"Your Majesty, what shall we do next?"
"Sweep away every vestige of the old age and reshape a new order."
Sophia's cold, clear voice soothed Irene's somewhat fearful heart.
Though she had slaughtered her way across the battlefield in Her Majesty's wake and had seen the cruelty of war firsthand, the terror of being in another world—of having nearly been buried under an army of ten thousand just moments ago—still crept up on her quietly.
The future felt unavoidably hazy.
Even now, after conquering several kingdoms, Mason's troop count still fell short of Olan's. And what about the other kingdoms?
What about the greatest of them all—the Imperial Capital?
Was their current war, in the eyes of that mighty empire, nothing more than children playing house?
She had never seen it, but Her Majesty had.
It was precisely for this reason that Her Majesty had been so cautious before, careful never to draw the Imperial Capital's gaze.
Yet fate—and Olan's greed—had pushed Mason, had pushed Her Majesty, to this very point.
And so, Irene's gaze had lost its focus.
But Her Majesty's words pulled her back.
That was right. She had the strongest, most righteous sovereign in this world.
If they swept away all the rules of the old era, the days ahead would be bathed in radiant sunlight.
Thinking thus, Irene's gaze grew resolute.
Go to hell, old era.
The smoke and flames of the Black Stone Fortress, in the end, became a scab of a scar along the border of the Olan Duchy.
Back at the Temporary Palace in Vala, Sophia didn't even bother to brush off the nonexistent dust from her elaborate black gown before throwing herself into a new round of asset settlement and order reorganization.
The Duchy of Vala's several open-pit refined iron and red copper mines—those reputed to be the richest in the Northern border—had now all been planted with Mason's Black Rose banners.
Daphne led her people to rebuild basic medical stations atop the ruins of the temples on the outskirts of the mining region. With her warm Holy Light and cheap yet efficient potions, she swiftly bought over those laborers whose families had been waiting to die in the mine shafts for generations.
Bardess's five thousand advance troops served entirely as foremen and order-keepers, tossing every old noble overseer who tried to stir up trouble straight into the newly-fired smelting furnaces.
Gazing at the dozens of pages of mineral reserve reports compiled by Willow, Sophia sat upright in the study of the Temporary Palace. The cool moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling window onto her long silver hair, while her pale gold pupils swirled with a dispassionate, cold-eyed shrewdness.
With these metal reserves, Mason's industrial output could be elevated by three full tiers.
Irene's black muskets could be mass-produced to standardized specifications, and efficient farming tools could be distributed to every newly-reclaimed village.
Sophia's fingertip tapped lightly against the desk, producing a crisp, rhythmic sound.
But production capacity alone was not enough.
These things needed a rational channel of circulation—one entirely under her control.
That Tina was no fool like Una. If those fifty thousand heavy cavalry in her grasp truly went mad, it would be an unnecessary drain on Mason's growing credit system.
In a model of absolute rationality, any problem that could be solved with a sheet of paper had no need to consume an expensive alchemy bullet.
"Willow."
Sophia spoke without lifting her head, her voice cool and even.
The door curtain in the shadows of the study stirred slightly. Willow, having changed into a sharp purple administrative skirt-suit, glided in like a phantom, that gentle, meticulous polite smile ever-present at the corners of her lips.
"Your Majesty, this servant is here. The asset liquidation of the Vala old nobility is mostly complete. The remaining impurities are being cleaned out by Commander Bardess."
"Those don't matter."
Sophia set down the report and drew from a drawer a thick, snow-white sheet of paper imprinted with faint rose patterns.
This was a specialty paper Irene had created—mixing discarded alchemy residues with fine wood fibers and refining it through over a hundred experiments.
This paper was impervious to water and fire, possessed extreme toughness, and bore a special ink coating that, given this world's level of Alchemy, was extraordinarily difficult to forge.
At the center of the paper bloomed a sultry, full-blossomed Black Rose, beneath which, in an elegant yet imperious script, was written:
Mason Duchy Black Rose Universal Note.
And on the reverse of the note was densely inscribed the credit pledge of the Mason Duchy:
This note is pegged to Mason Duchy's standard labor credit, sweetened Black Bread, refined salt, efficient farming implements, and basic medical services at the Black Rose Clinics.
