When we reflect upon history, we often realize that beneath its relentless currents, even the most astute leaders are sometimes prone to moments of blinding folly.

— *The Empire Chronicles, Volume VII: Reflections on the Age of Roland*

It was a sultry summer afternoon, with the relentless sun casting its unforgiving heat. In anticipation of the grand triumphal ceremony, the docks were encircled by countless imperial guards clad in crimson armor, sealing off Pier Number One with an impenetrable line.

One hundred paces beyond the pier's perimeter, the beleaguered soldiers of the Imperial City Guard were fighting a losing battle to control the crowd. Many of them had their uniforms torn, their once-bright epaulettes ripped away, their stately hats snatched, and even their boots trampled off by the frenzied masses.

The thousand city guards tasked with maintaining order felt helpless, facing an audience of over fifty thousand exuberant citizens eager to witness the spectacle.

The crowds, brimming with enthusiasm, came armed with flowers, cheers, applause—and, for many young women, the promise of kisses and more. Caught in this fervor, the city guards were like a fragile ship in a tempest, fearing they might be overwhelmed at any moment.

At this moment, they envied the imperial guards within the dock's protective cordon, who stood leisurely in formation, flaunting their gleaming new armor and weapons without the worry of being mobbed by ardent spectators.

For this grand spectacle, under the command of the Empire's great Emperor, His Majesty Augustine VI, the Lancang Grand Canal leading to the capital had been widened by double its previous width. This endeavor required the toil of ten thousand canal laborers over half a year and cost the Empire nearly three million gold coins.

All this expense, solely for the flagship *Danton* of the Empire's "Xth Expeditionary Fleet" to pass smoothly through the canal and reach the capital's eastern harbor, where it would be greeted by the jubilant cheers of the masses, showcasing the Empire's might.

No one dared to question whether such a cost was justifiable for a display of power alone.The former Minister of Finance, who had initially voiced fierce objections, was promptly sent home by the furious Emperor to spend his days in retirement. His successor had only one choice—to exhaust every possible avenue to scrape together the funds from the Empire's treasury to satisfy that "glory-obsessed old man."

Of course, the term "glory-obsessed old man" was buried deep within the Minister's heart, hidden away in layers of guarded discretion.

As the afternoon sun cast its rays over the wide canal, the crowd could barely contain their excitement when the first glimpse of a sail appeared on the distant horizon. Gradually, the colossal warship, two hundred paces in length, neared the port, and its towering form stunned every onlooker in the Imperial City.

The flagship of the Sixth Imperial Expeditionary Fleet, *Danton*, the pride of the Imperial Navy, was the largest warship ever constructed. Freshly painted and meticulously refurbished for this grand ceremony, its hull gleamed in a fearsome black as waves of cheers surged like tides. With a massive thistle flag billowing proudly from its mast, *Danton* resembled a black leviathan approaching the docks.

As the anchor dropped, the crowd erupted—thousands of hats tossed into the air, shoes trampled, legs bruised, while the beleaguered city guards continuously retreated, shrinking the perimeter line to its limits.

Count Raymond, commander of the Expeditionary Fleet, stood expressionless on the foredeck, observing the frenzied masses below.

At thirty-nine, he was an esteemed Imperial general and a Count, wearing his most formal attire—a lightweight armor draping him from head to toe, and a vivid red cape billowing in the wind. Two medals adorned his chest, earned from previous expeditions, and soon he would undoubtedly receive a third.

The Count's gaze was distant, his focus drifting past the jubilant crowd. Observed closely, one could notice a subtle furrow of impatience on his brow.

D*mn it, this armor is absurdly heavy—and equally absurd.

The Count couldn't understand why, as a naval officer, he was burdened with armor meant for land warfare. And the medals? In his mind, they were like the baubles of a nouveau riche flaunting his wealth—an act far beneath the dignity of true nobility. To him, the entire display felt vulgar. And the noise—the roar of the crowd's cheers crashed over him in relentless waves, wearing down his patience to the thinnest of threads.

