Falling Apart!

Inside a towering, austere concrete fortress, in a spacious and cavernous hall, a red carpet was laid across the cold stone steps. This was Fort Norton, situated right at the center of Norton City—the place where the myriarchs gathered for council and held ceremonial rites. In the ancient native tongue of Norton Province, "Norton" meant conquest. After occupying this land, the Eastern Legion had constructed this military fortress named Norton in honor of Marshal Julius. Over the course of the following century and more, the fortress on the plains had gradually grown into a massive settlement with a population of over a million. Not only did it house the Legion's oldest military and engineering academies, but it was also the capital of the Eastern Legion and the bastion most dedicated to tradition in the entire Legion. Of course, that was straying a bit far from the matter at hand. At this moment, a group of Wilante clad in golden armor and scarlet cloaks stood holding candles, facing a full-length statue of Marshal Julius that stood a full ten meters tall. With solemn, grave expressions, they silently offered their reverence in their hearts. That brilliant gold and scarlet cloak seemed hardly fitting for a funeral, yet it was the Wilante's unique way of mourning, representing their highest protocol. All because their marshal had once declared: "There is no need to fear death or mourn it; it is the ultimate destination of all life." "If one day I sleep here forever, you should don golden armor and scarlet cloaks, raise high your torches to bid me farewell, and scatter fresh flowers upon me, just as though cheering my triumph." Perhaps Julius had merely uttered it on a whim at the time, but for a long time afterward, the Wilante conducted their funerals in precisely this fashion. It wasn't until several fires broke out in Triumph City that the local survivors struck a compromise between the torches and flowers, substituting them with hot yet gentle candles. As for the tradition of wearing golden armor and scarlet cloaks, it had endured—with elaborate customs dictating the weight of the golden armor and the purity of the gold itself. Generally speaking, the value of the ceremonial vessels used by the mourners was directly proportional to the glory the deceased had achieved in life. It was for this very reason that nearly every person standing here to mourn Marshal Julius was bearing around two hundred kilograms of armor. Without the aid of exoskeletons, only the martial, vigor-filled Wilante could possibly bear such a heavy load. Standing before the gathering, draped in golden armor, Salen looked grave and solemn as he gently set the solid-gold candlestick in his hands onto the stone steps before the statue. By now, the ceremony was half completed. Next, the myriarchs would step forward one after another to place their candlesticks before the statue, keeping vigil for Lord Julius until all the candles burned out. Salen quietly stepped aside, gently rolling his shoulders, which ached from the weight of the gold. Right then, a trusted confidant walked over to his side and spoke in a hushed voice. "...There is no movement along the Alliance border; everything remains as before. However, Bist Town appears somewhat tense, and the forces of the Honey Badger Kingdom have begun mobilizing as well." Salen tilted his head slightly and replied in a faint voice. "Ignore them. Just keep watching the Alliance's moves." Whether it was Bist Town or the Honey Badger Kingdom, both were mere ants to the Eastern Legion. It seemed the Alliance had guessed his intentions, and they truly harbored no desire to take advantage of the chaos. As long as the troops were shifted east, the reforms in Triumph City could proceed free from external interference. When the time came, their independence would follow naturally, and they could even maintain decent relations with their former home, Triumph City. After all, that was where the Wilante's expeditions had begun; he did not want to push relations with the folks back home to an impasse. No civil war. For all parties, this was already the best possible outcome. Even today, many Wilante still regarded Triumph City as their spiritual homeland, including many of the myriarchs under his own command. Though smiling at a funeral was hardly appropriate, a faint grin curled at the corner of his mouth nonetheless. Indeed, playing chess with smart people was always delightful. The confidant beside him kept his voice low and continued. "There is one more matter... The Southern Legion has sent an envoy." Salen said offhandedly. "Leave him waiting for a while." The confidant hesitated for a moment before whispering again. "But... it is an envoy from Legion Commander Tyr. He brought real-time communication equipment and claims to represent Tyr in person." Hearing this, Salen sighed impatiently. "Have him wait for me in the side hall." The confidant answered respectfully. "Understood." ... Inside a hall off to the side of the fortress, a windblown envoy stood not far from the doorway. Seeing Legion Commander Salen stride in from outside, he quickly bowed in greeting. Yet Salen, marching past, did not even spare him a glance. He snatched