Within the city gates of Isdalia, banners fluttered and crowds surged.
Tens of thousands of imperial citizens had gathered here, packing both sides of the wide avenue. Waving their banners and flags, they let out tidal waves of cheers to welcome the returning imperial army.
"For the Empire! For His Majesty Cassius!"
"Welcome home, heroes of the Patriotic War!"
"Under the brilliant leadership of His Majesty Cassius, the Empire has triumphed once again!"
"All hail the return of the Empire's heroes!"
Amid the fervent atmosphere, the imperial soldiers marched forward in neat formations with their heads held high. Their standard-issue leather boots struck the pavement in crisp, rhythmic cadence.
Then came steam tanks rumbling slowly into the city, the engines of these iron behemoths idling in a low, muffled roar.
These, too, were decorated veterans of the Patriotic War. They had slain countless demons on the battlefield, and their treads were stained and caked in dark purple blood.
"Cassius be praised..."
"It's the steam tanks! The ultimate weapon of our Empire!"
"What kind of monster could even damage iron beasts like these?"
"Look! That's the *Emperor's Wrath*! They say it killed tens of thousands of demons!"
At that moment, the *Emperor's Wrath* was covered in battle scars. Along its left side, a shocking gouge several meters long ran across the armor plating.
Yet this was no mere damage—it stood as a badge of honor, proof of the steam tank's glorious battles against giant monsters like bebiliths and carnage demons.
A dragonblood goblin wearing the Hero of the Homeland medal popped out of the hatch, waving excitedly to the crowd as he shrieked:
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live His Majesty Cassius!"
The onlookers cared nothing about the hero being a goblin. They answered him fervently, raising their arms alongside him to shout the same slogans of "Long live the Empire!"
This dragonblood goblin, named Bill, had already been featured in the *Imperial Daily* for his record of taking down multiple bebiliths.
He had been honored with titles like "Loyal Imperial Tank Commander" and the "Three-Foot Giant," becoming an inspirational model for goblins, kobolds, and other frail, despised races.
*Whistle—!*
Plumes of white steam vented from the whistles like the roars of iron monsters, and the grand procession filled the spectating citizens with awe.
"So this is the Empire's steam tank corps!"
"What majesty!"
"Even a goblin can become a battlefield hero—I want to drive a tank too!"
Among the infantry ranks, George stood in the front lines, wearing the standard imperial military uniform with several medals pinned to his chest. Looking out at the jubilant crowds, his heart stirred with a swirl of emotions.
He could feel the scorching heart in his chest, coursing with dragon blood, thumping with vigor.
*Another glorious victory... just like always. No matter what kind of enemy we face, His Majesty always leads us to victory—even when the foe is practically a god.*
On that brutal battlefield, it was only through the red dragon's blessing that George had held out under the siege of multiple bulezaus until reinforcements arrived.
Days ago, George had also witnessed firsthand the earth-shattering clash that reduced all of Anstica to ruins, culminating in that godlike Abyssal dragon crashing lifelessly at the Emperor's feet.
"Cassius be praised..."
George subtly lifted his head, gazing at the distant Grand Altar of Isdalia towering into the clouds. The red dragon's towering silhouette seemed to rise once more before his eyes.
The triumphal procession continued entering the city: the Empire's ogre heavy artillery corps, hobgoblin infantry corps, Redscale Conquerors, Dragon Oath Paladins...
These elite units, which had proved their worth repelling the demonic invasion, appeared before the public one after another. They put the Empire's immense military might on full display, filling the citizens' hearts with a profound sense of pride and belonging.
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live His Majesty Cassius!"
The cheers rose and fell in unbroken waves, ringing through the city of Isdalia all day long.
Even after night fell, beneath the dim streetlamps and in the flickering taverns, drunks still swayed with bottles held high, shouting those very same slogans.
The Cinder Empire was always at its liveliest—and its best—in the aftermath of war. Celebrations in town squares across the land often lasted for days on end.
The returning soldiers needed alcohol and tobacco to dull the trauma of war, and they needed an outlet to vent long-suppressed emotions while spending their lavish spoils.
Because of this, returning veterans were typically the most free-spending patrons around. Those fresh off the knife-edge of the front lines threw gold around like water.
Recognizing this, sharp-nosed imperial merchants hung banners across their shopfronts declaring, *"Soldiers First,"* *"Welcome Home, Heroes,"* and *"Discounts for Imperial Soldiers."*
They also put out dazzling arrays of "special sale" goods to tempt the soldiers into buying sprees. Within mere days, these shopkeepers made fortunes.
