Chapter 401 - 390: By What Right?
The Sky Throne broke through the clouds, its massive shadow sweeping across the land.
Allen stood at the edge of the deck, the fierce wind whipping at his black robes.
At the edge of his vision, a magnificent, colossal white city rose from the earth.
[Commander, terrain scan complete.]
[Target city: Golden Stone City. Straight-line distance to the northern coastline is only seventy kilometers. A large number of permanent fortifications exist on the city’s perimeter.]
A flicker of surprise showed in Allen’s eyes.
Building a nation’s capital only seventy kilometers from the front lines. This meant that if the defensive line was ever breached, the Royal Capital would be directly exposed to the Demons’ claws.
"The Emperor guards the nation’s gate," Allen remarked, glancing at William beside him. "Your ancestors had guts."
William stood ramrod straight, his expression solemn. "It is an ironclad rule set by the first King of Aiselan. Where the King’s banner flies is the very front line. We have no ground to retreat to."
Allen didn’t reply.
’Their courage is admirable, but such tragic heroism is meaningless in the face of an absolute power disparity.’
The throne descended slowly.
In the Central Square of Golden Stone City, a dense crowd was prostrated on the ground.
The commoners pressed their palms together, their foreheads touching the cold stone slabs, murmuring ancient prayers.
In their eyes, this giant steel island that blotted out the sun was a divine chariot heralding the arrival of a god.
At the front of the square stood several dozen high-ranking members of the kingdom, dressed in ornate armor or robes.
Unlike the fervent commoners, the expressions in the eyes of these nobles and generals were exceedingly complex—a mix of awe and anticipation, but mostly, poorly concealed doubt and scrutiny.
Beneath the Sky Throne, a doorway materialized out of thin air.
Prince William was the first to step out, followed closely by more than thirty Knights.
Immediately after, Allen also strode through the Space Gate.
He was still dressed in the same simple black robes, his pace unhurried.
However, when his gaze swept across the square, everyone from the battle-hardened old generals to the arrogant Court Spirit Mages instinctively avoided his eyes.
It was a pure, emotionless scrutiny, like a blacksmith examining a piece of stubborn iron, contemplating the most efficient place to strike.
"Father!" William hurried forward and knelt on one knee.
The old King Alexander’s gaze, however, passed over his son and landed directly on Allen.
He took two steps forward and bowed slightly, and spoke in an ancient, raspy voice.
His hair was graying, and his frame was still upright, but his exposed neck was covered in hideous, dark-red scars. A considerable amount of Magic Power flowed within him, yet it exuded an aura of irreversible decay.
"Alexander Aislan, the seventy-third King of Aiselan."
The old man placed his right hand over his chest and bowed deeply. "On behalf of the thirty-five million people of Aiselan, I pay my respects to you."
"Allen Wesren."
Allen’s gaze swept over the crowd, without a single wasted pleasantry. "Dispense with the ceremonies. Take me to a place where we can talk."
Alexander straightened up, stunned for half a second before nodding. "As you wish."
In the highest council chamber of the royal palace, the heroic epics of the Aiselan Kingdom’s thousand-year history were painted across the dome.
A massive sand table was laid out on the long table here.
Without ceremony, Allen accepted the invitation and sat at the head of the table.
Alexander and a dozen core legion commanders were arrayed on either side.
"I need to know your defensive strength." Allen wasted no time on pleasantries, getting straight to the kingdom’s military affairs.
The Minister of Military Affairs glanced at the King, and after receiving a nod of approval, he stepped forward and spoke.
"The kingdom’s current population is approximately thirty-five million. Of those, about twenty million are Spirit Art users, and about fifteen million are unawakened civilians."
"In terms of high-end combat power, there are forty-three Level 5 Spirit Mages, including various Lords, legion commanders, and Spirit Art academy deans. There are approximately three thousand Level 4 Spirit Mages, six hundred thousand at Level 3, five million at Level 2, and seventeen million at Level 1."
"The kingdom maintains a standing army of five hundred thousand, all composed of Spirit Mages at Level 2 or higher. It is divided into five defensive sectors, each guarded by a royal army stationed along the seven-hundred-kilometer northern coastline."
