"Oh! By the Goddess of Nature! I have never seen such a chaotic scene in my life! These are refugees? Rynar, are you kidding me?"
Vanervi, who had just stepped onto the city walls with his group of prairie elf rangers, had originally intended to assist Rynar. But the sight before him instantly drained him of all courage...
"Gods! What the hell is happening in Zaltarion Kingdom lately? First, it's dragons running amok, and now, it's a refugee horde comparable to an orc invasion..." Vanervi stared in stunned bewilderment at the dark tide approaching the city.
"Enough with the chatter! How many are there?!" Rynar demanded anxiously. In crucial moments, the keen eyesight of elves was undeniably useful.
"At least six thousand... maybe up to seven thousand!" Vanervi groaned, pressing a hand against his forehead.
"By the heavens..." Rynar cursed the wretched, morally bankrupt system in his mind for the ten-thousandth time. If he weren't bound to it, he would have gladly sent it to meet its end long ago.
"Your Highness..." Nyx appeared on the city walls, holding the elf dragon in her arms. Concern was written all over her face.
Strangely enough, the usually prideful blue elf dragon actually allowed Nyx to hold her…
Could it be that Nyx had an affinity for dragon magic?
If so, that would be a massive boon! A mage who could cast draconic spells at will—only those who had fought one would understand how terrifying that was.
"Don't worry. Go back and stay safe in the castle..." Rynar pointed toward the newly built three-story fortress. It wasn't the grandest of structures, but its defensive capabilities were undeniably reliable.
"This is madness!" Vanervi was still stuck in a state of shock, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the oncoming horde.
"Hey! Elven King! The refugees are coming to kick your ass!" Rynar waved a hand in front of Vanervi's dazed face.
"I only came to help! I didn't sign up for a war…" The more Vanervi observed, the more uneasy he became. It wouldn't be surprising if this turned into a full-scale Zaltarion skirmish at any moment!
Not only did the soldiers bear Zaltarion banners, but Vanervi also recognized the distinctively equipped Rapid Infantry of the Zaltarion Empire.
"Well... the budget version, at least..." he muttered under his breath after making a quick comparison.
"No one asked you to attack them!" Rynar covered his face, unable to watch any longer. Vanervi was making him look like some kind of tyrant.
"What they need is help. They desperately lack clothing and food. I doubt they're here for a rain of spears and arrows." Rynar shrugged.
—
"Thud!" An arrow, its fletching still quivering, struck the ground ahead of the refugees.
The battle energy infused into it erupted upon impact, sending dust and soil flying in all directions. The sudden explosion startled the advancing refugees, making them halt in fear.
"Halt! This is Riverguard, a domain of the Zaltarion Kingdom! The King resides within these walls! Attacking the city is an act of treason! Are you trying to rebel?!"
Omsk shouted from atop the battlements, one foot resting on the stone crenelation. His voice, laced with the powerful presence of a Sixth-Rank warrior and the glowing battle aura surrounding him, left the crowd below frozen in terror.
"You... you are citizens of the Empire?" Dylan's voice trembled as he gazed upon the weary, tattered, and skeletal figures before him.
"The Empire? The Empire is long gone! We are merely lost children without a home! We just want to survive. We have no interest in swearing loyalty to any king!"
A young man with disheveled golden hair and a beard stepped forward from the crowd. Though his armor was old and worn, his voice carried surprising strength.
"I am Rynar, the current King of Zaltarion! I have inherited the legacy of the Empire! I swear to lead our people back to glory and rebuild our home! I understand… the hardships you have endured, the endless wandering and suffering…
But now that you have returned to your homeland, I ask you to give me a chance to make amends, and to give yourselves a chance as well! Come back! Zaltarion needs you!
You are children of this land!" Rynar's voice rang with passion as he addressed the sea of people below.
"Liar! The nobles said the same thing back then! They told us to stay and fight to the bitter end! But so many of us died… and in the end, we still lost everything!
We don't need your redemption; we only need supplies!
We're going to Gondor!" The golden-haired youth hesitated for a moment before shouting angrily at the city walls.
"Then tell me! What happened to those so-called nobles who 'betrayed' you? They all died on the battlefield, didn't they?!
Not a single high lord retreated! They and the warriors of the Empire watered the northern lands with their blood! You are a noble too, aren't you?! Lift your head! Do you dare to look at this banner?
Do you even remember what a noble's crest looks like? Do you still remember the honor of nobility?! Look down at your armor!
If you didn't scavenge it from a corpse, then you should understand the significance of the crest on your chest!
That is the pride of nobility!" Rynar rebuked him furiously, his gaze fixed on the young man's old but well-preserved armor, where a noble crest, though faded, was still visible.
"The Wandering Lion…?" Caslow's pupils shrank instantly. He turned sharply to look at Omsk, only to find the veteran warrior just as shocked.
"That family! You recognize them too?!" Caslow asked, his voice trembling with excitement.
"How is it possible that anyone from that house survived…? They should have perished with the fall of Zaltarion City!" Omsk inhaled sharply, his expression filled with disbelief.
"Sigh… The honor of the Lion of Kings has been trampled underfoot by you…" Rynar murmured, gazing at the lone figure before him.
He recognized the crest instantly. Back in the game, who didn't know of them? The Lion of Kings family—Dukes of the Zaltarion Empire.
Their leader led the Golden Lion Knights into a charge against a million-strong orc horde in the defense of Zaltarion City.
That crest, alongside the Zaltarion Dragon Banner, had once dominated an era.
Whatever memories the system had fabricated for this world, the meaning of the Wandering Lion had not changed.
"You know nothing! You have no right to demand we fight for this country again! The Lion of Kings family has already bled dry for this land!
Our entire duchy was wiped out! I am the only survivor! My family is dead!" The youth roared, his voice filled with anguish and fury, like that of a wounded lion.
"The Emperor is dead! The entire noble bloodline of Zaltarion's great houses has been wiped out! The Imperial Bloodline is severed!
Does anyone even know?! Does anyone know that the last of the Royal Guard perished protecting the final heir?! There is no royal family left in Zaltarion!
If the entire royal bloodline has been eradicated, what do you have to complain about?!
Where are the dead kings and dukes now?! There are only two people left in this world who carry royal blood!" Rynar howled in madness.
And that was why Rynar ruled under the banner of the Zaltarion Kingdom—not the Empire. Because there was no Imperial Blood left.
The system had just confirmed it: Rynar's bloodline came from the royal house of Lóniath. There was no Empire anymore—no true ruler of Middle-earth.
.
.
.
Guys, do leave some power stones and reviews.
🤞patreon.com/MythosWriter🤞
If you guys enjoy this story, you can support me on Patreon and get access to Advance Chapters, it really helps me to work on new chapters.