Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 481 Blazing Flames (Part Six)

[Republic of Monta]
[Hornburg]
At dawn, an old soldier and a young soldier led their packhorses out of the city and headed towards the mountains to the west of the city.

Like most cities in Montauban, Hornburg is situated in a valley. However, the valley where Hornburg is located is larger, and the surrounding hillsides are gentler.

After leaving the main road, passing through villages on the outskirts of the city, and following the winding path trodden by shepherds, the two soldiers struggled to climb towards the top of the mountain.

The higher they climbed, the sparser the surrounding vegetation became, and the steeper the path grew. The white mountainside began to be exposed to the elements, with loose rocks occasionally tumbling down the slope and narrowly missing them.

They walked until the afternoon before finally reaching their destination—a simple stone hut perched on a mountain ridge. Both the people and the pack animals were exhausted, drenched in sweat and their knees trembling.

Standing in front of the stone hut, the young soldier wiped the sweat from his brow, turned to the veteran, and asked in confusion, "Is this the place?"

The veteran who climbed up last was panting heavily, looking at the stone hut, and was also a little undecided.

He glanced at the road he had come from, then looked around the hut, and after racking his brains for a long time, finally gave his answer: "This is it."

"It doesn't look like it's been abandoned," the young soldier muttered to himself.

The veteran led the packhorse toward the hut: "Just one look inside and you'll know."

The door to the stone hut was propped shut from the outside by a tree stump. Moving the stump aside and stepping inside, one could see a makeshift bed propped up in the corner by planks and stone slabs, covered with some compressed, dry straw.

A blackened iron pot sat beside the bed, and the stone wall behind it was also blackened by smoke.

The veteran pulled out a sickle from under the bed: "The shepherd used this place as a resting place."

"So what do we do?" The young soldier scratched his head. "Should we just throw all this junk out?"

"Ignore him." The veteran waved his hand, signaling the new recruits to get back to work: "Let's do our thing."

Then, the two of them worked together to unload the saddlebags from the packhorses and carried them up the steps outside the house to the roof.

Looking down from the rooftop, the lake in the center of the valley is like a drop of mercury spilled on a blue silk, reflecting a metallic luster in the sunlight.
The Horn Fort, situated on the lakeside, resembles a necklace, embracing the lake with its red tiles and white walls, making it exceptionally beautiful.

After a full day of hiking, the young soldier had the energy to look back at the path he had come from for the first time. He couldn't help but exclaim, "Just for this scenery, it's worth climbing the mountain for a whole day."

The veteran was also somewhat moved, but he just watched in silence, seemingly trying to connect the scene at Hornburg with the images in his memory.

A moment later, he turned around, his back to the peaceful valley, and continued to work.

As the cleanup continued, a furnace-like structure was revealed on the roof of the stone hut.

The veteran cleaned the ash from the bottom of the furnace, repaired the collapsed furnace wall with stones and mud, and then piled the firewood he had brought in, one layer dry and one layer wet, inside the furnace.

"Is that how it's done?" the young soldier beside him asked, somewhat disbelievingly.

The veteran paused for a moment, his eyes dimmed slightly, but he quickly continued stacking the stones: "It's been too long... I can't remember anymore."

The firewood quickly filled the furnace, and the old soldier took the oil can from his waist and poured the lamp oil in a circular motion onto the firewood.

When it came to the final step, it was time to light the fire. The veteran took out the flint and steel, but didn't strike it.

The young soldiers were puzzled as to why the veterans were not making any moves.

"You should light the fire." After a moment, the old soldier handed the flint and steel to the young man and said in a hoarse voice, "It's your turn."

The young man happily accepted the flint and steel.

As the fire was pushed into the furnace from the bottom, the long-abandoned "furnace" once again spewed flames.

Then came the smoke, first a silky yellow wisp, then growing thicker and thicker until it was almost black. The smoke overwhelmed the flames and was stretched into a slanted stone pillar in the air by the howling east wind from the mountaintop.

The veteran squinted, gazing southwest, towards the location of the next beacon tower. Thirty years ago, the next beacon tower would have responded within fifteen minutes.

But after waiting for a long time, there was no movement from the distant mountain ridge. It seemed that the beacon tower there, like the one at Horn Fort, had long been abandoned.

However, the next second, a desolate and low horn sound came from the city in the middle of the valley, echoing among the mountains.

The abandoned beacon towers were lit once again, and the bronze horns covered in dust on the roof of the State Palace were blown three times.

Upon hearing the horn and seeing the beacon fires, the people of Monta all stopped to watch. The young were puzzled, while the older remained silent for a long time.

The beacon fires were the order to "arm," and the bugle calls were the prelude to "conscription." Together, they appeared at this moment, announcing the end of the era of peace to all the people of Monta.

"Go back." The veteran turned and walked down from the beacon tower.

This peace lasted for a full thirty years, the longest he could remember.

But it eventually came to an end.

