In the imperial capital of Ryan, the low, mournful blare of horns sounded for three whole days.
The populace poured into the streets of their own accord, mourning the passing of an imperial hero.
The life of the Silvermoon Knight was known to every citizen of Ryan; countless youths could recite each and every one of his victories by heart.
He was just such a revered hero, having stood as the guardian deity of the people of Ryan for a century.
This grand and solemn funeral was no more than he deserved.
The Silvermoon Knight's casket entered through the gates of the capital, borne by ten legendary paladins all the way to the square before the imperial palace. The silver-white draperies along the palace walls had already been replaced with black. The young Ryan Emperor stepped before the casket, reading the hero's eulogy in a voice heavy with grief.
An atmosphere of sorrow hung thick in the air. No one knew when or where it began, but sobs gradually merged into a chorus of weeping as tens of thousands of Ryan citizens gathered to see him off, their eyes red from crying.
Once the Emperor finished his tribute, the Silvermoon Knight's casket was escorted straight into the cemetery to be laid to rest at its very center.
Another general from centuries ago had originally been interred in this spot, but the Emperor personally ordered the older tomb relocated to the side so the Silvermoon Knight could be buried here, highlighting his extraordinary achievements.
Yet that decree had driven a descendant of the former general to commit suicide.
Unable to preserve their ancestral glory and forced to watch their ancestor's grave moved, the descendant seemed to believe the humiliation could only be washed away with blood.
Of course, to the empire, this was a trivial matter. Barely anyone knew of it, and those who did saw nothing wrong with it.
Following the funeral, the empire was to observe a month-long period of mourning. All large-scale entertainment was banned. Passersby did well not to show a smile on the street; even the birth of a child was no cause for public laughter, lest an angry mob turn on them.
When the people of Ryan proclaimed that the empire prized humanity above all, they had to accept the other consequences brought by such extremism.
When the funeral concluded, the young Ryan Emperor returned to his palace.
Alan's father, the empire's Supreme Arbiter, reported with a solemn expression, "Your Majesty, due to Winston's unexpected demise, our offensive against the orcs must be suspended. The army's morale is unfit for an assault; we can only do our best to hold the cities we have already captured."
Rubbing his temples, the young Emperor asked, "Without him, is the empire truly incapable of defeating the orcs?"
Supreme Arbiter James Watson replied calmly, "It is not that we cannot defeat them. Ryan's national strength eclipses that of other kingdoms. We possess the mightiest army and the firmest faith. It is simply that continuing now would incur tremendous casualties."
The corner of the Emperor's mouth curled into a mocking sneer. "Casualties? Since when has my empire feared casualties? I was taught from childhood that Ryan's army can lose more than half its men without wavering in morale. The war has already begun; if we don't seize this chance to crush the orcs, how many years will we have to wait again?"
James Watson frowned and explained, "Your Majesty, our soldiers do not fear casualties, but unnecessary bloodshed is merely folly on the part of the commander. It is genuinely not the time to press the fight—at least until those boys grow accustomed to living without Winston."
The remark was somewhat blunt and bordered on disrespectful, but James Watson could afford to speak so.
In recent years, emperors had cycled through Ryan far too quickly; he, as Supreme Arbiter, had already served three of them.
This boy-emperor was only sixteen, having occupied the throne for less than three years. Being so young and not particularly bright, he commanded virtually no prestige.
Detecting the disrespect in James Watson's words, the young Emperor flared with anger. "James Watson, you are merely my subject! Do not think holding power makes you untouchable. I am the Emperor—I can replace the Supreme Arbiter!"
James Watson could not be bothered to waste his breath on the young ruler, answering indifferently, "Then I ask that Your Majesty select a suitable candidate as soon as possible. I am old as well; it is high time someone else assumed this heavy responsibility."
The Emperor had not expected James Watson to respond with such finality, leaving himself caught in an awkward bind. If he backed down, he would lose all face; if he agreed, he hadn't the faintest idea who could take over the old man's duties.
Watching the Emperor look furious yet not dare to lash out, James Watson sighed inwardly.
The youth had originally been nothing more than an idle scion of a collateral royal branch. He had received no decent education in his youth, failing to even become a paladin. By all rights, he should have lived an unremarkable, mediocre life like any ordinary noble. Who could have guessed that among the royal family today, he was the only one capable of drawing even the slightest reaction from the Dragon Tyrant Armament?
Since his coronation, the only thing he needed to concern himself with was siring children. James Watson could no longer remember how many offspring he had; after the birth of his sixth son, the Supreme Arbiter had stopped keeping track.
Such mindless breeding, akin to that of beasts, felt far more like a sacrilege.