the silver platter straight from the envoy's hands, pressed the button, and tossed it onto a nearby cabinet. A pale blue light materialized in the room, and soon a burly, imposing figure appeared nearby. It was Tyr's hologram. Seeing Salen clad in golden armor, Tyr visibly froze for a moment. "What on earth are you doing?" Salen opened his arms wide and said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "As you can see, mourning Marshal Julius alongside our brothers from Triumph City. I, on the other hand, would like to ask what you are doing." Witnessing his completely composed demeanor, anger surged within Tyr's chest. This bastard actually had the leisure to hold a funeral! Right now, not only the Alliance and Enterprise, but even the Free State—that lackey of the Great Rift Valley—had declared a state of war with the Southern Legion. Seeing the Eastern Legion finally grow a backbone and deploy combat units to Falcon City east of the Great Desert, Tyr had thought a turning point had arrived at last. Yet after waiting for ages, he hadn't seen these fellows take a single further step. Those troops were like mere ornamental props, giving the entire Southern Legion false hope for nothing. However, remembering that he was the one asking for help, Tyr suppressed the rage in his heart, merely demanding in a stern tone: "Is now the time to be doing this?" Salen looked at him with a smile, his amused gaze resembling someone watching a comical clown. In the past, he would have had to maintain a veneer of decorum between them. Now, however, the two were no longer on the same level. He was just about to mock the man with a few words when, to his surprise, Legion Commander Tyr beat him to the punch. "Listen... Our Legion is facing an unprecedented threat. Triumph City has fallen into the hands of aliens, and our brethren are sinking deep into the quagmire of war. If we harbor petty grievances at a time like this, no one will be able to save us—" "It's just one alien Consul. Look how terrified you are. Is that really such a big deal?" Salen interrupted him with a scoff, continuing in a leisurely drawl. "As for the quagmire, did I push you into it?" Tyr's eyes went wide. "You!" "Enough, Tyr. I know what you're thinking, but I'm not falling for your tricks." A look of disappointment settled on Salen's face as he lost all interest in him. "Setting aside our friends on the New World, let me ask you this. Even if, for the sake of argument, I marched my armies forward, took Triumph City, and restored your so-called orthodoxy, would you acknowledge me as the Legion's Marshal?" Tyr was momentarily struck dumb. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Salen raised a hand to cut him off. "No need to answer. You know very well what the answer is. It's not just you; our friends on the New World and those to the north feel the exact same way... There is only one Marshal, and that was Julius. Now he is dead, and there will never be another." Pausing, he added in a cold, emotionless tone: "The Legion is already history." Drag him down into the mud? Not a chance! The moment he dropped those words, he walked over to the cabinet and shut off the silver-white disc. The pale blue holographic beam instantly narrowed into a thin line before vanishing from the empty chamber. Tossing the device back into the envoy's hands and seeing the man stand frozen, Salen barked impatiently: "What are you still waiting here for? Waiting for me to buy you dinner? Go back where you came from." "Yes..." The envoy bowed his head resentfully, but ultimately turned and took his leave. Watching the envoy's retreating figure, a mocking smile touched the corner of Salen's mouth, but soon his brow furrowed. Something felt off. That didn't quite seem like the Tyr he knew... At least in his impression, Tyr was never the kind of man to bow his head and beg. Forget bowing his head to beg—for that taciturn fellow to patiently try reasoning with him sounded like the sun rising in the west. Still, Salen didn't take it too deeply to heart. People changed, after all. Perhaps the man was truly backed into a corner? Gently stretching his aching shoulders, he strode with head held high back into the fortress's grand hall. The myriarchs stepping forward in turn had already completed the ritual. Beneath the towering statue over ten meters tall, bright candle flames flickered one after another. The funeral had entered its latter half. Once those flames went out, they would have completely seen off Lord Julius's heroic soul. Salen did not, as Chu Guang had guessed, squeeze out a few hypocritical tears. Even so, he wiped the smile from his face, walking beneath the candlelit statue with an expression of solemn sorrow. This was the final moment. "Lord Julius of infinite glory, thank you for bestowing upon your people endless bread, milk, and land. We shall remember your teachings, carrying forward the loyalty and courage you imparted to us as we march onward as always..." "As the first Emperor and Prime Minister of the Eastern Empire, I shall shoulder the mission bestowed upon me by history." "May your heroic soul find eternal peace in the Court of Honor—" "Your children will remember you forever." ... The