……

[Republic of Monta]
[Hornburg]
[Army Headquarters]
The bugle call that resounded throughout the city also made the officers and clerks of the Army Headquarters temporarily put down what they were doing and look up to listen.

However, as soon as the bugle call subsided, both officers and clerks immediately threw themselves back into their original work.

Everyone deliberately maintained a facade of busyness and calmness, as if it were just a few drops of rain falling into a lake.

Everyone knew that in a small room above them, a group of senior army officers, urgently recalled from various autonomous states to headquarters, were holding a meeting about the fate of the Monta Republic, and even the fate of the alliance.

Everyone working at the Army Headquarters was incredibly eager to know the outcome of the meeting; they wished they could hear everything being said in the meeting room.

However, nothing was actually discussed in the meeting room.

The army generals and colonels in Monta, who rarely shared a room, silently smoked their pipes, and no one spoke.

The suffocating smoke filled the entire conference room, dimming even the candlelight, mirroring the gloomy expressions of the soldiers present.

The official letter from the National Palace was left unopened on the table.

Even without opening the official letter, the senior military officers present knew what it contained.

Although as early as two years ago, many Monta officers believed that the Paratú civil war would be the trigger for a full-scale civil war within the Union—no, to be precise, many people had already made pessimistic predictions about this unstable political structure at the very beginning of the Union's constitution-making process.

The shadow of civil war loomed over the Union from beginning to end.

But when the "prophecy" was about to come true, the prophets of disaster felt no joy; instead, the official letter on their table seemed to weigh a ton. Finally, someone broke the silence indignantly: "What does it matter to us if the Paratites fight the Paratites? Why should we shed blood in the war that the United Provinces want to fight?"

The speaker grabbed the official document from the table, held it up in his hand, and said angrily, "You think you can just send over a piece of trash and expect me to transfer the Seventh Legion? Who does Milehouse think he is? A false emperor? Those bastards in Guitu City, do they really think they're the suzerain state?"

These words expressed what most people were thinking, and a low murmur of agreement rippled through the conference room.

“The arrogance of the United Provinces remains as strong as ever.” Another magnetic voice echoed in the room: “But the most crucial issue is not them, but us—we have no power to refuse.”

The magnetic voice spoke slowly and deliberately: "Our people depend on the grain exported by the Republic of Van, our government depends on the funds of the United Provinces Bank, and our output depends on the purchase of goods by the United Provinces' merchants. The truth will make dignity bleed, but ignoring the truth will make more than just dignity bleed—whether the people of Monta like it or not, the Republic of Monta has long been tied to the United Provinces' war chariot."

The owner of the magnetic voice took the official letter and tapped the bright red wax seal on it: "More importantly—this order was not issued to us by the United Provinces, but by the Grand Council of the Monta Republic! Legally, we can only obey."

"Don't give me that!" The colonel who had spoken first slammed his hand on the table and stood up. "The State Palace is full of puppets of the federal government! Who doesn't know that?"

"You're right, so what do you plan to do?" The owner of the magnetic voice asked calmly, "Try to stage a mutiny like the people of the United Provinces?"

This time, there were no words of agreement in the meeting room; instead, it was eerily quiet.

The colonel who had spoken earlier was also stumped by the questioning. His face turned red, his fists clenched, and his teeth clenched so tightly they made a grinding sound.

"If you can't take responsibility," the general, sitting at the end of the conference table, reprimanded with a stern face, "don't say it aloud."

The owner of the magnetic voice nodded and sat back down in his original seat with composure.

The general scanned both sides of the long table and continued, word by word: "Spearmen can only survive on the battlefield by standing shoulder to shoulder. The more critical the moment, the more the army must unite as one. Whatever decision is made today, no one will be allowed to disagree."

"[A modal particle indicating obedience]." A low response echoed in the conference room.

The general immediately spotted a silent old subordinate on his right and bluntly called out his name: "Marx, you've been sitting there smoking from the beginning. What? Nothing to say?"

Colonel Max Berne, the focus of everyone's attention, put down his pipe and twirled the broken iron ring on his finger: "I'm pondering... General Arpad's fate."

"Stop talking nonsense." The general ordered bluntly, "Speak!"

“According to the plans of the United Provinces,” Colonel Bern said, his brow furrowing deeper as he spoke. He asked seriously, “General Arpad… is there still a chance of winning the war?”

Looking around at his colleagues, Colonel Bern saw a negative answer in everyone's eyes.

"The United Provinces have pulled out all the stops this time, mobilizing not only us but also the Vane army." The officer who spoke first asserted angrily, "We'll attack the northern front, while the United Provinces and the Vane attack the eastern front. Even if that old bastard Alpad is a great fighter, he can't withstand a pincer attack. Besides, how many soldiers does he have? Even if we squeeze them dry, we can't outlast the United Provinces."

After he finished speaking, many people in the conference room sighed.