"Willow, take the news of Queen Tina's banquet invitation, Princess Una's poisoning, and how they ambushed me outside Black Stone Fortress with ten thousand troops—spread it all through our existing black market channels, exactly as it happened.
You may stoke the flames a bit, proclaiming their stupid failure."
Sophia gently pushed the note forward, sliding it before Willow.
"At the same time, announce that the Mason Duchy is establishing an independent credit system.
From today onward, all output from the Vala mining region, as well as every high-yield-ratio good Mason Duchy can supply, will only be settled with this Black Rose note."
Willow stared at that weightless slip of paper, and the gentleness in her eyes was, in an instant, replaced by absolute shock and the fervor that followed.
She was too clever—clever enough that she needed no further riddle-like explanation from Sophia to see through the terrifying power hidden behind this single sheet of paper, a power capable of chewing the entire old era to pieces!
By the gods above... Her Majesty isn't issuing a new currency at all.
She is publishing a new world order!
That foolish Tina is still measuring wealth with those clunky, easily-forged old gold coins, while Her Majesty has leapt clean past the metal standard, defining the value of paper with irreplaceable survival necessities and high-output efficiency that the old era cannot even comprehend!
Black Bread, beans, salt, mosquito-repellent incense, soap...
In this Northern border swarming with venomous insects and famine, these things were Divine Miracles!
As long as everyone, subconsciously, acknowledged that only this paper could buy Divine Miracles, then the mountains of gold and silver in Tina's hands would, in an instant, become piles of worthless scrap iron!
Her Majesty wouldn't need to deploy those black tubes. All she had to do was lightly flick this slip of paper, and the fifty thousand heavy cavalry in Tina's hands—even those great lords of the Imperial Capital—would crumble from within on their own, because they couldn't buy sweetened Black Bread or healing potions!
This bloodless slaughter through credit settlement...
It was even more spine-chilling than Delilah's greatsword or Irene's fire bottles!
Your Majesty, you truly are the sole god in this world who can see through everything and redefine order!
Willow received the weightless note with hands trembling slightly, her voice carrying a trace of irrepressible exhilaration and reverence:
"This servant... this servant shall go and see it done at once.
The credit foundation of the Vala mining region has been laid firm. This servant promises that before Queen Tina can even react, every living soul across the entire Northern border shall know of this rose-stamped credit Your Majesty has bestowed upon them!"
The next day, accompanied by the spread of the truth of the Black Stone Fortress's "Hongmen Banquet," the scandalous tales of Queen Tina's humiliating bullet wound and Princess Una collapsing from venom fermented in the Northern black markets.
A weightless "Black Rose One-Credit Note," like some unnameable plague, slipped smoothly through the underclass populations of Olan Duchy and several surrounding weaker kingdoms.
The merchants had already tasted the sweetness from the earlier gemstone-exchange notes, which still circulated to this day.
Now, with the addition of these new notes, they would only put them to use with greater fluency.
In a village called Iron Hammer Town on the fringes of the Olan Duchy, a Mason transport carriage covered in black waterproof tarpaulin and drawn by four magnificent, towering warhorses pulled silently into the back courtyard of a somewhat weathered black market inn.
Around the carriage, twenty soldiers clad in the advance forces' leather armor and bearing black muskets stood with stern, cold faces, surrounding the carriage so tightly that not a drop of water could pass through.
Delilah's iron-tower-like frame stood at the head of the carriage. Her dark red eyes swept unfocused across the surrounding buildings, her impassive expression like that of someone walking into a patch of harmless wild grass.
"Lam, the goods have arrived.
Her Majesty, understanding how hard survival is for the impurities of the Northern border, has specially brought you this season's extra rations."
The Mason soldier captain at the head tossed a finger-thick stub of Black Rose mosquito incense—exuding its costly, calming fragrance—onto the table.
Before him sat a somewhat hunched, shifty-eyed man named Lam, the sole old-market overseer Queen Tina had stationed in Iron Hammer Town.
Old Pete looked at the stub of incense, then glanced at the dozen or so sacks of pristine refined salt stamped with the rose-shadow pattern beside it, and the boxes upon boxes of sweetened Black Bread giving off the sweet aroma of wheat. He gulped audibly.
In this damnable Northern border where venomous insects ran rampant and refined salt was more precious than gold, these things were life itself!
