It is a universal truth that whenever a couple of men huddle together with nothing to do, the conversation inevitably drifts toward grand statecraft and military tactics. Give them a few more minutes, and they are liable to sweep the mugs off the table, sketch out a makeshift tactical grid in the condensation, and begin aggressively backseat-driving every major historical battle from antiquity to the modern day.
Naturally, the profound theories spun during these late-night sessions could never be whispered outside the tavern walls. To leak such supreme strategy to the public would surely land a man straight in front of a firing squad, serving as live target practice for the imperial guard.
Watching Clever analyze the political layout, Flandre's mind drifted back to her very first trip across the borders of Yan. She vividly remembered stumbling into a damp cave packed to the brim with a squad of local border patrols who had been doing the exact same thing. She had no earthly idea what fate had eventually befallen those chatty soldiers, but their intense, armchair-general energy had left a deeply amusing impression on her.
While Flandre was lost in her daydream, Clever looked across the table, her curiosity getting the better of her. "So... what exactly are you all planning to do once you finish resting in this town?"
The moment Remilia casually mentioned that she was simply traveling to the grand capital of Londinium out of pure historical curiosity, a thoroughly bizarre, unreadable expression washed over Clever's pale face.
"Uh... do you all truly have no idea what is happening over there?"
"Know what?" Hearing the sudden drop in Clever's voice, Remilia leaned forward, her interest piqued.
The entire room fell quiet. It was glaringly obvious that this malnourished slum girl was sitting on a mountain of local secrets—secrets that were completely common knowledge to the natives but entirely hidden from foreign travelers.
Sensing the genuine confusion radiating from the group, Clever finally realized that these elegant newcomers weren't playing a part. They genuinely possessed zero ties to the Blood Court, let alone the grand military factions of Kazdel. After all, if they had even a single scout hidden within the Sarkaz network, it would be physically impossible for them to be this blind to the current state of the capital.
Taking a slow breath, Clever began to lay out the grim reality of the empire.
To put it plainly, Londinium was still officially recognized as the proud heart of Victoria. However, that grand heart was currently being held in a suffocating, iron grip by a massive host of military Sarkaz, all operating under the direct command of the Regent, Theresis. Though the grand nomadic city still flew the Victorian colors on paper, the man pulling the strings from the shadows was none other than the leader of Kazdel.
Patchouli nearly dropped her teacup, her analytical mind instantly rejecting the sheer absurdity of the scenario. "How could a global superpower allow this to happen? Where on earth is the Victorian Royal Family? Where are the legendary Grand Dukes and their Steam Knights? Did they all just sit back and watch their own sovereign capital be completely overrun by foreign mercenaries?"
Patchouli had spent years devouring countless volumes of Victorian history, but her precious library books had never dropped a single hint about the massive coup that had violently shattered the capital over a decade ago. The entire historical record had been thoroughly scrubbed.
Clever looked at the librarian in absolute disbelief. "You... you really didn't know?"
Catching the girl's stunned look, Patchouli realized she had missed a massive turning point in modern history. Feeling a rare sting of academic embarrassment, she calmly pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, coughing lightly into her sleeve to clear her throat.
"My physical health has always been quite frail. If Remi hadn't dragged me along on this little holiday, I rarely ever step a single foot outside the mansion library. It seems my knowledge of recent global events is a bit outdated."
Evaluating Patchouli's pale complexion and sickly demeanor, Clever's suspicion dissolved into understanding. She nodded slowly, leaning over the table.
"If you never leave your study, then I suppose it makes perfect sense why you missed the storm. It was a disaster that completely broke the spine of the empire. Over ten years ago, the King of Victoria was brutally executed during a massive, orchestrated riot right inside the palace walls. The sole remaining heir to the throne was forced to flee the capital under a fake identity just to stay alive. Right now, Londinium remains the official center of the nation, but it is completely empty. The royal authority that once kept the nobility in check is entirely dead."
"But without a king to hold the leash, why haven't the Grand Dukes immediately declared war on one another to claim the crown?" Patchouli pressed, her eyes narrowing as she tried to solve the political puzzle.
"Because that is exactly what makes the current state of Victoria both completely terrifying and completely stable," Clever explained with a bitter laugh. "Everyone on Terra knows that Victoria sits directly in the golden center of the continent. It controls the richest lands, the thickest forests, and the most perfect climate on the map. Because it is so incredibly wealthy, the hostile pressure it faces from foreign empires like Ursus and Columbia is astronomically high."
