The Storm King C.950 - War on the Sword XV

When Leon returned to the infirmary, he was met by the lead healer on the team that had been working on Iron-Striker, a seventh-tier Eagle.

“How is he?” Leon asked, wasting no time at all as he strode back to the private room where Iron-Striker had been convalescing.

The Eagle healer—and his team—who’d been in the process of bowing and making his formal greetings, immediately sprang up and fell in at Leon’s side, though remaining a step behind him.

“We’ve stabilized his condition, Your Majesty,” the healer hurriedly replied. “Despite the severity of his injuries, he wasn’t in much danger of death, though. If I had to guess, after his maiming, he was seen to by our enemy’s healers, ensuring that he would survive for longer.”

The healer didn’t voice any speculation as to why that might be the case, but Leon’s expression turned quite ugly for a moment. He had a few guesses as to why the Sunlit Emperor wanted to preserve Iron-Striker’s life instead of just executing the man, and none of them were good.

“Regenerating his arms and legs is going to take some work,” the healer continued. “We’ve already sent word back home to prepare the requisite materials, though the cost will be—”

“Irrelevant,” Leon interjected. “The cost will be irrelevant, and borne by the crown, if need be.”

The healer sharply inhaled, then continued, “As you command, Your Majesty. Regardless, the Chancellor’s complete regeneration will take some time, and even then, there may be physical consequences. It is fortunate that he was already tenth-tier, and relatively young for such a powerful mage, at that, for it will likely take centuries before his body is capable of continuing his magical journey.”

Leon’s lips twitched downward again. He had Hesperidic Apples, and once additional trees could be grown, he would be more than happy to spare some apples to ensure Iron-Striker made a full recovery. The man was not only powerful, but he was also bureaucratically and politically competent, not to mention motivated, and his goals aligned quite well with Leon’s. Add to that his power and Leon had in him a Chancellor he couldn’t allow to die at any cost.

“More concerning will be his mental condition,” the healer said as they neared Iron-Striker’s room. “He’s only recently awoken, and he’s shown encouraging acceptance not only of his condition but also of what he’s endured, but my Tribe will still monitor him closely during his recovery to ensure that his recovery is as smooth and effective as possible.”

“Thank you,” Leon said. “How has the healing gone so far? You said you made sure his condition is stabilized, and his injuries were extensive…”

“He’s missing both arms and legs,” the healer repeated. “As I said, regenerating those will have to take place back on Kataigida. Here, however, we’ve managed to restore to him his nose, both ears, and one of his eyes. We’re preparing to aid him in regenerating his other eye, but such healing is exhausting, so we’re giving everyone a few hours to rest before continuing. We don’t want to make any mistakes.”

With a noticeable tingling in his left arm, Leon nodded, not finding fault in the healer’s plan.

Once they reached Iron-Striker’s room, Leon knocked and then entered alone, leaving the healers in Valeria, Maia, and his Tempest Knight escort’s company.

Iron-Striker’s room was dark and rather cold, though hardly so much as to bring Leon any discomfort. It was also comfortable, if rather spartan in furnishing. There were a few chairs, Iron-Striker’s bed, some tables that still had various spells, potions, salves, and accoutrements used by the healers, and little else. The room didn’t even have a window.

Iron-Striker himself was lying back with a heavily bandaged head resting on a pillow. He had so many bandages covering his head that he was barely recognizable. The healer claimed that one of Iron-Striker’s eyes had been regenerated, but Leon could hardly tell because both eyes were covered.

He could tell that Iron-Striker was aware and could ‘see’ him, though, since the man’s magic senses permeated the room. Leon found it a good sign even though his Chancellor’s aura was weak and flickering.

“Leon…” Iron-Striker croaked, sounding like he could barely muster the energy to speak. “Please forgive me… I would rise, but…”

He struggled a bit to raise himself up a bit, but without arms or legs, it was almost painful for Leon to watch, let alone for Iron-Striker to attempt.

“No, no,” Leon hurriedly said as he swiftly crossed the room and laid a hand on what little remained of Iron-Striker’s shoulder while trying his best not to flinch at the instinctive aversion that prickled at him from seeing someone so maimed. “Rest. We’re alone, no need to see to courtesies. Hells, after all this, I think you’ve earned a little rest.”

To his relief and great encouragement, Iron-Striker sputtered out a few chuckles. “Right… right,” he murmured, his voice still frail.

Leon pulled up a chair once he was sure Iron-Striker was lying back down. Once he sat down, though, both of them fell silent for a long moment. Leon, after taking that time to think over what he wanted to say, broke it first, deciding to just keep it simple.

“I’m sorry, Iron-Striker.”

Iron-Striker sighed deeply before asking, “Whatever… for, Leon?”

Leon closed his eyes in a futile attempt to cover his rising shame. It was uncanny and disturbing to see what remained of Iron-Striker, even if covered by his bed’s blankets. What Leon found harder to stomach, however, was something else.

