When we look back on history with the clarity of hindsight, we often find that even the wisest of leaders are not immune to moments of folly beneath the relentless tide of time.
—Annals of the Empire, Volume 35, Entry 7: Reflections on the Roland Era
It was a sweltering summer afternoon, the sun hanging high and merciless, pouring its heat over the land. At the docks, preparations for the impending triumphal ceremony were in full swing. Countless guardsmen clad in gleaming red armor had cordoned off Pier One, forming an impenetrable wall of steel and discipline.
A hundred paces beyond the perimeter, the soldiers of the Imperial Capital's Public Order Office were fighting a losing battle. Sweat-soaked and disheveled, they strained every muscle to hold back the chaos. Their uniforms were torn, epaulets ripped away, jaunty caps snatched or trampled, and boots lost to the mud and madness. They numbered a mere thousand, tasked with maintaining order against a roaring tide of over fifty thousand fervent citizens of the capital.
The crowd buzzed with uncontainable excitement—flowers clutched in eager hands, cheers ready to erupt, applause trembling on the air. Some young women, caught in the fever of the moment, were prepared to offer far more than just a kiss. Under this tidal wave of emotion, the beleaguered soldiers felt like a battered skiff adrift in a storm, teetering on the edge of being swallowed whole.
They envied the guardsmen within the cordon, who stood in pristine formation, showing off their freshly issued armor and weapons with an air of smug leisure. Those lucky bastards didn't have to worry about a frenzied citizen clawing their faces in the next heartbeat.
As the afternoon sun blazed across the canal's broad, shimmering surface, a faint speck of sail appeared on the horizon. The crowd's restraint shattered, and a cheer swelled like a breaking wave.
The Danton, flagship of the Sixth Expeditionary Fleet, loomed closer—a behemoth two hundred paces long. Its sheer size and martial grandeur struck awe into every onlooker. Freshly painted and refurbished for this moment, its hull gleamed an intimidating black. As wave after wave of cheers crashed against it, the ship seemed a monstrous beast stalking the waters, its towering mast flying the massive Thornflower banner of the empire, rippling defiantly in the wind.
This grand triumph had been decreed by His Imperial Majesty, Augustine VI, the great Emperor of the Roland Empire. To ensure its magnificence, the Lancang Grand Canal—linking the empire's heart to its capital—had been widened twofold. The cost? Six months of backbreaking labor from ten thousand river workers and a staggering three million gold coins drained from the imperial treasury.
All of this, just so the Danton could sail unobstructed through the canal to the eastern gates of the capital's port. There, it would bask in the adulation of the masses, a gleaming testament to the empire's unassailable might.
No one dared question whether such extravagance for mere pageantry was worth it. The last Imperial Treasurer who'd raised a fuss had been summarily dismissed by an enraged emperor and sent packing to rusticate in his ancestral village. His successor learned the lesson well: shut up, scrape together the funds however you can, and appease the "glory-hungry old man."
Of course, that moniker—"glory-hungry old man"—was a thought the new Treasurer buried deep, deep down, never to see the light of day.
When the anchor dropped, the port erupted. Tens of thousands surged forward—hats soared into the sky, shoes were trampled underfoot, legs bruised in the crush. The Public Order soldiers, helpless, could only shrink their cordon tighter and tighter.
At the ship's prow stood Earl Raymond, commander of the Expeditionary Fleet. Thirty-nine years old, a first-rank general of the empire, and a noble earl, he gazed impassively at the jubilant throng below. Decked in his most formal regalia—light armor encasing his frame, a crimson cloak snapping behind him, two medals from prior campaigns glinting on his chest—he cut an imposing figure. Doubtless, this triumph would add yet another honor to his name.
But his eyes were unfocused, drifting past the cheering masses. Up close, one might notice the faint crease in his brow, a flicker of irritation he couldn't quite mask.
Damn this armor—it's too heavy and utterly ridiculous, he thought. A naval officer didn't need such cumbersome gear for sea combat; that was the army's nonsense. And the medals? Parading them felt like a nouveau riche flaunting his coin—beneath a true noble's dignity. The whole affair grated on him.
Worse still, the crowd's roars pounded his ears like a tsunami, eroding what little patience he had left. His gaze dropped to the deck beneath his boots.
The Danton had been scrubbed and polished to perfection three days prior, its boards free of the bloodstains from the campaign. Damaged planks had been replaced, and the ram at the prow swapped for a new one. A damned waste, Raymond fumed inwardly. Some sycophant had sculpted the ram into a likeness of Emperor Augustine VI himself—crafted, they boasted, by a renowned imperial sculptor just days ago. The navy had shelled out an extra ten thousand gold coins for it.
Sure, it looked majestic enough. But didn't those fools realize that in a naval battle, the ram was the first thing to shatter when ships collided? To Raymond, that ten thousand might as well have been spent on a sharpened log—it'd be more practical.
For decades, the empire had launched these so-called "expeditions" into the South Seas. The region was a treasure trove—countless islands strewn like pearls across the vast ocean, dense with exotic forests, inhabited by primitive tribes still clinging to their clan ways. Gold, gems, spices, and seafood abounded.
But Raymond didn't see "expeditions" in sending a dozen massive warships to bully tribes paddling little dugout canoes. It was plunder. Slaughter. Brigandage. Naked aggression.
He didn't think it wrong—weakness invited domination, and the strong ruled the submissive. That was nature's law. Yet the empire's approach was flawed: these raids came too often, and their yields grew thinner each time.
The first few expeditions had been glorious—ships returned laden with gold, gems, and spices, dazzling the empire. But even the richest field withers under relentless harvest. Near-shore tribes were wiped out, forcing fleets to venture farther, stretching supply lines to the breaking point.
The South Seas weren't just docile natives and glittering loot. There were stifling heat, capricious weather, monstrous waves, hidden reefs, whirlpools, storms. Overexploitation had turned a potential imperial breadbasket into a barren waste. Returns dwindled, yet the victory celebrations only grew more lavish—a bitter irony.
Raymond had led the last three expeditions, earning a fearsome reputation in the South Seas. To the natives, he was a litany of epithets: Raider. Butcher. Executioner. His hands dripped with their blood; he was the demon who torched their homes and enslaved their kin.
He didn't care what they thought. What troubled him was how these endless wars had warped the natives' development—especially their martial prowess. Before his return, he'd heard whispers: in the farthest southern reaches, some island tribes had forged an alliance to resist the empire's insatiable greed.
Fortunately, that wasn't his problem anymore. This was his final expedition. If all went well, he'd stay in the capital, secure a plum post in the Imperial Command, and bide his time. In a decade, when the current Minister of War retired, his family's clout could propel him into that seat. With a touch more luck, he might even taste the premiership in his twilight years.
The expeditions? To hell with them. Let the next fleet commander deal with the mess—even if those natives somehow built magic cannons, it wouldn't be his headache.
Amid the roaring cheers, Raymond stepped off the flagship onto the capital's soil. He raised a hand to the crowd—a gesture less a wave, more a swat at flies.
A court official in ornate robes boarded first, proclaiming the emperor's commendation and summoning the earl to the palace at dawn for an audience and a new medal. As expected. His political future gleamed bright.
But then a servant in drab gray pushed through, whispering a message in his ear—a message from home that plunged his mood into the abyss.
Three years at sea had severed him from news of his family. When he'd departed, his wife was near childbirth. He didn't even know if it was a son or daughter.
The word came: a son. But the son, it seemed, was an idiot.
That blow nearly toppled him from the peak of triumph. Nearly.
Yet every noble and dignitary greeting him at the docks could see it: the victorious commander's face was a storm cloud teetering on collapse.