Especially after Queen Tina, in order to expand her fifty thousand cavalry, had drained all the resources from the surrounding territories, these lower-tier ducal lands could barely sustain survival anymore.
"These... these things—Her Majesty Tina previously said they were to be settled at double the gold coin price."
Old Lam ventured cautiously.
"Tina's face isn't worth a damn."
The Mason soldier captain cut him off impatiently, reached into his coat, and pulled out a thick stack of Black Rose notes wafting a faint rose perfume, slamming them heavily onto the table.
"Her Majesty has decreed.
From now on, Vala's iron ore, Mason's sweetened Black Bread, refined salt, all foodstuffs—even Saint Daphne's healing medicines—will only be settled with these notes.
The old gold coins in your hands are just face-saving trinkets for mortals.
But this—this is the right Her Majesty has bestowed upon you: the right to lift your head and see the road ahead."
Old Pete rubbed his eyes in disbelief, staring at the sultry, full-blossomed Black Rose on the paper and the clear line of credit pledge on its reverse.
"You're saying... as long as I use this paper, I can buy this entire cartload of life-saving goods?
No gold coins needed?"
"No gold coins needed."
The soldier captain pushed up the beret on his head with a touch of pride.
"Provided, of course, that you first use what you have in hand to exchange for this paper from me.
You can use the gold and silver coins that fool Tina issued you, or the leather and herbs you've hoarded over the years to exchange.
Then you can use these to exchange for food.
The ratios are aligned. No haggling."
Old Lam was utterly stunned.
Looking at that stack of notes glimmering and giving off their faint fragrance under the glass lamplight, looking at the smiles on the faces of those Mason veterans—smiles no longer clouded with confusion...
Now, watching Hart and these advance forces, why did it feel like they were living more decently than back when they had been dogs for Olan?
Those black muskets, this miraculous incense and refined salt—items that wouldn't even appear on the tables of the old empire's princes and nobles...
What Mason commanded was not military might at all, but another kind of civilization—one that these mortal folk of the Northern border could not even dare to imagine, an era-crossing civilization!
If the old gold coins in our hands are, in Her Majesty's eyes, merely scrap iron to be smelted...
If our so-called invincible plate armor, which we take such pride in, is in the face of those black tubes of hers nothing but an absurd joke...
If following that life-demanding woman Tina has brought us nothing but hunger and grain-requisition decrees...
If we cast aside this laughable scrap of old-era pride and follow this silver-haired queen...
Then is it truly possible to obtain those things called notes, exchange them for Black Bread, and ensure our families never go hungry again?
Then this so-called face of the duchy—who needs it!
"You're right, brother."
Old Lam swallowed a wild gulp, sweeping the Olan gold coins off the table like trash, and clutching that stack of Black Rose notes to his chest:
"Her Majesty Tina wants my gold coins and my life. But Her Majesty Sophia—she gives me the means to save my life!
From this day forward, the old market of Iron Hammer Town places its full trust in Mason's credit!
Anyone who dares insult this overseer with old gold coins, this old Lam will be the first to twist his head right off his shoulders!"
This routine sort of betrayal-turned-fervor became, over the following month, the dullest yet most efficient spectacle along the Olan border.
Previously, the peasants of the surrounding territories had felt that to live was merely to dodge venomous insects and hunger, to wait for death beneath the dignity of the nobles.
But now, watching the Mason folk with their energetic, no-longer-bewildered smiles, watching how those slips of paper could not only be exchanged for life-saving food, but could even make the once-arrogant middle-tier Olan knights privately beg for notes from these lower-ranked advance soldiers—because they couldn't buy mosquito incense or salt...
What Mason wielded was not a new form of military power at all, but another kind of civilization entirely.
Now, in the height of midsummer, the Northern border had rarely been blessed with such a continuous stretch of fine, clear weather.
Because Queen Tina's siege at the Black Stone Fortress had ended in absolute failure—not only losing all the royal house's face on the border black markets, but also collapsing the supply blockade against Mason entirely—...
Without those heavy cavalry glaring along the border, Mason's homeland-stockpiled high-quality wheat seeds—enough to fill several carriages—were transported unhindered along the trade routes onto the lands of Yurilland and Vala.
While Olan's Queen Tina was still bedridden in her Royal City, suffering through her recovery from the lead bullet that had shattered her refined-steel arm guard—too occupied to mind external affairs—Mason's army and civilians from top to bottom were unleashing a level of productivity never before seen.