“What happened to you… was my fault. As your King, it is my job to protect my people, and while I wouldn’t need long to list all of my virtues, nor a particularly large piece of paper, I pride myself on taking care of those I’m responsible for.”

He paused a moment to consider his next words, and Iron-Striker took that moment to jump in.

“It’s not your fault, Leon,” he gasped, his voice sounding more forceful yet still nowhere near healthy or normal. “This is his fault, not yours. Do not blame yourself, I certainly don’t, despite what he said.”

The allusions to the Sunlit Emperor were spat with the most vigor Leon had yet seen from him in this conversation, and Leon felt freezing spikes in his killing intent when he spoke the words.

“I lost,” Iron-Striker continued. “That’s it. Everything else is on him… He came to the Sword… He attacked our positions… He spent hours cutting away at me… and ranting about you… You… did nothing… but defend my… our people… Do not look at me… and think this your fault… I find… no fault in anything you’ve done…”

Leon bitterly smiled. “Well, I can be a bit of a greedy person, so I hope you don’t mind if I nab some of that blame. I certainly feel shame enough for all that’s happened. You were defending our people while I was chasing one of my Clan’s old arks. You were doing the honorable thing while I was acting out of pride.”

Iron-Striker groaned, and though it was frail, Leon could still tell that it was more out of frustration than pain.

“You’re nearing forty, you’re still young enough… that this is understandable.” With a rather impatient sigh, Iron-Striker rolled his head in lieu of being able to roll his eyes. “Let this one… go… I am centuries old… and I am not so petty… as to unfairly blame anyone for my own… failings. You were… seeing to vital strategic… assets… We both were acting… in our people’s best interests… Don’t make excuses. Don’t blame yourself. This is all on him. My only regret… is that this war will likely be over… before I get a round two.”

Leon chuckled. “We’ll have to see about that.” He noticed that Iron-Striker was starting to breathe hard and rough, so he decided to wrap things up. “Anyway, we can talk later, I just wanted to check in with you. See how you were doing.”

“Fine, I’m doing fine,” Iron-Striker replied before his weak tone turned a bit cheeky. “I’ve half a mind… to get up and dance… to prove it… But, well…” He jerked his head at his lower body—what was left of it, anyway. “Perhaps tomorrow…”

With a growing smile at Iron-Striker’s ability to make jokes about his condition, Leon said, “Maybe. Thanks for the words, Iron-Striker. I have some things to see to, so rest easy. We’ll make sure you make a full recovery, no matter what.”

Iron-Striker smiled tiredly. “Thank you, Leon. I look forward… to returning to service.”

With that, Leon left Iron-Striker to himself. He was a little cheered up, though his shame at having failed to save Iron-Striker before Sunlit had inflicted such pain hadn’t diminished.

‘Just another reason to kill that bastard, and ensure that Iron-Striker recovers…’

As Leon closed Iron-Striker’s door behind him, he felt his heart harden for what was about to come. The Imperial forces were on the run, and it didn’t seem like it would take much to kick them off the Sword for good.

And then they’d be taking this war to the Sunlit Empire itself.

---

Sunlit stood on the balcony of the solar in the palace he’d been occupying since taking the first port city on the Sword. He was staring northward, watching the ships come and go from the many piers down in the port.

They’d been coming and going like this for days now, but up until just a couple days ago, they’d been ferrying supplies and reinforcements to the island, whereas now, they were picking up supplies and troops to ferry them back to the continent.

The Sunlit position on the Sword had become untenable. Their army was large, but they’d lost too many strategic assets.

Such was the opinion of many of Sunlit’s generals, at least. They still had a few ninth-tier mages left, along with Sunlit himself, and the Thunderbird heavy cruiser and destroyer. They had few arks remaining to support them, but they did still have a formidable navy in theater. They had plenty of assets to continue the campaign.

Or so argued others among Sunlit’s general staff.

And argue they did. Ever since Sunlit’s return and the scale of the losses his raid had incurred became known, his military advisors had practically locked themselves in their conference room and been arguing for hours about what to do.

So far, Sunlit himself hadn’t yet weighed in on the matter. He was closely monitoring what was being said in the room using his magic senses, but he hadn’t yet made a physical appearance, nor made his thoughts on the matter known.

He didn’t truly have many thoughts in his head about the matter, though. Primal, wordless emotions flooded through him whenever he thought of the many humiliations he’d had to suffer through simply because he was trying to claim his birthright from an up-jumped northern bastard, such as indignation, fury, and murderous intent.

However, out of all the emotions he felt, humiliation was the most intense. He’d been forced to flee once again despite having gotten the upper hand against Leon Raime. Had he not, he might’ve been killed, and that would’ve ended his line. He had no children despite his lifestyle, no one to carry on his glorious legacy.

As he fought to remain in control of himself, to not lose his mind in the wrath that flooded his body, he turned his attention from the ships to his general staff. The order had been given to start some level of evacuation since their strategic situation had deteriorated so much, and that had sparked the initial arguments. The general that had ordered it technically had the authority to do so, with the Sunlit Emperor himself the only one who could countermand it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t receive strong pushback.