After reporting the figures, the Minister of Military Affairs returned to his position. The hall fell into a deathly silence.
Allen looked at the long defensive line on the sand table, his brow furrowed slightly.
"The line is too long," Allen said, pointing out the core problem. "Spreading a standing army of five hundred thousand across a seven-hundred-kilometer front... a defense everywhere is a defense nowhere. What are your casualty rates?"
Alexander closed his eyes, his voice hoarse. "Every year... approximately one hundred thousand die on the northern front. And that’s without the King of Heart-eaters initiating a major tide."
’One hundred thousand per year.’ Allen quickly constructed a mathematical model in his mind. ’Given the natives’ reproduction rate, they can’t sustain these kinds of losses for long.’
"Your replenishment of newborns can’t keep up with your losses," Allen stated bluntly.
"You are correct, Your Excellency." Alexander gave a bitter laugh, his tone filled with deep despair.
"This is the kingdom’s checkmate. Five hundred years ago, the probability of a newborn awakening their Spirit Core was as high as seventy percent. But now, the awakening rate has dropped below fifty percent, and it continues to fall."
"One hundred thousand elites die every year, yet the new generation grows weaker and weaker."
Alexander leaned on the edge of the sand table with both hands, his knuckles white. "We have no room to retreat, so we can only plug the gaps with our lives. But even if we shed our last drop of blood, we see no hope. In less than a hundred years, the kingdom will be utterly destroyed."
[Jarvis analysis: Decline in Spirit Core awakening rate suspected to be caused by damage to the premium gene pool due to long-term, high-pressure warfare.]
Allen looked at the ashen-faced native leaders before him, feeling no pity, only disdain for their inefficient model of warfare.
’Thirty-five million people, twenty million of them Transcendents.’
’In Hub City, this would be an unimaginably vast labor resource.’
’If they were all put into military-industrial production, what a terrifying amount of materiel could they create?’
’And these natives are actually sending this high-quality labor force to the front lines to fight beasts hand-to-hand?’
’What a colossal waste.’
’Still, it can’t be helped. Technological development doesn’t happen overnight.’
This civilization possessed extremely high potential for military mobilization and practiced a system of universal military service. However, the ceiling for individual combat power was too low. A Level 5 Spirit Mage was only equivalent to a First-level Wizard, giving them no chance of victory against the King of Heart-eaters, who was at the level of a Second-level Wizard.
It was a typical "quantity over quality" civilization, and the high-intensity, high-frequency racial war had already led to a severe imbalance between its combat-capable population and its newborn population.
Allen looked up, his eyes on the seven-hundred-kilometer, blood-red defensive line on the map, and beyond it, the endless, deep blue sea.
"Your Majesty," he began, his tone still calm. "I have a question."
"Please, speak."
"Have you ever tried to proactively enter the ocean to see where the Heart Eaters actually come from?"
Augustus fell silent.
William and Herman exchanged a look, both seeing the same answer in the other’s eyes.
"For three hundred years," Augustus said slowly, "every exploration team that has attempted to venture deep into the Endless Sea has been lost. None have ever returned."
Allen stood up and walked to the map, his gaze falling on the deep blue area labeled "Unknown."
"Interesting."
He turned to face the weary but unyielding King.
"First, let’s deal with the matter at hand. How long until this year’s summer Beast Tide?"
"Approximately forty-seven days," Alexander replied.
Allen nodded.
’Forty-seven days. That’s enough time.’
"Lord Wesren."
An abrupt voice broke the silence.
A Duke with a missing right arm stood up. He was the retired commander of the kingdom’s First Legion, his chest covered in medals of valor.
"Forgive my impertinence."
The Duke looked directly at Allen, his gaze sharp. "Three years ago, Lord Maurice also sat in this very seat. He assured us that the power of a Wizard was enough to crush everything. But he died in battle. The Royal Capital nearly fell, and three legions were completely wiped out."
King Alexander roared, "Insolence! Stand down, Duke Dorne!"
Duke Dorne did not back down, staring fixedly at Allen. "We revere the power of those from beyond the heavens. But Lord Maurice’s death proved that you are not omnipotent. Lord Wesren, you are but one man. On what grounds should we believe that you can hold back the endless Beast Tide?"