Eastern Legion—or rather, the newly established Eastern Empire—was not the only one to declare independence. At the very moment Triumph City announced that a state funeral for His Majesty Marshal Julius would be held in three days, the Northern Legion and Western Legion followed suit and declared their independence one after another. The former established the Northern Empire, hailing Legion Commander Walter as Emperor, while the latter established the New World Federation, with its Citizens' Assembly and tribunes unanimously appointing Legion Commander Pompey as Prime Minister and "First Citizen." By this point, the Legion existed in name only. Over thirty million square kilometers of territory had fractured into several pieces, yet among that group of supposedly fiercely loyal myriarchs, hardly anyone could be found who actually missed it. After all, their allegiance had always belonged solely to Marshal Julius alone. Even Marshal Julius had found closure in his dying words; naturally, they had no reason to cling to the past any longer. What was more, after everything that had happened, they had long grown sick of maintaining an empty facade of unity. Although Triumph City had yet to take further action, judging from the preliminary intentions reached by the Consul and various factions, an official declaration establishing the "Wilante Alliance" appeared to be merely a matter of time. In the end, the only one that seemed to have taken no action was the Southern Legion. Aside from issuing condemnations against the "traitors of Triumph City," the Southern Legion authorities made no further moves. Evidently, fixated entirely on the gambling table of Brahma Province, they had never anticipated that matters would unfold like this, nor had they imagined that the other three legions would let go so decisively and completely. Now, they were the only ones left aboard this speeding runaway train... Meanwhile, along the western reaches of the vast blue Polo Sea, black landing ships, escorted by the fleet of the South Sea Alliance, were cleaving the waves westward! The forces packing those landing craft were none other than Enterprise's 100th Mountain Division. Having participated in the war against the Church of the Torch, they were among Enterprise's rare combat elite. Now that the Southern Legion's nuclear strike had thoroughly stepped on Ideal City's bottom line, even the directors of Endpoint Group sitting on the far left of the Supreme Council would no longer preach about harmony being paramount. They would use the most thorough means possible to force those bared-fang beasts into submission! Inside the rocking cabin. Seated on a bench, Tang Feng was adjusting his exoskeleton armor, attempting to establish a link with the three combat drones in his backpack and testing that the data ports functioned normally. Since the battle against the Church of the Torch, the Council had upgraded their gear yet again. Today, they were not merely armed to the teeth—they had been turned into complete war machines! It was no exaggeration to say that where they once needed to raise their rifles and aim, now a mere thought was enough to kill their opponent! Of course, that was only in theory. On the battlefield, anything could happen. Sitting beside Tang Feng, a soldier chewing gum couldn't help but crack a grin. "Never thought the day would come when we'd trade blows with folks we once fought side by side with." Tang Feng said nothing, but the squad's machine gunner chimed in. "There's still quite a difference between the Southern Legion and the Eastern Legion, isn't there?" Another lad sitting across from them spoke up. "Like the Alliance and the South Sea Alliance?" The soldier beside him laughed. "Haha... doesn't seem like that big of a difference either." The men chatted idly back and forth, dispelling the suffocating atmosphere of the cabin. Just then, an officer stepped into the cabin, cutting into the lads' conversation. "It's precisely because we once fought side by side that when our friends fall into a swamp, we have to reach out and haul them out of the mud pit." A soldier raised his hand with a grin. "You're right, sir, but I just have one question: why can't we let them crawl out on their own?" "Because if we wait any longer, they'll splatter us with mud from head to toe. Next time you interrupt, remember to ask permission first, or I'll make you swim across from here." The officer shot a fierce glare at the chatterbox, then turned to face the young men in the cabin, shouting in a booming voice: "Alright, boys, that's enough shooting the breeze! The Alliance's Jungle Corps and the Wilante Expeditionary Army 1st Division have already dismantled the defenses around Evernight Port's harbor and secured our landing docks!" "With a single division, they held off counterattacks from five full divisions on our behalf. Those bastards are tough as nails, but now it's time for the real badasses to take the field!" "You have only one objective! The moment you land, activate your battlefield guidance systems and advance along the offensive route in coordination with our self-propelled armor! Advance! Advance! Keep advancing—!" "Until we send those demons straight back to hell!"