When François's army marched into the ruins of Erengrad, Ryan and Emilia's central army arrived at the site of the previous battle in the Zorn city ruins on the southern banks of the Lynsk River.
The Knight King's long cloak swept over the snow-covered ground. The scene that greeted him was grim and unsettling. The plains were littered with corpses, as François's army had no time to bury or cremate the dead. This grim task fell to the 10,000-strong central army, whose main occupation in the northward campaign was burying and burning bodies. Morgiana and the Grail Sorceresses led prayers to dispel corruption lingering over the battlefield.
"Move! Faster! Get those wheels fixed now!" Bertrand, the commander of the Old Guard, barked orders to two greatsword soldiers as they wrestled with the axle of Emilia's luxurious carriage. The wheels had sunk deep into the muddy terrain, with one wheel completely detached. Four Blackstone Guards strained together to lift the vehicle while Old Guard troops scrambled to reattach the wheel.
"François has already entered Erengrad?" Emilia asked, wrapped in layers of regal clothing. Her silk deep-red Nuln-style evening gown was hidden beneath a thick white fox-fur winter coat, which itself was draped with a black-and-gold velvet cloak. The emblem of Nuln—a golden crown balanced on scales—gleamed brightly against the dark fabric.
Emilia's petite figure stood in stark contrast to Suria's taller frame. But her perfectly proportioned silhouette, honed through years of physical training, radiated confidence. Beneath her gown, her slender, fair legs were encased in black velvet stockings, accentuating the elegant curve of her ankles and the delicate arch of her feet tucked into stylish black suede boots.
"Yes," Ryan replied, handing Emilia the battle report. The document detailed François's recent engagements and victories.
After skimming the report, Emilia nodded approvingly, though her military knowledge was limited. She couldn't afford to appear naive in front of Ryan. "Impressive. With the Chaos forces in the upper Erengrad region crushed, the Kislev border appears secure—for now."
Ryan simply smiled, familiar with Emilia's habit of bluffing her way through military matters. He stood back, silently observing as two Old Guard soldiers labored over the carriage wheel.
"But François was overly cautious," Emilia continued, pointing at the report. "He missed two opportunities to annihilate Harald Ever-Eye's army completely. The first was during the forest pursuit when he chose to retreat in the face of the daemon regiment. The second was at the Lynsk River. Despite reducing Harald's forces to fewer than a thousand, François didn't pursue them further. Too conservative!"
Ryan's knowing smile widened, his silence making Emilia feel as if her reasoning was being judged—and found wanting. Stomping her boot in the snow, she huffed, "He's playing it safe! Leaving remnants like this only saves his strength for himself!"
"'A great commander leaves no glorious deeds.'" Ryan finally broke his silence, quoting an old saying. He studied Emilia's face, then elaborated. "If I had replaced François with Berchmond, the Red Dragon Duke would undoubtedly have annihilated the Chaos remnants and slain Harald himself."
"Then why didn't you—" Emilia began but trailed off as realization set in.
"But at what cost? More than just 2,000 men," Ryan said, lightly tapping Emilia's head with the report. "That's why I assigned François to this task. I understand him. François fights methodically—neither flashy nor reckless, but reliably. While he allowed some Chaos forces to escape, he kept his own casualties to a minimum. In hostile and unforgiving terrain like this, attrition is a greater enemy than the Chaos remnants."
Ryan gestured toward the snowy expanse around them. "Out here, in these frozen wastelands, a single misstep can lead to non-combat losses surpassing battlefield casualties. Otherwise, why would Chaos armies be so notoriously difficult to defeat? If I truly wanted a swift conclusion, I would have sent my Old Guard to spearhead the campaign and led the charge myself."
"But then, how many of our carefully trained soldiers would we lose? These troops are handpicked and groomed—each one is an investment."
Ryan's reasoning left no room for argument. Even Emilia, who usually enjoyed verbal sparring with him, had to admit he was right.
"I'm only the figurehead commander, after all. You're the one calling the shots," Emilia conceded, albeit grudgingly. Yet her eyes sparkled with admiration as she looked at Ryan. Despite being a mother of two, she still idolized him like the young maid she once was. "So, what's next? Do we march into Erengrad and proclaim its reconstruction?"
"We'll enter the city, yes," Ryan said after a moment of thought. "It's time to finalize our plans. Rokossovsky's Kislevite troops and Belial's Ungol regiments should be arriving in Norden soon."
"And what about Erengrad itself?" Emilia asked.
Ryan sighed, his gaze fixed on the endless snowfields. "We had initially planned to secure Erengrad and its surrounding areas thoroughly. But that seems increasingly unlikely now."
Four days later, Ryan personally led the central army into Erengrad.
The once-mighty bronze gates of the city lay shattered. Streets, temples, residential quarters, factories, and even the port were reduced to rubble. The proud city, which had stood for over a thousand years, had been gutted by the Chaos horde, leaving behind only ruins.