Those once-arrogant Yurilland prisoners of war, and the Vala heavy infantry the Grand Duke had taken such pride in—under the soothing influence of the labor credit system and sweet, sugared Black Bread—had long since been transformed into the most obedient, most diligent labor force.
They cast off their heavy, meaningless iron armor, and, swinging the refined-iron hoes that Irene had remade from scrapped armor, joyfully tilled and sowed across Yurilland's vast and fertile black soil.
It wasn't only the soldiers of the conquered nations who had become utterly devoted to Sophia. As the credit of the Black Rose notes spread, several surrounding weaker territories—suffering under tyranny and famine—saw their starving refugees and even entire deserter units begin crossing the borders in droves, flocking to swear allegiance to the legendary silver-haired queen who could supposedly fill bellies and let people live like human beings.
All told, the total number of Mason soldiers now stationed within Yurilland had swelled, at a positively terrifying rate, to a full thirty thousand.
This army of thirty thousand had its daily life arranged with a precision tighter than the most exquisitely-crafted clockwork.
Early morning.
Just as the sky began to pale, Delilah, without fail, would stand at the most prominent spot on the parade ground, leading all thirty thousand through morning inspection and special training.
Her broad heavy greatsword, wide as a door panel, needed only to be slammed once against the ground, and even the most rebellious Yurilland bone-breakers would obediently fall into ruler-straight lines.
And by evening, the soldiers would sit on the grass, chewing on Black Bread, and listening fervently to Third Princess Victoria's hour-long brainwashing lectures.
Victoria's elegant tones and her sermons on Mason's new order were stripping away, inch by inch, the lingering old-era loyalty in these thirty thousand men, reshaping it into absolute worship of Sophia.
Standing on the high platform, Victoria gazed down at the dark mass of thirty thousand soldiers below—their eyes fervent and crystal-clear—and her heart filled with astonishment.
She had once believed that rule required the most elaborate ceremonies and the most cruel punishments. Yet Sophia, with only a slip of paper, a sack of salt, and a few plain words, had transformed these blades—once belonging to enemy nations—wholly into the cornerstone of Mason.
On the day the final batch of premium barley and wheat seeds from Mason's homeland arrived at the Temporary Palace, the sky stretched cloudless for ten thousand miles.
Sophia sat at the head of the spacious, bright Council Hall of the Yurilland Temporary Palace.
She still wore that well-tailored casual outfit. Her long silver hair fell neatly to one side, and her pale gold pupils reflected the distant farmlands beyond the window where reclamation work was unfolding at a fevered pitch.
"Your Majesty, everyone is assembled."
Willow stood to one side, gently offering the reminder.
Sophia gave a slight nod and lifted her gaze forward.
Irene, Delilah, Bardess, Daphne, and Victoria—who had just finished her brainwashing lecture and whose complexion remained a touch pale as though just recovered from a serious illness, yet whose spirit was extraordinarily exhilarated—now stood neatly arrayed in the center of the Council Hall.
"Your Majesty! The last batch of seeds from the Royal City has all been stored away!"
Bardess stepped forward first, her massive voice rumbling so loudly that even the marble columns of the hall seemed to hum.
She rubbed her hands eagerly, her dark-red face brimming with undisguised joy.
"Per yer orders, I've sent all them Vala POWs and the newcomer refugees down to the various reclamation districts.
With my advance forces watchin' over 'em, their movements line up as neat as if measured with a ruler!
Anyone who dares till even an inch less, I'll punish 'em by makin' 'em go without their salted broth tomorrow!"
"Well done."
Sophia responded mildly, then turned her gaze to Irene beside her.
The moment Irene heard her name called, she bounced forward a step, her sapphire-blue eyes glittering with smug brilliance:
"Your Majesty, Your Majesty! I haven't been idle either!
Those wrecked iron armors we seized from Vala and Olan—heavy as turtle shells, so cumbersome the wearers couldn't even move in battle.
I took it upon myself to toss them all into the smelting furnaces, and according to the blueprints you showed me, I reforged them into the latest model: three-row linked heavy plowing tools!
Now a single ordinary plow-ox can till ten mu of land in a single day!
