing tide of monstrous forces slowly swallowed Saint Suniel’s defenses, only to be repeatedly repelled by the fortresses’ relentless counterattacks—burning stone shot, enchanted crossbow bolts, and magical missiles launched from battle mage towers.

The city, with its centuries of history, faced the greatest trial since its founding.

…

A startled sparrow darted across Saint Suniel’s gloomy sky. A single tail feather drifted down into the courtyard of Silverkeep. There, dressed in fine robes and wearing a royal-embossed longsword at his side, Wales paused on the stone path. He reached out, caught the feather, then released it with a blank expression.

Behind him, Vice-Captain of the Royal Knights, Cohen Loren, halted as well. The clinking of armor echoed as several knights stopped alongside him.

“Your Highness?” Cohen Loren asked quietly.

“Even the birds are fleeing the city,” Wales murmured. “This should be the season when white-tailed sparrows build their nests.”

Cohen Loren bowed his head. “But people are not birds.”

Wales nodded slightly. “Go.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Cohen Loren straightened, tapped his chestplate, then turned and led the knights away at a brisk pace.

Only after the vice-captain had left did Wales slowly turn his gaze toward the shadows nearby.

Bertram Franklin emerged from the darkness. “Your Highness, your senses are sharper than I imagined.”

“Duke Franklin,” Wales said, watching the regent. “What are you doing here?”

“The meeting in the Golden Oak Hall has already begun. The nobles are waiting for your arrival.”

Wales was silent for two seconds, then nodded softly. “Seven days, then?”

“Yes. Seven days.”

He said no more, stepping past the duke and moving forward.

From behind came Bertram’s voice: “Your Highness, is your objective clear?”

“Clear,” Wales replied, pausing briefly. “I’m going to reinforce the walls.”

Inside the Golden Oak Hall, the noise of heated debate grew louder. The nobles of the capital, representatives of knightly houses, and those wielding power clashed in this once solemn chamber. Everyone voiced their opinions, each vying to control the situation. Discussion turned to argument, argument edged toward shouting. Facing life and death, the kingdom’s core of power was fracturing; the military forces were collapsing, and the capital’s command functions were breaking down. The last rulers of the city seemed to have reached their limit.

Outside, monsters multiplied, the situation grew hopeless, and holding the city seemed futile. In such a crisis, noble ideals sounded faint and hollow; only pragmatic self-preservation plans gained ground.

Suddenly, a sharp, loud bow from a page cut through the uproar. The heavy gilded oak doors were pushed open with a thunderous bang, and Wales Morn, the crown prince, appeared before them all.

He was nearly an hour late.

Yet even the overlooked crown prince was not questioned for his tardiness at such a moment. Wales quietly scanned the hall, then strode calmly toward the grand throne at the far end.

The atmosphere shifted. The hall fell silent as nobles exchanged glances, sensing something different about the prince today. Some quietly rose from their seats and moved toward him without a word.

Halfway across the hall, Wales stopped. Standing amid the growing whispers, his gaze swept over several nobles. “We will hold this city with all our might. Who opposes this?”

Voices erupted. “Your Highness! Staying here is a death trap!”

“We have reinforcements,” Wales said, looking toward the source of the outcry. The hall fell silent again. “They are on their way. In seven days, the Southern Cecil Legion will arrive. Grant Duchess Victoria is among them.”

The nobles’ uproar grew even louder. Many were stunned by the unbelievable news—some faces lit with hope, others exchanged shocked looks. One voice slipped out: “Is this… possible? Your Highness, is this true?”

Wales met the speaker’s eyes.

The hearts of men were exactly as he expected.

It wasn’t as if Saint Suniel would suddenly become an unbreakable fortress just because reinforcements were expected. In this city, sinking into decay and disintegration, the royal family had long since lost its authority. Today, even the regent duke struggled to command the loyalty of all the noble houses. No one’s words were trusted by everyone—not even those who bore the blood of Morn. On the contrary, some believed such news was deliberately spread to make others stubbornly cling to the city, buying time for the royal family to transfer their vast wealth elsewhere.

And it would be the same even if Bertram Franklin himself delivered the message.

Because if they were in the same position, they would undoubtedly do the same.