The attendees at the meeting were all seasoned professional military officers. Although many of them were emotionally hoping that Arpad would give the United Provinces a good beating, the strength and situation of both sides were clear, and the outcome was obvious.

"However," the magnetic voice rang out again, "who can say for sure what will happen on the battlefield?"

Upon hearing this, the officer who had spoken first crossed his arms and gave a disdainful snort.

The general stared at Colonel Bern: "You've been thinking about this for so long, and all you've come up with is 'the United Provinces will definitely win'?"

“Yes. But that’s not what I’m worried about. What worries me isn’t next year or the year after, but five or ten years from now.” Colonel Bern stood up, looked around the conference room, and asked his colleagues condescendingly, “What will happen after the United Provinces win this battle?”

"If the United Provinces defeat General Alpard and gain control of Palatul, the balance of power within the Union will be completely shattered. Once Palatul's resources are consolidated, the United Provinces will gain an overwhelming advantage over Veneta."

Will they be satisfied with this?

"Will they continue with military adventures?"

"Will we end the Platonic Wars?" Colonel Max Berne slammed his fist on the long table, asking emphatically, "or will we veer into a larger, all-out war?"

A long silence fell over the meeting room. Colonel Bern then ripped the curtain off the elephant covering the room. As the bleak future, which had been deliberately or unintentionally avoided, became clearly visible, the Montaigne officers felt both angry and powerless.

"Then what can we do?" The colonel, who spoke first, said indignantly, "The root of the disease was set thirty years ago, and it has long since become incurable."

The magnetic voice sighed helplessly and said sincerely, "Colonel Bern, I understand your concerns, but... the Monta Army is not the United Provinces Army. What determines this is not whether we have the will to emulate them, but whether we have the strength to emulate them."

The owner of the magnetic voice looked somewhat forlorn, but his tone remained incredibly calm: "We can only face this reality—from ancient times to the present, our homeland has never been a self-sufficient land. In the past, we depended on the Empire for survival; now, our republic depends on the United Provinces Republic for survival."

The owner of the magnetic voice continued, “For the Republic of Monta, trying to break away from the United Provinces would be like tearing off half of its own body—even disregarding feasibility—the cost would be far greater than participating in a full-scale civil war. Therefore, as soldiers of the Republic of Monta, we can only obey the Republic’s best interests, namely, to join the victorious side and secure the best possible advantage for the Republic of Monta—even if this is humiliating, it is something we must do.”

The meeting room remained quiet. The officers in attendance smoked their pipes even harder, but this silence itself indicated that they had been subtly persuaded by the owner of the magnetic voice.

After a pause, the owner of the magnetic voice looked at Colonel Bern and asked hesitantly, "Or do you have a plan... to turn the tide?"

All eyes immediately turned to Colonel Bern.

"No," Colonel Bern answered simply.

The candlelight dimmed further.

For the senior officers present, the idealism they had displayed when they left the ivory tower had long since faded, and their passion had been worn down by the trivialities of bureaucracy. However, they still vaguely remembered how proud they had been when they swore an oath to become soldiers who would defend the Union.

However, seeing the great alliance ultimately become a dead letter, leaving only cold considerations of self-interest, everyone felt a deep sorrow, though no one would admit it.

“But even considering only the interests of the Republic,” Colonel Berne said, fiddling with the iron ring on his finger, “we shouldn’t let the United Provinces win too easily.”

The others quickly understood what he meant.

"It's useless." The colonel who spoke first scoffed, "Even if the Seventh Legion doesn't join the battle, the few old, weak, sick, and disabled people left in Alpad can't possibly withstand the combined attack of the United Provinces and the Vane."

The colonel who spoke first tapped his pipe hard and said in a deep voice, "In the end, whether the United Provinces win gracefully or poorly depends not on us, but on the Paratu. The Paratu have been fighting amongst themselves for several rounds now. Even if you put all the Paratu on both sides of the Jinliu River together, they still wouldn't be a match for the United Provinces. Besides, how old is Alpad? He might die any day now. If Alpad dies, who will be left in the Paratu military government to take charge?"

The colonel who spoke first became increasingly frustrated, finally smashing his pipe and declaring, "Don't count on the Paratul. The Paratul army has long been without successors—time is on the United Provinces' side. Relying on the Paratul is less worthwhile than hoping the Venetians will send troops to fight the United Provinces head-on. If that happens, the United Provinces might just have to bow their heads."

Upon hearing his colleagues say that the Platul Army had no successors, Colonel Max Berne once again thought of the brave, resourceful, and spirited Lieutenant Platul whom he had met at Steel Castle.

If all of Arpard's officers were of that caliber—no, half of them were—or even less than half, just a quarter were—or even just one of them could develop—the outcome would be uncertain.

Colonel Bern's mind flashed back to the confession of the Imperial spy captured at Steel Castle.

“No, the Paratul Army still has ‘men’,” Colonel Berne said. “Time is not necessarily on the side of the United Provinces.”

[Orz]
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