She began to pace the room, her voice growing sharper.
"While the various Grand Dukes all command massive personal armies, none of them possesses a clear, overwhelming advantage over their rivals. On top of that, every single one of them is playing a double game, forging secret alliances while actively plotting to stab their neighbors in the back. The result is a perfect, frozen stalemate. No one dares to make the first move, because the very second a Duke sticks his neck out to claim the throne, he becomes an instant target for every other faction on the grid. They would all unite to crush him out of existence."
Clever paused, looking out the window toward the dark streets.
"Furthermore, the surrounding superpowers are just waiting for a single excuse to invade. The absolute second they get definitive proof that the Victorian alliance has truly crumbled into a civil war, their armies will cross the borders without a moment's hesitation. Ironically, it is this crushing external threat that forces these greedy Dukes to keep pretending they are a unified nation, holding up the tattered banner of Victoria just to survive."
As Clever's detailed breakdown echoed through the room, the puzzle pieces instantly clicked together in Patchouli's mind. The entire country was essentially a beautiful vase that had already been violently shattered into pieces; it should have scattered all over the floor long ago, but because the surrounding forces were pressing in so tightly from all sides, the fragments were being forced to stay jammed together to maintain the illusion of a solid wall. Behind closed doors, the nobility were all running their own separate schemes, but out in the open, not a single one of them was allowed to do anything that officially broke the illusion of imperial unity.
It was a completely deformed, monstrous system of government.
Thinking of this, Patchouli recalled the massive, iron-clad Victorian army they had crossed paths with on their journey into the heartland. At the time, she had found it incredibly bizarre that a fully mobilized, elite vanguard division was patrolling deep within the peaceful inland territories rather than guarding the borders. Now, the terrifying reality made perfect sense.
"But that still doesn't explain the state of the capital," Patchouli murmured, her brow furrowing deep in thought. "Are those proud nobles truly content to just sit on their hands and watch their ancestral capital turn into a playground for the Sarkaz?"
She stopped herself, a cold realization washing over her features. She understood the dark logic now. If the news of Londinium falling into the hands of the Sarkaz officially leaked across the continent, it would trigger a massive wave of public panic—but for the Grand Dukes, it was actually the perfect political gift.
It provided absolute, undeniable proof that the old royal line had completely failed to protect the heart of the empire. It gave the Dukes the perfect legal loophole to slowly dismantle the crown's authority and build up their own independent territories without looking like traitors. As for who would eventually take the throne, that could be settled later through shadow games, assassinations, and economic warfare. Or perhaps they would never crown a king at all, choosing instead to remain a fractured alliance of warlords huddling together for warmth.
But one glaring, impossible anomaly remained. Kazdel was located hundreds of miles away, separated by multiple heavily fortified nations. How on earth did a massive, elite army of Sarkaz manage to march all the way into the very center of Victoria without a single imperial garrison raising the alarm?
"What if I told you that the Sarkaz didn't fight their way in at all?" Clever whispered, a look of profound disgust crossing her face. "What if I told you they were personally invited through the front gates by the Victorian nobles themselves?"
Patchouli froze, her eyes widening in absolute shock before a dark, enlightened clarity took over. "I see... oh, I see. What a thoroughly repulsive, brilliant little scheme."
She saw right through the Grand Dukes' long-term playbook, feeling a deep wave of nausea at the sheer cruelty of upper-class statecraft. She didn't harbor any particular bias against the Sarkaz people as a race, but she utterly loathed the cowardly tactics of the Victorian aristocracy, who were willing to invite a historically hostile external force into their home just to use them as a political tool.
It wasn't hard to guess what the Grand Dukes were planning for the final act. They were likely sitting safely in their distant territories, deliberately waiting for the Sarkaz occupation force to commit some horrific, unspeakable atrocities against the helpless citizens of Londinium. The exact moment the public outcry reached a boiling point across Terra, the Dukes would suddenly ride in like shining saviors, launching a grand "crusade" to liberate the capital in the name of freedom and imperial pride.
For those wealthy lords, the millions of innocent lives trapped inside Londinium were nothing more than cheap, disposable chess pieces—sacrifices they were entirely willing to make, so long as they could eventually wipe out the Sarkaz, paint them as the ultimate villains who murdered the late King, and claim the ruins of the empire for themselves.