When those Yurilland folks saw the contraption, their eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets, and they cried out that it was a divine artifact bestowed by the gods!"
Listening to Irene's boastful report, the corners of Sophia's delicate lips curled upward in the shallowest of arcs.
Converting excess defensive military-industrial capacity into foundational agricultural productivity—this was the most rational logic of resource circulation.
"And the medical and pharmaceutical reserves?"
Sophia turned toward Daphne, who was clad in the pure white Saint's robes.
Daphne smiled gently, pressing her hands together in a bow:
"Reporting to Your Majesty, thanks to the new distillation apparatus Irene built, the disinfectants and pain-relief powders we mass-produce have already been distributed to every encampment.
The newly-arrived refugees mostly came in carrying various chills and hidden injuries, but under the care of Holy Light and the potions, over ninety-five percent have already been restored to working condition.
Every morning at dawn, they pray in the direction of the Temporary Palace, giving thanks for your benevolence."
After listening to everyone's reports, Victoria, standing at the edge, slowly fanned the ivory fan in her hand.
Those golden eyes lingered for a long while on Sophia's face—so calm and untouched by mortal fire—and a flicker of complex admiration passed through their depths.
Ever since that late night when Sophia had resolved, in the coldest and most direct manner, the misunderstanding over the glass vial that had tangled in her heart for over a decade, Victoria had felt her perception of this younger sister undergo a complete restructuring.
She no longer measured Sophia through the schemes of the old era, but had thoroughly cast herself into the logic of Mason's highest administrative level.
"Your Majesty."
Victoria stepped forward, wrapping her Black Rose cloak more tightly about her, her voice carrying a gentleness that came from the depths of her heart.
"These thirty thousand have not merely been healed in body—their souls have now been thoroughly branded with the mark of the Black Rose.
At last night's lecture, when I only mentioned in passing that Olan's greed was obstructing the growth of grain, those very people who only two days ago were swearing loyalty to their old masters tore their clothes in fury on the spot, vowing to defend Mason's wheat fields."
Victoria laughed softly, a sly glint flashing in her eyes.
"However, thirty thousand mouths consuming food and sweetened Black Bread each day is no small figure.
Though the Black Rose notes are aggressively siphoning resources from the surrounding black markets, if Olan takes another excessively physical action before autumn harvest, this fragile order we have just established may suffer unnecessary disturbance."
The hall fell instantly silent.
Delilah pressed her hand to her longsword, her dark red eyes contracting sharply, and said coldly:
"If that woman Tina dares to stir again, this servant will cut her head off directly this time. No more chances for her to hide among the crowd."
Meeting the gazes of those around her—each different in expression, yet all written with absolute trust and fervor—Sophia rose slowly from her throne.
The elaborate folds of her long gown swept across the polished marble floor with a soft rustle. She walked to the enormous map of the Northern border, and with her right hand, traced lightly across its surface with her slender fingertip, coming to rest, neither off-mark nor wide of it, precisely on the border between Olan's Royal City and the central Imperial Capital.
"Tina cannot undertake any high-consumption military maneuvers in the short term.
And it isn't only because of her recovery."
Sophia's tone remained level, cold and clear as a north wind sweeping across an ice plain.
"According to the intelligence Willow has gathered, over sixty percent of the actual purchasing power in Olan's national treasury has, by now, been quietly diluted by our notes.
Her soldiers, holding Olan gold coins, cannot buy even a clean sack of wheat in Iron Hammer Town or any of the surrounding old markets."
Sophia turned around, and at that moment her pale gold pupils radiated a terrifying gravity that ruled over all:
"A decrepit old empire that cannot even convert its own military pay into actual living supplies—its fifty thousand cavalry, in my ledger, are nothing more than a string of bad debts about to be written off.
Since the seeds have been planted, then from here on, Mason's logic will no longer be confined to defense."
Sophia surveyed her core leadership before her, each word falling clearly and imperiously upon their hearts:
"On the day of autumn harvest, I do not wish to see a single old banner—one that does not belong to Mason—still flying anywhere across the map of the Northern border."
The hall, in that instant, was struck by a deathly silence that ignited into flame.
Irene's breath quickened in an instant, her sapphire-blue eyes flooded with fervor.
Delilah and Bardess straightened their spines ramrod-stiff, the spirit of battle within them all but bursting from their flesh.