The players who had entered business were even more shameless in their marketing tactics, piggybacking on every conceivable trend. They dominated the market and raked in countless gold dinars.
Some entertainment venues of a more delicate nature even put up signs proclaiming, *"Comforting Imperial Heroes"* and *"Devoting Ourselves to the Heroes of the Patriotic War,"* leaving onlookers caught between tears and laughter.
At the same time, the war had brought a flood of orders to the Empire's munition factories. Workers labored around the clock, earning handsome bonuses—exhausted, yet overjoyed.
The victory had produced an unimaginable economic boom, injecting fierce vitality into the Empire's markets and turning everyday life into a festival of energy.
After enduring wave after wave of demonic suicide assaults, the people's hatred for the Abyss had reached a boiling point, uniting them in shared loathing.
This war had allowed the citizens of the Empire to vent all that built-up venom, leaving them cheering with delight.
Tens of millions of Abyssal demons had perished under the Empire's dense artillery fire. Even the mountain-sized Abyssal dragon had been slain by the supreme, magnificent Emperor Cassius.
At the mere mention of that splendid victory, every imperial citizen swelled their chest with immense pride and excitement.
***
Three days had passed since the imperial army's triumphant return, but the round-the-clock festivities showed no sign of stopping. The stirring strains of the *Hymn of Cassius* echoed over Emperor Square.
*"How can we forget such grace? His Majesty makes mountain springs flow across the plains, bringing sweet rains to nurture every land..."*
Aside from the singers, rowdy groups of "Conquest Partisans" marched in packs, belting out crude tavern songs about conquering the south.
Returning soldiers—humans, hobgoblins, ogres, tieflings, and more—crowded the square. Casting aside racial divides, they clinked mugs and drank together in celebration.
"Come on! A toast to the Empire!"
"To victory! Bottoms up!"
"Drink up, drink up! We barely cheated death—time to let loose!"
An ogre roared at the top of his lungs, "Boss, bring two more barrels! Yeah, the biggest ones! I'm chugging 'em in one go!"
"Which defense zone were you in? I was in the third. Damn, the fighting there was brutal. I literally crawled out of a pile of corpses..."
"What a coincidence, I was an artilleryman in the third!"
"Hah, look at that! What are the odds? Maybe the shell that saved my ass was fired by you!"
Amid this raucous cheer, George and Grace—two unassuming humans—stepped over the threshold of a tavern.
The server by the entrance had looked indifferent at first, but the moment his eyes caught the Hero's Medal and the insignia of a dragonblood baron on George's chest, his eyes lit up and he scurried forward with fawning enthusiasm.
Within the Empire, military nobility enjoyed the highest prestige, and taverns and shops always welcomed them with open arms—such men spent lavishly, tossing around dozens of gold dinars without blinking.
Flushed with excitement, the server gestured invitingly with an obsequious smile plastered across his face. "Right this way, my lords! Please come in! Allow me to show you to the VIP section."
Accustomed to such treatment, George replied casually, "No need. Any open table will do."
The server nodded repeatedly. "Understood, whatever you prefer, my lord! If you need anything at all, just call for me."
George and Grace found a slightly quieter corner, took their seats, and ordered a few bottles of fine liquor—including the recently trending "Song of Triumph," which went for three gold dinars a bottle.
The server soon hurried back carrying several exquisitely packaged bottles. He gently swirled the liquor before pouring it into their glasses.
Rumor had it that the Song of Triumph had been crafted by a master brewer among the Starfallen specifically for returning warriors.
It was said to replicate the thrill of slaying foes on the battlefield, flooding the mind with the euphoria of victory. Naturally, its price was steep to match.
A single bottle cost several months of an ordinary laborer's wages.
Having once been a starving serf, George was not one for extravagance, but in the thrilling aftermath of triumph, he allowed himself a treat.
"Heh, Grace..."
George gazed out the window at the lively street and emptied his glass in one gulp.
"I told you long ago: so long as His Majesty Cassius sits upon the throne, the Empire will always emerge victorious. Your worries... were completely pointless."
The warm, magically infused current surged through his veins, truly delivering the rush of felling an enemy in battle.
"Yeah, the Empire always wins in the end."
Grace shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh. "To think I actually doubted His Majesty's power before. How foolish of me."
