The Kingdom of Cinders, Northwind Keep.
The streets bustled with clamor. Humans and monsters hurried back and forth far more urgently than usual, while the cries of newsboys and announcements blaring from loudspeakers rose and fell in a noisy cacophony echoing through the city.
"Extra! Extra! The Principality of Bosque ambushed the Free Trade Caravan on the Magur Trade Route!"
"Extra! Extra! The Principality of Bosque, the Principality of Fano, the Principality of Carter, and others have officially formed the so-called 'Anti-Red Dragon Alliance'!"
"The Alliance has officially declared war on the Kingdom!"
"Marshal Duoluo issued a statement declaring this a naked insult to the Kingdom—the Northlanders must pay an unforgettable price!"
"Lord Trump held a press conference and issued directives: The northern realms' undeclared war violates moral decency and gravely tramples the peace and order of Anzeta! Their ability and virtue are utterly inadequate to govern this vast land; only His Majesty possesses the right to be Anzeta's supreme leader and true ruler!"
Following what official kingdom records termed the "Magur Incident," the citizens of the Kingdom of Cinders did not succumb to panic and terror like the peoples of other nations. Instead, the entire realm was swept up in a fervent, restless frenzy.
To outsiders, the arrival of war meant catastrophe, death, and famine. But in the eyes of the Kingdom's citizens, war was a symbol of honor, a path to wealth and status, and, above all, a precious opportunity to become dragonblood nobility—to attain tremendous power and extended lifespan, a veritable ladder to the heavens.
Defeat?
They had never even considered the possibility.
Even if someone dared to raise doubts, it would only draw uproarious laughter from everyone around, marking them as a cowardly weakling.
An unbroken record of triumph, formidable military might, and the presence of the red dragon instilled in the citizens absolute confidence in war. Victory was practically within their grasp; what mattered more was relishing the process of winning it.
In their eyes, war was not merely bloody slaughter or a contest of strength—it was a sacrificial ritual to please their King, a baptism of blood.
Yes, a sacrificial ritual.
Over the span of several years, across the Kingdom's vast domains, the Lord of Cinders had supplanted Tempus, the god of war once revered by the Scanians, becoming the very incarnation of warfare, the emblem of glory and victory.
The Kingdom of Cinders had not suppressed news of the Magur Incident; on the contrary, it propagated it with all its might.
Under the force of official propaganda, the news swept across the Kingdom within days. The entire nation entered a state of war readiness. Troops across all territories mobilized on emergency orders, and over a thousand wyverns surged out from their roosts, wheeling over and around the cities.
Armaments factories everywhere ran at full tilt day and night. Civilian factories even had their assembly lines hastily refitted; spurred by the promise of coin and social standing, workers labored around the clock to turn out pristine, state-of-the-art weapons and gear.
Outside the military halls, crowds of varied folk jostled at the doors, all having come to enlist.
As a diverse nation, the Kingdom of Cinders naturally enjoyed an exceptionally varied pool of recruits. Beyond the most common humans, hobgoblins, and tieflings, those enlisting included ogres, half-orcs, yuan-ti purebloods, and even half-human half-ogres—leaving one to wonder who had made such immense sacrifices in the name of the Kingdom's cross-racial communion.
The players flocked to such a large-scale war event with even greater fervor. The forums overflowed with threads like "Recruiting Teammates" and "Looking for Battlefield Buddies."
Figures of wandering players popped up across every war-related department, such as the munitions plants and recruitment offices. Top guilds and professional players received official Kingdom notices, organized into special-establishment Starfallen units under the direct command of Marshal Duoluo.
The entire Kingdom spun into full gear, every individual like an interlocking cog. This terrible war machine was about to reveal its true might to the world.
...
Food Processing Plant No. 4 had now been redesignated as the Fourth Reserve Munitions Factory.
The assembly line that once produced canned foods had been hastily converted into one for military rations. There was not much difference, really, aside from adjustments to shelf life and portion size.
As the acting manager here, George was naturally swamped. He had hardly closed his eyes in nearly three days.
Yes, acting manager.
With the outbreak of war, the original factory supervisor, Datou, had been transferred away on urgent orders because he was an ogre with artillery experience; he would likely become part of the ogre heavy artillery corps. Thus, George had naturally stepped up as the factory's acting manager, with the potential of being promoted to full-fledged supervisor in the future.
Yet he had not had time to celebrate before plunging headlong into the grueling work.
Looking exhausted, dark circles heavy beneath his eyes, George still jotted down notes with pen in hand, not forgetting to bark out reminders.
"We're only at seventy percent of the quota from above! The pace is far too slow!"
"Eight thousand one hundred forty ration cans, one thousand seven hundred thirty-four cans of luncheon meat—not a single one short!"
"This is a strict order from high command! Snap out of it, all of you!"
George walked up to a dozing Howard and shouted a reprimand.
The unrelenting hours had frayed George's temper. He could no longer treat his former co-workers with his usual mild demeanor; he had to keep piling on the pressure, for only then could such a crushing workload be finished.
"Yes, yes, sir!"
Howard snapped his eyes open and apologized profusely.
He toiled numbly on the assembly line, sealing can after can. Through long hours of repetitive labor, the motion had become almost a reflex.
George paced back and forth across the floor, eyeing the workers with nervous vigilance. The slightest slackening would catch his attention, though doing so left George bone-tired as well.
*Am I really... going to spend my entire life in this factory?*
*I'm sick of these foul-smelling cans and the damned additives.*
Slumping into a chair, George could not help thinking to himself.
He tilted his head back slowly and squinted, hoping to rest for just a moment, but was soon startled awake by the roar of the food blenders.
It was in this idle moment that George's eyes fell upon a recruitment poster pasted to the factory wall.
"War: The Crucible of Men."
In the illustration, an armored dragonblood noble held a longsword, gazing into the distance with imposing majesty, surrounded by the corpses of enemies.
George felt a tremor in his heart. He murmured to himself:
"War..."
"That's the fastest shortcut to climb the ranks."
"Then again, it means giving up the position I have now and betting my life."
He stared at the propaganda poster, studying the scales surfacing upon the dragonblood noble's face. Finally, he clenched his teeth, as though having reached a decision.
"I want to become a truly important figure."
Chapter 301