Victoria stared fixedly at the profile of Sophia's face, her fingers gripping the ivory fan trembling slightly from sheer excitement.
Sophia was so bold—and bold was precisely what she liked.
They knew that on this midsummer afternoon, this silver-haired queen had formally issued the final reckoning declaration against this rotting old world.
Within the Council Hall, the thick parchment map unfolded fully across the wall.
This vast and complete map of the Northern border—gathered and integrated in secret by Delilah and Willow over the course of months—was several times more precise than any military map any kingdom had ever possessed.
Upon it, not only the borders and fortresses of each nation were marked with red and blue crystals, but even water sources, black-market smuggling routes, and undeveloped hidden mineral veins were sketched out in meticulous detail.
Sophia paced slowly to the map, her slender, pale fingertip drifting lightly across the intricate lines.
As her hand moved, the breathing of everyone in the hall instinctively softened.
"The Northern border, as it stands today, is essentially a scattered pile of sand—severely lacking fluidity, its underlying logic completely rotted away."
Sophia turned, her pale gold pupils appearing cold and crystal-clear under the candlelight:
"Olan, through high-pressure rule and pure martial intimidation, has on the surface conquered fifteen surrounding nations.
But this so-called conquest is nothing more than stationing soldiers as garrisons and squeezing taxes in a manically inefficient style of management.
And beyond Olan's sphere of influence, there remain over forty neutral kingdoms that have not yet picked a side."
Sophia's fingertip tapped along the edges of the map:
"These forty-some kingdoms vary in size.
Some have fertile lands and deep heritage, roughly the size of our current City of Yurilland.
Some are extremely impoverished, totaling no more than two or three villages all together—in the logic of the old era, they could only count as cushion-zones in the games of the great powers."
Everyone in the hall stared at the map, especially Irene, whose sapphire-blue eyes brimmed with astonishment.
My goodness—aside from the Imperial Capital and Olan, there are still over forty kingdoms!
Though it sounded like a great many, in truth they were simply territorial fragments large and small.
Under the rules of the old era, to subjugate all these places—even at the rate of one per year—would take decades, and one misstep could plunge them into an endless quagmire of pacification warfare.
But in Her Majesty's eyes... none of this counts as anything at all.
Thinking about it now, that was indeed true. They already had weapons, fire bottles, black muskets, grain, and troops.
Conquering these kingdoms would not be too hard. What was hard was Olan and the Imperial Capital.
And perhaps the resistance of small kingdoms banding together.
Sophia, composed and unhurried, took the clear tea Daphne handed her and sipped:
"The geographical disparities are too pronounced.
Among these forty-some small kingdoms, seven or eight border the sea, and the rest are scattered across plains, treacherous mountains, or rotting forests that never see the sun.
Some are very far from one another, with intelligence almost entirely blocked.
Others are pressed tightly together, and the slightest disturbance will trigger chain-reactions of panic."
Sophia set down her cup, her voice—anchored by absolute rationality—carrying not a trace of mortal warmth:
"Therefore, my plan is to launch precise attacks following the trail of resource dependence."
"Those seven or eight coastal kingdoms hold the only salt routes and a portion of maritime trade.
But their grain output is extremely low, and in the deepest winter, they even have to buy moldy wheat at exorbitant prices from Olan.
Over the next three months, Willow will dump sweetened Black Bread and Black Rose notes into their markets through the trade routes en masse.
When their dinner tables are filled with Mason's food, and their pockets are filled with Mason's paper—those few coastal kings will understand: if they don't bow to Mason, they won't survive the first snow of this winter."
"As for those micro-kingdoms with only two or three villages, send the black market overseers in directly with goods to set up shop.
Old-era gold coins are turning into scrap iron there, while Black Rose notes can buy refined salt and Daphne's pain-relief powders.
No army needed. Their own peasants will surround the lord's manor on their own and demand annexation into Mason."
Listening to Sophia's almost ruthless yet supremely efficient arrangement, Victoria, sitting to one side, gently unfurled the ivory fan in her hand. Her beautiful golden eyes shimmered, brimming with near-fevered admiration.
She folded the fan, gracefully stepping forward, and supplemented in that sweet, deeply alluring tone of hers:
"Your Majesty's vision is indeed loftier than the highest temple of the Northern border.
