Chapter 58: Request for Deployment
The royal capital, Londinium, was devastated by a relentless series of hopeless reports.
“From Black Eagle Fortress— the main Imperial army has begun marching south! Their number is approximately thirty thousand!”
“The eastern defensive line has been breached one after another! Local garrisons are routed, unable to offer any real resistance!”
“The Imperial army’s advance speed far exceeds our predictions! At this rate, they are expected to reach the outskirts of the capital in ten days!”
The grand conference hall of the royal castle had plunged into complete panic.
The generals desperately tried to draw defensive lines across the map, but all of them were nothing more than castles in the air—utterly meaningless before the overwhelming speed of the Imperial army.
Their outdated tactics were useless.
The Imperial troops did not rely on established roads. Their engineers cut paths through trackless terrain, advancing by the shortest possible routes. Their coordination with supply units was flawless, and their march flowed without the slightest stagnation—like a single massive living creature.
“Damn the Empire…”
Marshal Gerhardt ground his teeth in frustration.
“Zenon-dono’s strategy of gathering our knights in the central region has completely backfired! The enemy attacked from the east, where our main forces weren’t stationed!”
It was nothing more than shifting blame.
But then, in the corner of the room—where he had been silently observing the situation—Zenon spoke for the first time.
“…It hasn’t backfired, Marshal.”
His extraordinarily calm voice drew everyone’s attention.
“We anticipated from the beginning that the enemy would strike from the east.”
“…What?”
Zenon stepped forward to the map and drew a single line.
It connected the Imperial army’s current route of advance with the capital—tracing the shortest route.
And there lay a place the Imperial army would inevitably have to pass through:
The vast Silva Plains.
Zenon pointed directly at it.
“The enemy has prioritized speed so much that their supply lines are now stretched thin. By the time they reach the Silva Plains, their advance will come to a halt—if only briefly—for resupply and reorganization. …That is our only window to strike.”
“You mean to challenge them to a decisive battle on the Silva Plains!?”
General Gustav shouted.
“Impossible! They have thirty thousand! We can mobilize at most fifteen thousand! That’s twice our number! There’s no way we can win!”
“If we fought head-on, yes,”
Zenon replied.
For the first time, a cold smile appeared on his lips.
“But who said anything about attacking head-on?”
His fearless words left the generals speechless.
Even in this hopeless situation, this young man still had a plan.
Then the conference room doors burst open.
It was King Edward IV.
His face was filled with anguish and resolution. He walked straight toward Zenon.
“…Zenon.”
His voice had abandoned all royal pride.
“Is it true that the army of your territory has already completed its preparations for deployment?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,”
Zenon answered calmly.
The room erupted in murmurs.
The Arkwright territory possessed its own private army.
And without royal approval.
Under normal circumstances, such a thing would be a grave crime.
But now—
The King bowed deeply.
A king bowing to a vassal.
Unthinkable.
“…Please. Lend us your strength. Use your army for the sake of this kingdom. I beg you.”
The king’s desperate plea—
It was a historical moment when the authority of the old regime crumbled completely, and all hope was placed in the new power before them.
But Zenon looked down at the bowed king with a cold gaze, unmoving.
“…Your Majesty. Please raise your head.”
His voice was icy.
“I am not a merchant, but I understand the basics of negotiation. Give and take. To obtain something, one must offer something in return.”
“…What do you desire?”
The king looked up, humiliation in his eyes.
Zenon calmly and clearly stated his demands.
“There are two.”
“First: complete transfer of command authority over the entire Berstein Kingdom army in this war—to me, Zenon von Arkwright.”
“What—!?”
The generals gasped.
“And second—”
Zenon continued:
“一As war expenses: one hundred thousand gold coins. And upon victory, thirty percent of the reparations we acquire from the Empire shall belong to the Arkwright territory.”
This was no negotiation.
It was extortion.
A devil’s bargain exploiting the nation’s desperate crisis.
“Y—you…! You would use this national emergency to line your pockets!?”
Marshal Gerhardt roared.
But Zenon’s expression didn’t change in the slightest.
“Of course. I am risking the lives of my soldiers. Without adequate compensation, the risk is unacceptable. This is business.”
His ruthlessly pragmatic words made even the generals shudder.
But the king had no choice.
If he refused, the nation would fall.
“…Very well.”
After a long, agonizing silence, the king spoke—voice trembling.
“…I accept all your demands. The future of this kingdom… I entrust it entirely to you.”
At that moment—Zenon’s lips curved in satisfaction.
(…With this, I have all the authority and funding I need.)
In his mind, the blueprint for a grand counteroffensive was already complete.
To execute it, the sentimental interference of the old-generation generals was nothing but an obstacle.
Total command authority— It was the absolute requirement for his rational style of warfare.
“…My gratitude, Your Majesty.”
For the first time, Zenon bowed deeply.
“Now then—let us begin the counterattack.”
He looked over the stunned generals.
His eyes gleamed with the light of absolute dominion.
“From this moment forward, you will act as my pieces. I will accept no objections. Anyone who disobeys my orders will be treated as a deserter and executed on the spot.”
That cold declaration—
In this moment, the army of the Berstein Kingdom fell entirely into the hands of one man:
Zenon von Arkwright — the unwilling rationalist who had now become a dictator of war.