{Chapter: 40 James War Aftermath}
Standing at the bustling harbor, James drew in a deep breath as the sea breeze blew against his face—briny, sharp, and laced with the pungent scent of fish and wet wood. The tangy odor of saltwater mixed with the lingering smell of drying seaweed and oil from the docked ships filled his nostrils, making him instinctively wrinkle his nose. Though the breeze was cool, it did little to mask the fishy stench that pervaded the entire bay. He didn't like the scent. In fact, he despised it.
Despite the countless times he had visited ports throughout his life—official inspections, military launches, trade negotiations—James had never grown accustomed to the particular aroma of the sea. The scent clung to his clothing, lingered in his hair, and always managed to settle in the back of his throat, as if reminding him that the sea, for all its grandeur, could also be ugly and unrelenting.
But he stood there in perfect silence, back straight, boots polished, and face expressionless. Not a single flicker of distaste reached his eyes. He knew better than to let his personal aversions show. He was the Crown Prince of the Principality of Marton, and his people looked to him for resolve, strength, and certainty.
Showing disgust for one of the economic lifelines of his coastal nation—even if it was just the smell—could send the wrong message. The harbor was more than just a dock for ships; it was the bloodline of coastal commerce and the bridge between lands. It carried the weight of fisheries, trade, and naval strength. He had to respect that, regardless of how his senses protested.
Beside him stood a middle-aged officer in worn military attire, saluting with practiced precision as he began his report. His voice was clear, but James could sense the weariness behind it.
"Your Highness, we have completed the processing of the captives. As of this morning, a total of seventy-six thousand, four hundred and forty-five enemy soldiers have been accounted for. All of them are now held at the port and secured. Among these, only twenty-three are reported to be without injury. Thirty-five thousand, five hundred and twenty-five have sustained light wounds—cuts, bruises, burns, arrow grazes. The remainder—over forty thousand—are in serious condition. Of those, three thousand, two hundred and twenty-one are critical. It's likely many won't survive the transfer to Mobis Island. As for transportation, we have mobilized various nearby ships and they should be all transported within eight days."
The officer paused, waiting for the prince's response. James gave a slow, contemplative nod. The figures didn't shock him—he had been briefed beforehand. But hearing them aloud gave them weight.
After listening to this, James was quite satisfied with the data, so he nodded and said. "It doesn't matter," James said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "Do what you can. Save those who can be saved. Those who can't… are already dead. Our priority is ensuring that no fewer than seventy thousand reach Mobis Island alive. After that, what becomes of them is no longer your burden."
The officer's shoulders relaxed slightly, as though a pressure had been lifted. But he hesitated. The report had been delivered, but his conscience was not at ease. After a moment's internal struggle, he cleared his throat and spoke again, this time less formally.
"Your Highness, forgive me, but… I still don't understand the purpose behind this decision. Transporting all these prisoners to a remote island and abandoning them there… It requires resources, manpower, fuel, food rations for the journey, not to mention the risk to the soldiers escorting them. It's not that I question your judgment, but—surely there's a more efficient way. We could hold them, ransom them, or even put them to work rebuilding war-torn towns. Mobis Island is barren and untamed. What exactly are we hoping to accomplish?"
He was not the only one who thought so. Many of his colleagues were also quite puzzled when they heard that James was going to transport tens of thousands of captives to the overseas deserted island of Mobis to let them play a game of survival on the deserted island. They simply could not figure out what this meant.
Even if they keep them locked up and wait for the Principality of Ar to pay for their redemption, it would be better than this!
James said nothing for a long time. His eyes remained fixed on the waves slapping against the wooden pillars of the dock, the seagulls cawing overhead, the tall sails swaying gently under the spring breeze. His silence wasn't cold—just tired.
It wasn't the first time someone asked this question.
And it wouldn't be the last.
During this period of time, there were people who tried to persuade him, but he was tired of hearing them.
If possible, he didn't want to use this method to deal with prisoners, but he had no choice.
If he could explain the truth, perhaps they would understand. But the truth was not something he could speak aloud—not yet. There were powers at play, darker truths behind the curtain of politics and war that would unravel far more than just military strategy if exposed. For now, he had to shoulder the burden of that silence.
When James didn't respond, the officer eventually gave a low bow and left, understanding that his words had reached their limit.
