Steampunk Era: Mad Abield
Chapter 983: Section 640: Wild Banquet (Part 2)_2

Chapter 983: Section 640: Wild Banquet (Part 2)_2

"No! My lord! You cannot kill him!" The Queen’s voice rang out behind Malin.

Malin ignored her, reaching out to grip the handle formed by Mana, pushing Clovis aside: "Perhaps my recent show of weakness misled you into thinking I was someone too easygoing to confront. Even mortals seem to forget who they are facing. When I was cutting down a champion on the northern docks, where were all of you?"

"Malin, that man has served the royal family for seventy years." At this moment, Lulu spoke up.

Malin turned his head. By now, the steward, who had a short blade pressed against his neck, had stopped moving.

"Seventy years? How old are you?"

"A hundred and seven. I am a half-blood, born of humans and elves," the steward quickly replied, regaining his breath.

"At your age, there are some matters you have no business meddling in—and this time, you will be spared the death penalty. But cut out his tongue. He may seek a healer to restore it if he likes, I won’t object." With that said, Malin turned and pushed Clovis out of the dining hall.

......

Watching Malin leave with his women, Constantine let out a deep sigh: "Your Majesty, it’s time you consider replacing your steward."

"I think so too. Darling, grant him a sum and let him return to his hometown and enjoy his retirement." Manheim’s voice, transmitted through a private channel, was cold.

Once the steward had been taken away, Constantine rose to his feet: "Your Majesty, I will say it again—we should not drive away Lord Malin. These are soldiers he trained. Under his banner, they possess power so miraculous it defies belief. As for Daniel... his family must have gone mad."

"He is not my son anyway. If it were possible, I’d even want Soren to follow Lord Malin to Thainan. But this time, it’s my fault... how disheartening," Manheim said, rising from his seat. "But in any case, I have done all I could. If the army Malin left behind cannot succeed, and Daniel fails alongside his officer corps, then it only proves the children of the Wallace family lack the credentials to become kings. The Dukes can select another scapegoat... assuming the kingdom still exists by then."

The King left with a smile, and the Queen silently followed. Only Constantine remained in the dining hall until the kitchen staff began clearing the remnants from the table.

The Marshal rose quietly, glancing at the marshal’s baton in his hand before tossing it into the trash bin.

This kingdom, where nobles scarcely act as nobles should, and royalty barely resembles royalty—these madmen and lunatics, in their ceaseless hunger for power, will one day destroy everyone.

He stepped out of the dining hall and stood under the snowy night sky. Taking out a cigarette from his pocket, the old marshal lit it for himself. He overheard soldiers speaking of the recently departed Malin, their voices brimming with confidence as they talked about marching south with Lord Malin to face Chaos in a decisive battle.

Constantine didn’t know what to say. Should he tell the soldiers that their Marshal Malin would not be accompanying them south because the nobles did not trust him?

"Marshal, is something wrong?" The dwarf Electrum approached, noticing Constantine’s unusual demeanor despite his bluntness.

Constantine shook his head: "Just stepped out into the cold. I must have caught a chill." He handed the cigarette box to the dwarf. "There aren’t many left—keep them and enjoy."

Amused by the dwarf’s delight, Constantine managed to smooth things over and made his way out of the military camp.

The silhouettes of the King and Queen’s carriage still lingered in the distance when a gnome approached: "Marshal, Lord Malin is waiting for you over there."

Constantine looked in the direction the gnome indicated and saw Malin, accompanied by his two consorts, standing in the shadows.

Constantine hesitated to go over. Today, he felt as though he had betrayed both Malin and the soldiers. Yet under Malin’s calm and expectant gaze, he finally resigned himself and approached the young man. "Malin, I’m sorry."

"I can feel the pain in your heart. You are a marshal. Though you are a noble, your highest loyalty is not to your title nor your king but to the uniform you wear, am I right?"

Malin’s words nearly brought Constantine to tears.

Yes, he was right. Malin was entirely right. Constantine felt he had betrayed the very uniform he wore.

"It’s alright, Constantine. I know this isn’t your fault; don’t take it to heart. I also recognize that I’ve trained these young men far too well," Malin said, turning to gaze at the military camp behind him. "I thought I would lead them into battle. I never expected that I could protect them all. There would inevitably be deaths on the battlefield. But I always imagined that if I could reduce their losses, the world might become a slightly better place. I thought I understood human nature, but in the end, I underestimated the nobles—their insatiable lust for power."

"My lord..." Constantine fell silent. For the first time, he understood the anti-noble sentiments of the Northern advocates. Truly, as Malin had said, the nobles desired dominion, not the well-being of the people in this kingdom.

Thinking of this, Constantine looked at Malin; he had heard that Malin possessed unparalleled knowledge of the civilizations before the Great Cataclysm. "Lord Malin, do you think the civilizations before the Great Cataclysm were really as magnificent as the legends claim?"

"Everyone has their own definition of beauty. For me, it was the most beautiful era. But Marshal Constantine, you should not ponder the beauty of the past. Instead, consider what kind of future lies ahead, what spectacular possibilities it holds for everyone. Only by doing so can our civilization rise from the ashes." As he said this, Lord Malin turned to look at Constantine. In that moment, Constantine saw a flicker in the young man’s eyes.

"Yes, my lord, you are right," Constantine said, lowering his head.

"Farewell, Marshal Constantine. Do not come tomorrow. When the situation becomes irreparable, stand up and steady the troops. Tell them to wait for my return." Malin stepped forward and extended his hand to Constantine.

"You... you plan to journey to the Eastern world of humans. Will you truly make it back in time?" Constantine clasped Malin’s hand tightly, aged hands pressing against youthful ones.

"When the time comes, tell my soldiers I will return like a bolt of lightning. Tell them to use everything I taught them to fight against Chaos. Wait for me, will you?"

"Of course, my lord. If it becomes unavoidable, I will lead the soldiers into the trenches. We will wait for you—until you return, or until we are engulfed by Chaos," Constantine said, reaching out to embrace Malin, cutting him off before he could continue. "My lord, I am the soldiers’ marshal. It was I who led them into despair; I must share their fate."

"... Very well. Remember—wait for my return." With those words, a teleportation portal opened behind Malin.

"We will, my lord. This is merely the worst possible outcome we can imagine. Perhaps, if luck is on our side, you will arrive to see us raising the banner of victory." Constantine smiled, exchanging a firm handshake with Malin before watching him and his two lovely ladies depart.

When the portal dissipated, Constantine gradually tucked away his smile.

Lord Malin did not see Daniel, the Crown Prince, or his officer corps. These officers, graduates of the military academy, hailed from noble families. Yet having never been to the battlefield, they had no concept of how terrifying Chaos truly was. They were deceived by casualty reports, believing death was just numbers on a page—unaware of its grim reality. Even if Daniel came to comprehend the truth, the young man from the Wallace family would eventually be weighed down by his officer corps.

Those young officers would naively think Chaos was nothing more than an abstraction until the soldiers’ sacrifices brought the reality crashing down upon them.

But at that point, what is the purpose of the soldiers’ bloodshed? Simply because their officers were noble scions?

Who knows.

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