The legacy left by that great founding emperor—whether bloodline or glory—was nearly exhausted.
James Watson began to wonder whether the royal house's criteria for choosing a ruler were no longer suited to the times.
Yet there was nothing James Watson could do. The selection of an emperor was strictly controlled by the royal family; unless he, the Supreme Arbiter, intended to rebel, he had no standing to voice an opinion.
Fortunately, the empire's division of power was crystal clear: the Emperor could not interfere with the Tribunal governed by the Supreme Arbiter unless he steeled his resolve to replace him. Evidently, the young Emperor possessed no such resolve; he merely muttered, "I am tired," before sulking off out of the resplendent hall.
After the Emperor left, the Supreme Arbiter stepped before the throne, lost in thought as he gazed at the bas-relief carved upon it.
Carved into the throne was the founding emperor's heroic feat of slaying the Demonic Dragon and founding the empire, commissioned by the second emperor after Arthur Ryan's death. In life, Arthur Ryan had disliked such displays of personal worship. According to the records, apart from excessive vanity regarding his own looks, the founding emperor had virtually no flaws—a flawless, holy monarch of Ryan.
Who could have imagined that one thousand seven hundred years later, the emperor seated upon this throne would look like this?
James Watson addressed Arthur Ryan upon the relief, "Your Majesty, your descendants can no longer manage this empire. If you were still here, what would you do?"
The relief offered James Watson no answer. In truth, the question was directed at himself.
Yet he had no answer either.
James Watson could only raise his head toward the window filtering the morning light, silently praying in his heart for guidance from the Lord of the Dawn.
Yet the divine radiance never manifested, as though James Watson's perplexity held no importance to the Lord of the Dawn.
At that moment, James Watson recalled his youngest son, far away in the Orc Mountains. Reports from the army said Alan had received an oracle from the Lord of the Dawn not long ago. Perhaps he should bring the boy back and question him thoroughly.
Yet military affairs were not within the Supreme Arbiter's purview; he could only sound out the new imperial commander in chief. That was Anlun Wright, the Silvermoon Knight's grandson, who was in his seventies and considered a veteran in the army. Combined with the status of being the Silvermoon Knight's grandson, he had quickly been recommended as the new commander in chief.
This was largely an honorary post. Ryan's commander in chief held no military authority in peacetime; only when necessary would the Emperor appoint the commander in chief to lead armies to war, reclaiming the authority once the conflict ended.
It was only because the Silvermoon Knight himself was so exceptional that he had wielded absolute authority within the army.
Now, Ryan's army would likely have to readjust to the old ways.
All these vexing matters surged at once, leaving James Watson weary. Yet he had no time to rest; he had to return to the Tribunal and begin his day's work.
However, upon returning to the Tribunal, he saw an emerald-green letter resting beside the mountain of official documents.
An envelope of this design marked a magical missive from the Silvermoon High Court, sealed such that only the intended recipient could open it.
Normally, correspondence from the Silvermoon High Court would never arrive in such a form; subordinates would open and review the contents first, conveying only the crucial parts to James Watson. If he had to examine every letter himself, he would never find the time.
But a magical missive was different. It inevitably contained top-secret information of paramount importance, meant for James Watson's eyes alone.
"Has something happened with the elves?"
James Watson did not dare dally. The elves were Ryan's greatest ally—arguably its only ally—so the contents of such an important letter were bound to be anything but simple.
Carefully unsealing the letter, James Watson found only a single, simple sentence written within: "I have news of Arthur Ryan. Come to the Silvermoon High Court to discuss."
As soon as James Watson finished reading, the words flared into flames, reducing the entire letter to ashes.
There were no polite pleasantries, only this cryptic sentence. Arthur Ryan had ascended to the divine realm many years ago; what did it mean to have news of him?
Had anyone else sent such a letter, James Watson would have ordered the prankster severely punished.
Yet the signature bore the name "Hildas Terra"—the former Elven King. And as everyone knew, Hildas Terra had been a dear friend of Arthur Ryan; the two had traveled the continent together for years and had been among the heroes who stood against the Demonic Dragon Tyrant.
Moreover, James Watson had a good personal relationship with the former Elven King, exchanging correspondence with him often.
The same words carried entirely different weight depending on who spoke them.
James Watson had no choice but to take this invitation seriously. Yet as Ryan's Supreme Arbiter, with the Silvermoon Knight just laid to rest, he could not step away at such a critical juncture.
Looking back at the documents on his desk, James Watson sighed and cast an enhanced Vigor spell on himself. For now, he could only clear the tasks at hand as swiftly as possible before requesting permission for an official diplomatic visit to the Silvermoon High Court.
Chapter 232