Another figure approached from behind—the older, far more composed Baron Duke. Clad in a thick velvet coat with silver trim and an insignia of crossed lances on his breast, he looked every bit the seasoned noble and strategist that he was. Unlike the others, Duke did not need to ask why.
He already knew.
Baron Duke had long ago deduced that Mobis Island was no prison.
It was a grave.
And those being sent there were not being given a second chance at life—they were being offered as a sacrifice.
Clearing his throat gently, Duke leaned closer and spoke in a quiet voice meant for James's ears alone. "Your Highness, when the Principality of Ar sent their envoys last week to finalize the war indemnities, they also proposed a diplomatic exchange. A ransom arrangement, to be specific. They're offering to pay handsomely for the return of their noble captives. Even if we refuse to release the common soldiers, we could at least offer leniency to the higher-born. It would go a long way in avoiding unnecessary retaliation from Ar's noble houses."
James turned to him, gaze sharp. There was no hesitation in his eyes now—only cold resolve.
"We don't need their gold," he said. "What we need is time. And instability."
He stepped closer to the edge of the pier, letting his words hang heavy in the sea air.
"Those nobles may not decide the fate of the Principality of Ar on their own. But their absence will. With them gone, the foundation of their aristocratic power weakens. Tensions will rise. Their internal factions will turn on each other. The royal family will be blamed for losing their sons, brothers, heirs. Even if they survive this war, they will be fractured for the next ten years at least."
He paused, then added with a quiet chill: "And when a kingdom bleeds from within, it becomes much easier to finish what they started."
Duke nodded solemnly, saying nothing more.
There was no triumph in James's expression, no glint of satisfaction. Only a sense of heavy inevitability, like a man forced to crush a serpent's egg before it could hatch.
Behind them, the captured soldiers waited in lines stretching across the port, bound in chains, many unable to stand. The injured groaned, the dying whispered prayers. Ships creaked and shifted as they were loaded, their hulls filled not with cargo, but with the remnants of a broken army.
And above them all, the sun shone brightly—mockingly—on a day that would be remembered not for its light, but for the shadow it cast over the future.
"Let them bleed internally."
Duke bowed deeply, offering no further protest.
In the depths of James Woz's mind, a quiet storm brewed. As he gazed out over the battlefield now littered with the remnants of shattered hopes and smoldering ambition, he couldn't help but reflect on the magnitude of their triumph. The Principality of Ar, long a thorn in the side of Marton, had finally been brought to its knees. Not destroyed—no, such finality was a luxury in these times—but crippled to the point that it would not rise again for at least two, maybe even three decades.
To James, that was victory enough.
In this era of fractured lands and eternal posturing, where old houses clung to power through carefully brokered marriages and whispers of ancient pacts, no principality could afford the fallout of complete annihilation of a neighbor. The surrounding powers, ever wary, ever hungry, viewed any such move as a threat to the delicate balance they all maintained. Alliances would shift. Swords would be drawn. A principality that destroyed another could be next.
Thus, weakening was the true art of conquest. Like a skilled falconer trimming the wings of a once-proud bird, James had clipped Ar's talons—without killing it outright. They would bleed for years to come. They would remember this humiliation.
More importantly, they would no longer be a threat.
Still, James's thoughts were not at ease. His mind turned to the greater nobles of Ar, those influential snakes who slithered behind the curtains of court. He had made sure to fan the flames of internal strife, sowing mistrust among them and forcing many into desperate bargains. Some would be executed. Others imprisoned or stripped of their lands. A few—perhaps the most dangerous—had already fled, seeking asylum in foreign courts, where their poison would surely spread. But that, too, was part of his design. Let them rot as refugees and pariahs.
He would need to craft a narrative. The deaths, the destruction, the swift executions—they all needed justification. The commoners would not care, but the other lords would watch, waiting to see if the crown prince had overstepped. He could not afford to be seen as a man who consorted with demons or ordered unnecessary bloodshed. Marton had a history, a legacy to uphold.
As he pondered these political intricacies, a sharp, gravelly voice cut through the cold morning air like a blade through parchment.
"James Woz!"
The voice was familiar, bitter, and full of impotent rage.
James turned his gaze toward the commotion and found himself staring into the hollow, bloodshot eyes of General Harry of the Ar army. Once a proud commander known for his unyielding discipline and battlefield brilliance, he now stood as a symbol of defeat—chained, bruised, and paraded like a beast for slaughter. His once-immaculate silver armor was stained with blood and grime, his cape torn, and his pride utterly decimated.