However, based on my years of dealing with those hypocritical nobles in the Imperial Capital, the reason these uncommitted small kingdoms have managed to survive until now is because of a kind of huddling-together logic of the weak."
Victoria extended her pale, slender finger, tapping at the marker of a small mountain kingdom on the map. A teasing smile curled at the corners of her lips:
"These mountain and forest kingdoms are extremely close to one another, and their marriage alliances are tangled and intricate.
If Your Majesty only strikes one or two among them, the rest, gripped by fear of death, might even send surrender letters directly to Olan or the Imperial Capital, begging for the protection of their armies.
This is an unstable factor for the grand design we are contemplating."
Victoria turned her head, her golden eyes locked unblinkingly on Sophia:
"And so, my proposal is to divide and reshape.
Once the seeds are sown and the Black Rose notes have utterly infiltrated, I will personally meet and negotiate with the diplomats and envoys of these forty-some kingdoms.
I will tell them that Olan's fifty thousand cavalry can barely feed themselves, and the Imperial Capital doesn't care a whit whether these Northern border mortals live or die.
The weak are not what's frightening—what's frightening is picking the wrong side.
As long as we grant one or two of them an official identity card as Mason's senior agent, the rest, vying for the surviving slots, will turn on each other from within.
Once they've exhausted themselves through mutual destruction, Your Majesty need only sweep in to finish the job. Nothing could be more elegant."
Victoria's smile was sweet, but standing nearby, Bardess couldn't help shrinking her neck.
Her Highness the Third Princess's method was downright vicious—truly worthy of being a sister sharing Her Majesty's bloodline. That brain of hers... even with a horsewhip, I couldn't keep up.
Did this count as that "hunger marketing" Miss Irene had mentioned before? It probably amounted to about the same thing.
Bardess felt her brain wasn't quite up to the task. Her own idea would have been to simply march through and beat them one by one, but she also knew that beating them one by one would waste too much time, manpower, and money.
"Your Majesty's and the Third Princess's strategies are both flawless, but if we encounter madmen who don't follow logic, pure edged steel is still required to set them straight."
Delilah, who had been silent all along, suddenly spoke.
She pressed her hand to her ruby-hilted sword and strode forward. Her dark red eyes held not the faintest retreat as she struck down hard upon several treacherous mountain passes on the map:
"Whether economic devouring or the dividing of hearts, these thirty thousand soldiers who have just submitted must undergo a true baptism of blood before the rotted roots of the old empire can be fully washed clean.
This past month of special training, I have observed that those old regular forces of the mountain and forest kingdoms, though their weapons are backward, are extraordinarily skilled at exploiting complex terrain to set ambushes and wage drawn-out skirmishes.
If our rear supply carriages are attacked in those places, the credit we have so painstakingly established may begin to show cracks."
Delilah stared squarely at Sophia, her tone blunt and resolute—the most essential understanding of war:
"Therefore, while the economic invasion is underway, this servant will personally lead the troops and divide the thirty thousand soldiers into three corps.
Ten thousand will work with Bardess to seal the border line between Olan and Vala, ensuring that the recuperating Tina cannot move a single grain of wheat out.
Ten thousand, I will personally lead as the absolute mobile cleansing force.
Should any small kingdom dare to pull tricks while Her Highness Victoria is negotiating, this servant will utterly carve through their city gates before they can complete their physical reaction!
The remaining ten thousand will garrison Yurilland to safeguard Your Majesty and Miss Irene's production work."
Delilah's words landed with thunderous weight, perfectly sealing Sophia's financial grand design and Victoria's political maneuvering within the most unyielding wall of steel.
Within the Council Hall, four utterly distinct wills had, at this moment, reached the most perfect resonance.
Sophia sat upright at the head of the chamber, gazing upon her subordinates—those who had completely cast away the rules of the old era and thrown themselves wholeheartedly into the reshaping of the new order. In her pale gold pupils, that wisp of coldness finally melted into the silent harmony of one who held victory firmly in her grasp.
"Very good."
Sophia rose slowly to her feet, her long black gown swaying faintly in the breeze:
"The assets have been fully tallied, and the rhythms of defense and offense have been aligned.
Then, what comes next..."
She gazed out the window at the vast wheat fields and the thirty thousand soldiers sweating beneath the sun, her voice calm and imperious:
"...is to begin the settlement of this world."
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