When we look back upon history in hindsight, we often find that even the wisest of leaders, swept along by the relentless torrent of time, cannot escape moments of clouded judgment. —Imperial Chronicles, Volume 35, Chapter 7: Reflections on the Roland Era
The sun blazed mercilessly overhead that summer afternoon, its heat a tyrant unrelenting. At the docks, a throng of imperial guards clad in crimson armor had sealed off Pier One, their ranks an impenetrable wall awaiting the grand triumph to come. Beyond them, a hundred paces out, the harried soldiers of the Capital Security Bureau strained every sinew, their uniforms torn, epaulets ripped away, hats snatched, boots trampled into the dust—exhausted by the sheer force of fifty thousand fervent citizens pressing in.
Flowers, cheers, applause—the crowd's fervor swelled like a storm tide. Young women stood ready to offer kisses, some even their virtue, their passion a wildfire barely contained. The thousand security soldiers tasked with holding the line felt like a battered skiff adrift in a roiling sea, teetering on the brink of capsizing. They cast envious glances at the guards within the cordon, who lounged in orderly formations, flaunting their pristine armor and weapons, untroubled by the chaos threatening to claw their faces apart.
For this spectacle, Emperor Augustine VI, in his boundless grandeur, had decreed the Lancang Grand Canal widened by half its breadth to accommodate the flagship Danton of the empire's latest expeditionary fleet. Ten thousand laborers toiled six months for this vanity, draining the imperial coffers of three million gold coins—all to let the Danton glide into the capital's eastern port, basking in the adulation of the masses, a gleaming testament to imperial might.
No one dared question the worth of such extravagance. The last finance minister who had, with his vehement protests, found himself banished to rusticate in his ancestral village by an incensed emperor. His successor learned the lesson well: scrape and scrounge from every corner of the treasury to appease that "glory-hungry old fool"—a moniker buried deep, very deep, in the new minister's heart.
As afternoon light bathed the canal's expanse, a sail's silhouette pierced the horizon, and the crowd's cheers erupted, uncontainable. The Danton, a leviathan two hundred paces long, loomed closer, its majestic bulk stunning the onlookers. Pride of the imperial navy, the largest warship ever forged, it had been scrubbed and painted black as death for this moment, a monstrous beast advancing through waves of adulation, its mast crowned with a vast thornflower flag snapping in the wind.
The anchor fell, and the docks ignited. Hats soared skyward, shoes were crushed underfoot, legs bruised in the crush. The security soldiers shrank their cordon, desperate to hold the line as the masses surged.
Earl Raymond, commander of the Sixth Expeditionary Fleet, stood at the bow, his face a mask of indifference as he surveyed the frenzied throng. At thirty-nine, a first-class general and noble of the empire, he wore his ceremonial best: light armor gleaming, a scarlet cape billowing like blood in the breeze, two medals from prior campaigns pinned to his chest. This triumph would surely add another. Yet his gaze drifted, unfocused, not on the crowd but elsewhere, a faint crease of impatience on his brow.
Damn this armor—heavy and absurd. He scoffed inwardly. A naval officer clad in gear fit for land battles? Ridiculous. The medals, too, struck him as gaudy—a parvenu's boast, not the mark of true nobility. Such ostentation grated against his dignity. And the crowd's roars—ceaseless, crashing like a tsunami—gnawed at his dwindling patience.
His eyes flicked to the deck beneath his boots. Three days ago, the Danton had been scrubbed anew for this farce, its bloodstains erased, its war-torn planks replaced. Even the ram at the prow bore a fresh indignity: a statue of His Majesty, crafted by some famed sculptor at the cost of ten thousand gold coins. Imposing, yes, but did those sycophants not realize that in a real naval clash, the ram would be the first to shatter?
Earl Raymond's disdain ran deeper still. This entire expedition—the "Nth" in an endless parade—was a ludicrous blunder. For decades, the empire had plundered the South Seas, its countless islands a treasure trove of exotic woods, gold, gems, spices, and fish, ripe for the taking from primitive tribes in their flimsy canoes. Yet he refused to call it an "expedition." It was pillage, slaughter, piracy—a naked robbery.
He harbored no illusions about the morality of it. The weak bowed to the strong; such was the way of things. But the empire's folly lay in its greed: too frequent, too ravenous. Early raids had reaped shiploads of wealth, dazzling the realm, but even the richest fields wither under ceaseless harvest. The nearer tribes were extinguished, forcing fleets to venture farther, stretching supply lines thin amid sweltering heat, fickle storms, and treacherous reefs.
The South Seas, once a bountiful larder, lay barren from overreach. Each haul dwindled, yet the triumphs grew ever more lavish—an irony not lost on Raymond. His own three campaigns had earned him infamy there: Pirate. Butcher. Executioner. His hands dripped with native blood, his name a curse among their clans. He cared little for their hatred, but their burgeoning resistance—whispers of alliances in the farthest reaches—gnawed at him.
No matter. This was his final voyage. He'd linger in the capital now, secure a lofty post in the High Command, bide his time a decade or two. With his family's sway, he'd claim the Minister of War's seat when it opened—perhaps even the prime ministership if fortune smiled. The South Seas? Let the next fool grapple with that mess. Even if the natives forged magic cannons, it wouldn't be his burden.
Amid the cheering tide, he descended the flagship's deck, his boots striking capital soil at last. He waved—a gesture more akin to swatting flies. A court official ascended to proclaim the emperor's commendation, summoning him to the palace at dawn for honors. His political star rose as planned.
But then a gray-clad servant slipped through the crowd, whispering a message that plunged Raymond's heart into an abyss.
From home: a son, born three years ago as he sailed, his wife near term when he'd left. Three years adrift, news stifled by the vast seas, he'd not known if it was boy or girl. Now he knew—a son.
A son who was an idiot.
The blow nearly toppled him from his peak of triumph. Nearly.
Every dignitary greeting him saw it: the conquering commander's face, shadowed to the edge of ruin.