He merely took a small sip, yet his face immediately flushed red. Sweat broke out across his brow, and his eyes glinted with excitement.
George nodded slightly, his tone turning serious. "Still... those demons were not to be underestimated. They're a far cry from the weaklings back in the Northlands. Word from the top says this war cost over a hundred thousand casualties."
Grace grinned, laughing freely. "Whatever the cost, we made it out alive, didn't we?"
He rose drunkenly to his feet and raised his glass toward George and the nearby soldiers. "To victory! To surviving!"
A smile crossed George's face. He poured himself a full glass and raised it, murmuring softly, "To victory."
With that, he tipped his head back and drained the strong liquor in one breath. Yet his complexion remained entirely unchanged, showing not the slightest hint of drunkenness.
*Thump!*
Unsteady on his feet, Grace slumped forward against the table, dripping with sweat. After just one glass, he could no longer hold his liquor.
The Song of Triumph was said to be blended with bone meal from a flame drake, packing a punch fierce enough to ignite a blaze in one's gut. Even creatures with dragon blood found it hard to stomach two glasses.
Sprawled across the table, Grace struggled to lift his head, his eyes full of envy as he looked at George. "George, you really stole the spotlight this time!"
Supporting his upper body with his forearms, he studied the man before him and asked, "Your dragon blood purity must be up to five percent by now, right?"
Grace pointed at the hand George used to grip the glass. Faint crimson scales were visible on the back of his skin.
"Around there."
George nodded once more and took another sip from his glass.
Grace sighed in admiration. "Tsk, holding a defensive position all on your own with a ragtag unit, fending off the Abyss's most elite heavy infantry—dozens of bulezaus—and even killing several of them. No wonder you received the Empire's Hero's Medal."
"Just luck."
George looked down at the scales showing on the back of his hand and replied, "If my dragon blood hadn't awakened halfway through, I would've lost my life right there."
"Hahaha! Prime Minister Trump said it himself: luck is a form of strength! If it weren't for that clumsy apprentice wizard, His Excellency might still be an ordinary ogre right now, not to mention..."
Grace was clearly thoroughly plastered, laughing loudly as he blurted out the open secret that circulated within the Empire.
George's face drained of color, and he hurriedly gestured for Grace to shut up. The Prime Minister's vindictiveness was famous across the entire realm. Only then did Grace nod in sheepish realization.
"Still... I don't envy you."
Grace leaned back against his chair, his gaze drifting as he stared up at the ceiling carved with dragon claws.
"Life now is certainly far better than before. Back when we were peasants under the northern lords, who could have dreamed of gold, jewels, fine wine, and feasts?
"But... I'm scared. Really scared."
Grace's voice trembled, his whole body shaking as terror crept onto his face. He pointed a finger at his own heart and pounded it hard a few times.
"Do you know, George? By just an inch, that demon's claw would've pierced my chest and skewered my heart. It was my most trusted subordinate who threw himself in front of me and took the blow. And all I could do was watch..."
George furrowed his brow. "You mean..."
Grace lowered his eyes, smiling bitterly. "Much as I relish the taste of victory, I don't want to fight anymore. I live in constant dread—dread of losing everything I have, dread of watching this wealth and glory turn to dust."
He looked back at George. "You know what comes next, George. The Empire's next target is the south, the vast Feanso Continent. But I'm sick of living day-to-day on borrowed time. I want to be stationed in Anzeta. They say His Majesty will grant us the power to guard it and keep the imperial homeland safe. So... what about you? What's your choice?"
George barely hesitated. He glanced toward the south, his eyes burning with resolve.
"The south. I'm going south—to win lands beneath the sun for the Empire, and to stand... atop the true mountain peak."
Even after downing so much strong spirits, George's voice remained firm and resonant.
"Just as I thought. Still the same old Baron George. Haha, I hope I live to see you become an imperial duke. When that day comes, I'll look up at your statue and salute."
As if he had expected nothing less, Grace raised his cup once more and whispered, "To the Empire."
"To the Empire."
George tapped his cup against Grace's and drank the remaining liquor dry. A faint glint ignited in his golden pupils, like flickering dragonfire coming to life.
All around them, soldiers of every race—ogres, hobgoblins, tieflings, lizardfolk—raised their cups as one, cries of "To the Empire!" ringing out in unending waves.
Even Bill, the dragonblood goblin and fellow Hero of the Homeland, joined in, his high-pitched screech cutting through the din.
Chapter 549