When we look back upon the annals of history, we often find that beneath the relentless torrent of time, even the wisest of leaders may succumb to moments of clouded judgment.
—Chronicles of the Empire, Volume 35, Entry 7: Reflections on the Roland Era
It was the afternoon of a sweltering summer day, the sun a merciless tyrant blazing down from the heavens, its heat an unyielding lash upon the earth. At the docks, preparations for the impending triumphal ceremony were in full swing. Countless soldiers of the Imperial Guard, clad in resplendent crimson armor, had cordoned off the first pier, forming an impenetrable wall of steel and discipline. Beyond them, a hundred paces from the waterfront, the beleaguered troops of the Capital Security Office strained against the chaos, their strength waning as though squeezed from their very bones. Their uniforms hung in tatters—epaulettes ripped away, jaunty caps snatched by eager hands, and boots trampled into the dust beneath a sea of fervor.
These thousand guardians of order faced an impossible foe: over fifty thousand citizens of the imperial capital, their enthusiasm a roaring wildfire. The crowd brimmed with anticipation—flowers clutched in trembling hands, cheers rising like thunder, applause crashing in waves. Among them, maidens stood ready to offer not just kisses but their very virtue, swept up in the delirium of the moment. To the Security Office soldiers, it felt as though they manned a rotting skiff adrift in a storm-tossed ocean, teetering on the brink of capsizing.
They cast envious glances toward the Imperial Guard within the cordon, those fortunate souls who stood in pristine formation, flaunting their freshly issued armor and weapons—untouched by the clawing hands of the mob, unmarred by the threat of a fanatic's nails raking their faces.
This grand spectacle had been decreed by His Imperial Majesty, Augustine VI, the great emperor of the realm. To accommodate the victorious return of the fleet, the Lancang Canal's passage to the capital had been widened twofold—an endeavor that consumed six months of toil from ten thousand river workers and drained nearly three million gold coins from the imperial coffers. All this, merely to ensure that the flagship of the empire's "Xth Expeditionary Fleet," the mighty Dandong, could glide unimpeded to the eastern gates of the capital's port, basking in the adulation of the masses and proclaiming the empire's unassailable might.
No one dared question whether such extravagance was worth the price. The last man to voice dissent—the former Minister of Finance—had been summarily banished to rusticate in his ancestral village by an enraged emperor. His successor, a man of lesser spine, had no choice but to scrape together the funds, pillaging every corner of the empire's budget to appease the whims of that "vainglorious old fool." Naturally, such a moniker for His Majesty remained a buried ember in the new minister's heart, smoldering deep, deep within.
As the afternoon sun blazed upon the broad expanse of the canal, a faint silhouette pierced the horizon—a single sail, the harbinger of glory. The crowd's restraint shattered, their cheers erupting like a dam burst asunder. Slowly, majestically, the colossal warship drew near—a behemoth stretching two hundred paces from bow to stern. Its formidable outline struck awe into the hearts of every onlooker, a testament to imperial dominion.
The Dandong, flagship of the Sixth Expeditionary Fleet, was the pride of the Imperial Navy—the largest vessel ever forged in its storied history. For this ceremony, it had been scrubbed clean and repainted, its hull a foreboding black that gleamed with menace. Amid the ceaseless waves of adulation, it loomed like a monstrous beast of the deep, its towering mast adorned with the empire's immense thornflower banner billowing defiantly in the wind.
When the anchor plunged into the depths, the port erupted. Tens of thousands surged forward—hats soared into the sky, shoes were crushed underfoot, legs bruised in the press. The pitiful soldiers of the Security Office could do naught but shrink their cordon tighter and tighter, their resolve fraying with every shout.
At the ship's prow stood Earl Raymond, commander of the Expeditionary Fleet, his expression a mask of stone as he gazed upon the jubilant throng. At thirty-nine, this first-rank general of the empire and noble earl was clad in his most ceremonial garb: a suit of light armor encasing his frame, a crimson cloak snapping behind him in the breeze, and two medals gleaming upon his chest—rewards from prior campaigns. Without doubt, this triumph would add yet another to his tally. Yet his eyes were unfocused, his gaze drifting past the roaring masses. Up close, one might note the faint furrow of his brow, a flicker of impatience in his stern visage.