He glanced instinctively at the deck beneath his feet.

*Danton* had been repainted three days prior in preparation for the ceremony; all traces of blood had been scrubbed away, and the battered planks from their expeditions had been replaced. Even the ship's prow had been refitted… to his annoyance, it now bore a statue of the Emperor himself, a recent creation by a renowned sculptor, commissioned at the hefty sum of ten thousand gold coins. Impressive, perhaps—but did those fools not realize that, in battle, the prow would be the first part shattered on impact? In Raymond's view, the cost was a blatant waste; the sculptor's work was less useful than a simple, sharp wooden spike.

More troublingly, deep in the Count's heart, he held a harsher judgment: that this entire "Xth Imperial Expeditionary Fleet" was nothing more than a tragic farce. For decades, the Empire had launched one expedition after another into the Southern Seas. True, the South held islands aplenty, scattered like pearls across vast waters, boasting exotic forests, backward tribes barely beyond clan structures, gold, gemstones, spices, and sea bounty. Yet, Raymond could not call the Empire's ventures there a true "expedition." It was plunder, massacre, banditry—a violent invasion!

Of course, he held no moral qualms; the weak had always been subjugated by the strong. But he thought the Empire's repeated forays had become excessive, with increasingly diminishing returns. In the early expeditions, the Imperial Navy reigned supreme in the South, returning shiploads of treasures that had once ignited a frenzy across the Empire. But even the richest granary could not withstand such relentless harvest. The excessive plundering had led to the annihilation of coastal tribes, forcing the fleet further and further each time, stretching their supply lines to breaking point.

For the South held more than mere weaklings and riches. It was also rife with stifling heat, volatile weather, monstrous waves, and countless hidden reefs, whirlpools, and storms. Excessive pillaging had left the once-fertile empire's granary barren, and each successive expedition yielded less than the one before. Ironically, however, the celebrations grew ever grander…

Count Raymond himself had commanded the last three expeditions, which had earned him a fearsome reputation in the Southern Isles. To the native tribes, he was known by a series of grim titles: "Thief," "Butcher," "Executioner." His hands were stained with their blood, and he was the notorious demon who burned their homes and enslaved them. Raymond cared little for this infamy, but what unsettled him slightly was the effect these invasions were having on the Southern tribes—they had begun, in a twisted way, to evolve, especially in military strength. Rumor had it that, before he departed, an alliance had been formed by tribes in the farthest reaches of the South to resist the Empire's unceasing plunder.

But fortunately, those troubles would no longer be his concern. He knew this expedition would be his last. From here, he would stay in the capital, perhaps earning a prestigious post at the High Command. With a few years' service, he could see himself becoming the next Minister of War, and, if luck favored him, perhaps even Prime Minister in his twilight years.

As for the expeditions, d*mn them. They would be the headache of the next fleet commander. Even if the island tribes managed to fashion cannons of their own, it would no longer be his worry.

With cheers crashing over him like waves of heat, the Count descended from the flagship's deck, finally setting foot on the soil of the capital. He waved to the throngs of cheering citizens… though his gesture seemed more akin to swatting flies away.

First, a court official in ceremonial garb boarded the ship to deliver the Emperor's commendation, announcing that the Count would be summoned to the palace the following morning to receive his award. At last, his political path seemed clear and untroubled.

But then, a gray-clad servant rushed forward, quietly whispering news that instantly plunged Raymond's heart into darkness.

The message was from home. Three years at sea, and communication had been scarce; Raymond knew little of what awaited him there. Most pressing on his mind was his wife. When he had left, she was near term with their first child. And now, he didn't even know if he had a son or daughter.

The news was: a son. But the son was a fool.

That message struck him, almost leveling him in an instant from the height of his victory.

Just a little further, and it might have destroyed him.

But it was clear to every aristocrat present to greet him that the triumphant commander's face was already on the edge of breaking.