Yet, to Ryan's surprise, the city was far from empty. Over ten thousand Kislevite refugees had already returned, drawn by François's victories. These survivors, who had been hiding in the Grovod Forest and surrounding mountains, now lined the streets to welcome Ryan with fervent gratitude.
"Honorable King of Knights, it is through your valor that our homeland is restored!"
An elderly Kislevite approached, presenting Ryan with freshly baked bread and a dish of salt—a traditional gesture of hospitality. "Please, accept this humble offering."
"Thank you," Ryan said warmly, taking a piece of the bread and tasting it. Raising his hand high, he acknowledged the crowd, which erupted into thunderous cheers. They chanted his name, praising his virtue and heroism.
That evening, in the partially restored Frosthome Inn—once Erengrad's administrative headquarters—François hosted a small gathering. The inn's damaged structure had been patched enough to serve as a temporary shelter against the elements.
As the group celebrated their victory, François raised a glass of Gray Goose vodka and addressed Ryan. "Your Majesty, what are your plans? Shall we purge the remaining Chaos forces around Erengrad?"
"If only we could," Ryan said regretfully, pulling out a letter from Emperor Karl Franz.
The Empire's logistical support was faltering. In the letter, Karl Franz expressed his apologies, explaining that Ryan's decision to advance into Kislev was not part of the original campaign plan. The Emperor admitted he could not convince the Imperial Diet or Reikland's council to continue funding the Bretonnian army's northern expedition. Within a month, all supplies from the Empire would cease, forcing Ryan to find alternative provisions.
The grim news left the room in silence. While Erengrad had been reclaimed, the surrounding lands remained infested with Chaos remnants and marauding tribes. Clearing these areas would require months, if not years, of relentless and resource-intensive operations.
"So, are we just going to leave?" François asked, clearly displeased. "Erengrad is in ruins. If we withdraw now, it'll be defenseless. Do you honestly believe the Kislevites can hold it on their own?"
Ryan remained calm. "Two things. First, Rokossovsky's Kislevite army and Belial's Ungol regiment will arrive here in a few days. We'll negotiate with them regarding a permanent garrison."
"Second, we'll gather as many Kislevite refugees as possible and initiate a public referendum within two weeks to establish the Grand Duchy of Erengrad. The Duma will be rebuilt."
"And who will be the Grand Duke?" François asked. "It can't be one of us Bretonnians; no Kislevite would accept that. But if we appoint a local, how do we ensure they stay aligned with our interests?"
"We were never here to govern them politically," Ryan replied. "Our role is to provide military protection and secure economic benefits. Erengrad is Kislevite land. Legally, it belongs to Katarin. Any attempt to annex it would provoke fierce resistance—not just from Kislevites, but from the Empire as well. That would upset the delicate balance we've worked so hard to maintain."
François nodded thoughtfully, impressed by Ryan's foresight.
"So, we need someone who fits this profile," Ryan continued. "A leader with the will to rebuild Kislev, the competence to govern and command, and the willingness to cooperate with us. In exchange for our military assistance and non-interference in governance, they must ensure our economic interests are protected and withstand pressure from the Tsarina. We have one week to find such a candidate, promote them, and secure their election as Grand Duke."
François's eyes lit up as he thought of Vladimir, the Ursun Priest. Strong, capable, and fiercely independent, Vladimir seemed like the perfect candidate.
"And what about Rokossovsky's troops?" Emilia interjected. "You've spent so much effort saving them. Are you just going to let them go?"
"Of course
not," Ryan said with a sly grin. "I plan to reorganize them."
"Reorganize?" Morgiana asked, intrigued.
"They'll become the Erengrad Guard!" Ryan declared. "As for my own army, I'll form a new unit—the Bretonnian Royal 1st Guard Lancers. They'll be equipped with a new red-and-white striped regimental banner."
François smiled approvingly. "Excellent. By restructuring and rebranding, we can ensure these troops remain under our influence."
"Exactly," Ryan said. But his smile faded as he contemplated the challenges ahead. "The real question is, how do we drive out the remaining Chaos forces in the surrounding wilderness after we leave? If we rely solely on reinforcements from Bretonnia, the kingdom's finances will collapse."
The room fell silent, the enormity of the task weighing heavily on everyone.
Later that night, as Ryan wandered the ruins of Frosthome, deep in thought, he heard the distinctive thud of a cane on snow. Turning, he saw Talleyrand hobbling toward him.
"Your Majesty, troubled by the burdens of leadership?" the Elf diplomat inquired with a sly smile.
"And what advice can you offer me, Talleyrand?" Ryan asked.
"Well, Your Majesty," Talleyrand said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Have you ever heard of… 'claiming the land'?"
"Claiming the land?" Ryan echoed.
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