Damn this armor, he thought. Too heavy, and utterly foolish. A naval commander had no need for such ponderous gear—better suited to the lumbering brutes of the land army than a man who fought upon the waves. And these medals? A gaudy display, fit for a nouveau riche parvenu flaunting his coin, not a true noble of refined blood. To Earl Raymond, it was a degradation of his station. The crowd's clamor grated further, their cheers a relentless tide eroding what little patience he retained.
His gaze dropped briefly to the deck beneath his boots. The Dandong had been refurbished for this day—scrubbed of bloodstains three days prior, its worn planks replaced, its ram at the bow gleaming anew. And yet, those sycophantic fools had sculpted the ram into a likeness of Emperor Augustine VI himself, crafted—so rumor held—by a famed imperial sculptor in a frantic rush. An additional ten thousand gold coins had been squandered on this vanity. Imposing, yes, but did those idiots not realize that in naval combat, the ram was the first to splinter when ships collided? A sharpened stake would have served better than this ostentatious waste.
Deeper still, Earl Raymond harbored a gnawing contempt for the very notion of this "Xth Expeditionary Fleet." For decades, the empire had launched these so-called expeditions into the South Seas—a scattering of countless isles like pearls strewn across an endless blue. There grew exotic forests, dwelt barbarous tribes mired in primitive clans, and lay riches aplenty: gold, gems, spices, and bounties of the sea. Yet to him, "sending a dozen hulking warships to crush the natives' flimsy canoes" was no expedition. It was plunder. Slaughter. Brigandage. Naked aggression.
He did not balk at the morality of it—weakness invited domination, and the strong had ever bent the feeble to their will. But the empire's policy was flawed in its execution: too frequent, too rapacious. The first few expeditions had reaped glory, their holds brimming with treasures that dazzled the realm. Yet even the richest field withers under ceaseless harvest. The coastal tribes were extinguished, forcing each subsequent fleet to venture farther, stretching supply lines to the breaking point. The South Seas offered more than docile natives and glittering spoils—there were stifling heat, capricious storms, towering waves, hidden reefs, and whirlpools waiting to claim the unwary.
This overreaching greed had turned a fertile granary into a barren waste. Returns dwindled with every voyage, yet the triumphal ceremonies grew ever more lavish—an irony not lost on the earl. He had commanded the last three expeditions, earning a fearsome reputation across the South Seas. To the natives, he was a litany of dread: Robber. Butcher. Executioner. His hands were steeped in their blood, his name a curse among the clans whose homes he'd razed, whose kin he'd enslaved. Such epithets stirred no remorse in him—only a faint unease. For these relentless wars had begun to warp the natives' development, particularly their martial prowess. Word had reached him before his return: in the farthest southern reaches, island tribes had forged an alliance to resist the empire's insatiable pillage.
No matter. This was his final voyage. He would remain in the capital now, and if fortune favored him, a prestigious post in the Imperial Command awaited. A decade or so hence, when the current Minister of War retired, the Rowling House's influence would secure him that mantle. With a touch more luck, he might even taste the premiership in his twilight years. The expeditions? To hell with them. Let the next commander wrestle with that mire. Even if the natives learned to forge magitek cannons, it would no longer be his burden.
Amid the heat of the crowd's adulation, Earl Raymond disembarked, his boots striking the soil of the capital at last. He raised a hand to the masses—a gesture less a wave than a swatting of flies. A court official in ornate robes boarded first, proclaiming the emperor's commendation and summoning the earl to the palace at dawn to receive his honors. His ambitions were unfolding as planned, his political star ascendant.
Then a servant in drab gray slipped through the throng, whispering a message that plunged his heart into shadow. It came from home. Three years at sea had severed him from news—most crucially of his wife, who had been near her term when he departed. He knew not whether she'd borne a son or daughter. Now the tidings arrived: a son. But a fool, an idiot.
The words nearly toppled him from the pinnacle of triumph. Nearly. Yet every noble who approached to offer congratulations glimpsed the storm brewing behind his eyes, his countenance teetering on the edge of ruin.