Wales simply watched the nobleman shouting, then spoke slowly, “Hold the city at all costs. Wait for reinforcements in seven days. That is an order.”

“Your Highness, you are not yet king. You cannot issue such orders directly!” The nobleman from the capital gasped under Wales’s gaze. “At least you should wait—”

“Count Lucre,” Wales interrupted, “where are your family, your mistresses, your jewels, and the knights who should be guarding the walls right now?”

Count Lucre’s eyes widened, as if for the first time feeling a flicker of pressure and intimidation from this ‘nominal heir’ who had seemed so lacking in authority and presence. “I… I—”

Wales said calmly, “Count Lucre, you should not have sent them out of the city. That is treason.”

The count opened his mouth, as if to protest, but only managed to force out a few meaningless sounds before a royal sword, decorated with golden patterns, silently and precisely pierced his throat—instant and fatal.

Wales shifted slightly aside, watching the nobleman collapse like a sack of rotten grain. A spray of blood splattered across his cheek and stained the blade at his side with a glaring red sheen.

An unbearable silence fell over the room. Shock and fear flickered in dozens of eyes, many unable to process what had just happened. It was beyond their imagination: here, in the Golden Oak Hall—the most sacred and solemn place in the Kingdom of Ansu—Wales Morn had personally executed a count in front of dozens of capital nobles?!

Half the hall remained motionless, watching without a word.

Wales flicked the blood from his sword and strode toward the chair at the far end of the hall. Only then did the stunned nobles seem to snap back to reality, erupting in shocked murmurs and restless whispers. But before anyone could voice their doubts, the heavy thud of iron boots echoed through the chamber—

A large contingent of fully armored knights stormed into the Golden Oak Hall, swiftly securing all exits and surrounding the central conference table. Clad in blue battle mage robes over chainmail, Cohen Loren entered next, his voice ringing out:

“Herak Borg, former captain of the Royal Knights, is hereby stripped of his command and placed under house arrest for allowing soldiers to desert.

“By military decree, I have assumed command of the Royal Knights.

“The Royal Knights swear allegiance to His Majesty, Wales Morn!”

His Majesty Wales Morn?!

Eyes widened in disbelief as the situation shifted so suddenly. They watched the renowned knight and mage—previously the deputy captain of the Royal Knights—stride into the hall, expressionless as he stepped over Count Lucre’s corpse. It was as if the truth of what was unfolding was finally dawning on them.

Wales Morn reached the throne at the back of the hall—the heir who had left Silver Fortress twenty years ago—turned, and slowly sat in the seat that was rightfully his. His gaze swept over everyone present.

Blood from Count Lucre stained his face. The man who had been scorned and dismissed for two decades now looked terrifying.

“From this day forward, I crown myself King of Ansu.”

At Wales Morn’s calm declaration, whispers rippled through the hall. People exchanged uncertain glances, some doubting the reality of it all, others instinctively wondering: who would conduct the coronation ceremony?

At that moment, a noble near the door gasped softly, “Duke Franklin has arrived!”

Heads turned, eyes fixed on Bertram Franklin as he entered. The regent duke had been absent from the entire meeting, but when they saw what he carried in his hands, an indescribable hush fell over everyone.

Bertram Franklin held the king’s golden crown.

The western duke paused briefly at the entrance, then took measured steps toward the throne.

Only then did some realize:

This was the Golden Oak Hall—not just the highest council chamber for the nobles, but the very place where kings were crowned;

Wales Morn’s splendid robes were the ceremonial garments of coronation;

The ornate sword that had executed Count Lucre was the ceremonial sword of the king’s investiture.

Under dozens of eyes filled with tension, fear, hope, and shock, Bertram Franklin crossed the final distance and stood before Wales Morn, raising the golden crown halfway.

But then he stopped. He did not place the crown on the new king’s head.

Wales reached out his hand, took the heavy crown himself, and slowly set it upon his head.

Every noble in the hall understood what this meant.

From this day forward, there would be no more regent duke in Ansu.

Wales Morn wore the crown once prepared for Edmund, silently observing everyone in the hall. After a few moments, he rose and slowly lifted the bloodstained royal sword:

“Hold Saint Suniel at all costs!

“This is the king’s command!”

(End of chapter)