“… with our tails between our legs, like beaten dogs!” one general, Metellus, shouted. “How can we do this?! It sounds to me like you don’t believe in the righteousness of our cause! What kind of men are we if we abandon our duty and cede the island to the Sky Devils?!”

His words were directed at Deucalion, the strong and handsome man sitting at one end of the long conference table, the man who had ordered the evacuation of the island.

“When positions become untenable, they must be abandoned,” Deucalion growled, his low tone a warning that the other general didn’t seem keen on taking.

“What positions are untenable?” he shouted, and not for the first time. “We can dig in and hold the line! We still have offensive capabilities! We still have our glorious Emperor, who can single-handedly crush the Sky Devil menace as easily as squashing a bug!”

Sunlit’s lips twitched upward in response. He’d always liked Metellus. A most agreeable man, Sunlit had fast-tracked him to command fairly recently.

“We’d just lose more troops, and at the end of the day, we’d lose those positions, too,” Deucalion coolly responded. “The island will still be here in a few years. For now, we ought to return home and commission new arks. Preserve the strength we have for a new campaign instead of grinding down our reserves in a pointless—”

“To abandon our posts in a time of war is nothing less than dereliction of duty!” Metellus shouted back, apparently having finally lost patience. His eighth-tier aura rose and became laced with killing intent. He sprang to his feet, a blade appearing in his hand. He pointed the weapon at Deucalion and shouted, “You are nothing less than a traitor and a coward! Our Emperor himself is on this island! We cannot abandon it!”

Another general rose in support, stating, “Arcaion was one of your proteges, wasn’t he, Commander? And was it not more of your men who were to aid our Emperor in this latest disaster? Our invincible Emperor could never have lost if he were not always surrounded by fools like you and those that follow you.”

Sunlit began to smile more openly.

‘I guess I was wrong,’ he thought to himself with some amusement. ‘Some of them really do recognize my brilliance. Maybe they’re not all in need of a purge…’

He was about to head down to the conference room himself, his hand already adjusting his mask to ensure that his aching scars wouldn’t be noticeable, when Deucalion angrily rose from his seat, along with nearly half of the other generals, all clearly on his side.

“I AM A LOYAL SERVANT OF THE SUNLIT EMPIRE!” Deucalion roared, his status as one of the last ninth-tier mages on the island being made apparent as his aura effortlessly suppressed Metellus’. “I WILL CHALLENGE ANY WHO DARE TO QUESTION MY LOYALTY AND HONOR TO A DUEL TO THE DEATH!”

Deucalion’s hard eyes scanned the assembled group of generals, most of those who seemed inclined towards Metellus’ line of thinking now appearing a little more cowed, causing Sunlit to add them to the list of those to be purged later.

“All I do is for the glory of our Empire and Emperor,” Deucalion said in a more even, conciliatory tone, though his eyes still burned when they landed upon Metellus. “Our Empire is best served ensuring that her sons return alive. We will return in a few years and crush the Sky Devils. But to guarantee that victory, we must return home. That is my decision, and it will remain my decision until and unless the Emperor himself countermands those orders.”

With this expression of power finished, Deucalion slowly returned to his seat, and Metellus did likewise, though in a far greater huff.

While Sunlit liked Metellus, he found himself agreeing with Deucalion somewhat. If nothing else, the disagreement showed him just how incompetent his generals were. It was all their fault that his Empire was losing; if they’d simply done their jobs better, he would’ve killed Leon Raime and ended the war right then and there.

It was all his generals’ fault.

‘Yes, it’s all their fault,’ Sunlit thought, his face twisting as much as the scarred flesh could in a terrible scowl, his mind turning to his other allies. ‘The other Empires, too. All of them, all of them refusing to send their support, leaving us to face the Sky Devils alone. Ilion and Evergold even threw in with them… And the Pegasi, those cock-sucking barbarians can’t even build a fucking ship right!’

He conjured a shard of obsidian, the very same one that his newest ‘ally’, the demon named Amon, had used to contact him in the first place.

‘And you, you little cunt-shunner. Your demons were worth less than seed sprayed over a whore’s back. Couldn’t do a damn thing right!’

Sunlit wrathfully crushed the obsidian shard, but the thing burst into dark red flame, scorching his fingers as the shard’s bits turned to sand and scattered into the wind. For just a second, Sunlit thought he saw a pair of burning eyes in the fire glaring back at him, wrathful and promising suffering and death, but they were gone as fast as they came, and he concluded that he’d just been seeing things.

Regardless, there would be no more alliance with the demons.

He smiled as he thought about returning home. It would give him the opportunity to get rid of all the incompetents around him. Once he was finished, he’d face Leon Raime again, and that time, he’d win. With nothing holding him back, that boy would finally die, and his blood would belong to Sunlit, and Sunlit could take his rightful place in the universe.

And he already knew how he’d make that happen…