Ryan didn't really want to entertain Leman Russ, this Aspie of a wolf.
But as Ryan thought about it, he had to admit that Russ's logic was indeed simple and direct. After their bitter conflict, the old wolf simply walked up and offered reconciliation with a cheerful grin, acting as if nothing had happened. It was almost infuriating—no sense of pride or spine at all.
This battle for Wolfenburg, especially the forced march and the intense fighting, had cost the allied forces dearly. Ryan's Bretonnian expeditionary army had started with over 38,000 soldiers; after losses and the wounded, only 28,000 remained combat-ready. Middenheim's forces had also suffered significant casualties.
Still, the results were manageable—painful, but not catastrophic.
Ryan didn't shake Russ's outstretched hand but instead motioned for him to withdraw it. "Since Father requested it, I'll give you this courtesy. But let me be clear: while I can show you respect, my army cannot. You owe us significant compensation for this disaster."
"Fine by me," Russ replied nonchalantly, withdrawing his hand. He didn't truly take Ryan that seriously—too young, too inexperienced, and still far beneath him in power, despite his accomplishments. "I brought back a lot of gold and silver from the Far East. You can have it all. You'd better prepare dozens of carts to carry it."
"What exactly did you bring back?" Ryan asked curiously.
"You'll see soon enough," Russ said, waving him off. The wolf king stood up and strode toward the funeral gathering.
At the funeral, large purple thistles—symbols of Ostland—were placed upon Oleg's chest. Elector Count Vamir von Zhukov stood silently before his son's corpse, tears streaming down his face. Grief filled the Elector Count's heart, a silent storm of sorrow.
He had once regarded Oleg as his pride, the heir who could one day lead Ostland to prosperity and strength, shielding the province from poverty and external threats.
Now, all his hopes lay shattered.
Gone.
The Count choked back his tears, though his voice quivered. "The ancestral castle is in ruins, my son. I don't even have the chance to bury you in the tombs of our forefathers."
The Elector's hands trembled as he touched his son's remains. "You've always chosen to be a hero. But sometimes... sometimes, I wish you'd just been an ordinary man. Just a man who could have lived."
"But this is fate! This is the destiny of Ostland!" he cried, his voice trembling as the thistles adorned the funeral pyre.
"May this thistle remain with you, soothing your spirit as the horns of our ancestors call to you. Rest well, Oleg. You will forever be a part of Ostland."
The fire consumed Oleg's body, turning it to ash. Smoke curled into the morning light as the Elector Count released a long, pained sigh. Gazing upon the devastated ruins of Wolfenburg, he murmured, "Oh, Charlemagne above... My lands are plunged into calamity. The young perish, while the old linger in shameful survival... Why has it come to this?"
"Because, my son, this is the price of being a hero."
The Elector Count stood by the pyre, speechless for a long time.
Leman Russ sang an ancient Fenrisian ballad, his deep voice resonating through the silent assembly. Placing a firm hand on the shoulder of Vasily, Oleg's younger brother, Russ offered some solace.
The boy, barely twenty, clenched his jaw and held back tears. Clutching the golden bull insignia from Oleg's kneeguard in a death grip, Vasily muttered, "I won't cry, Master. Not until the last Norscan is dead."
Ryan, sitting on the stone steps nearby, watched this scene unfold with a mix of sorrow and relief. With a heavy sigh, he reflected on the endless wars that drained both heart and spirit.
"Did you know the thistle is Ostland's emblem because it symbolizes both severity and vengeance?" a voice broke through Ryan's thoughts.
He turned to see Alaroth limping toward him. The Wood Elf hero offered a polite but slightly awkward greeting before taking a seat beside him.
"Care to hear the story of the thistle, King of Knights?" Alaroth asked.
"Go ahead," Ryan replied. He already knew much about Alaroth's contributions from the Ostland defenders and the Dwarf Butcher King. Alaroth had fought valiantly, teaming up with King Agrim Ironfist to slay the bloodthirsty daemon Kargahnk after it had been greatly empowered by a ritual.
Not only had Alaroth proven himself during the siege, but his actions—like destroying the Chaos Dwarves' ammunition stores alongside Agrim—had earned widespread respect. His final shot, an arrow that pierced the eye of the Chaos Dwarf warlord Hussain Sayyid, had paved the way for Agrim to split the warlord's skull with his axe.
A feat of heroism, no doubt. While Ryan knew much of this was orchestrated by Lilith's guidance, he still appreciated Alaroth's contributions.
Alaroth, too, had his own grudges. After all, the tale of Ryan's overwhelming victory in the Three Kings' Battle had spread throughout the Old World, leaving even the Wood Elves astounded. Alaroth still struggled to accept that a human king had achieved a victory so decisive that Beastmen across the Empire now fled at the sight of his banners.
The Wood Elf began recounting his story.
"Before the Empire's founding, the Ubbs tribe—ancestors of the Ostlanders—had been locked in endless wars with the Norscans. Long before Charlemagne arrived with the Carolingians, the Thuringians, and the Bringuindon tribe, the Ubbs were at a disadvantage, constantly pushed back by the Norscan raiders."
"One day, the Ubbs were besieged in their stronghold, surrounded by Norscan invaders. The barbarians tried to march through the moat and into the fortress but found their path littered with thistles. The spiny plants tore at their legs, slowing their advance. Seizing the moment, the Ubbs launched a counterattack, breaking the siege and winning a decisive victory."
"Since then, the thistle has symbolized vengeance and unyielding determination. It represents the Ostlanders' indomitable spirit."
Ryan nodded in silence, watching the flames consume Oleg's remains.
"How's your leg?" he finally asked.
"My leg? It's a small price to pay for serving Lilith. What's one leg compared to her will?" Alaroth said, tapping the wooden brace on his knee with a dismissive shrug. "I just need some rest. A few decades, maybe."
"Rest well," Ryan offered, his tone sincere.
Later, at Ryan's royal tent—set up amidst the ruins of a burned-out noble's estate—Ryan finally managed to rest. He lay down, trying to catch some sleep, but was interrupted by footsteps outside.
"Olika, bring me some water," he murmured groggily.
"It's not Olika, my dear."
It was Veronica.
The Jade Wizardess entered the tent wearing a form-fitting gown of pale gold and soft rose hues. Her fiery red heels clicked softly on the ground as she approached, holding a goblet of water. Her piercing eyes softened as she saw Ryan half-awake, a faint smirk forming on her lips.
"You're thinking of Olika again, aren't you?" Veronica teased, her tone slightly sour. "Why didn't you bring her along, then?"
Ryan chuckled, pulling Veronica into an embrace as she handed him the water. As he fell back onto the bed, he pulled her with him, eliciting a startled yelp from the sorceress. "You idiot! There are people outside!"
"Didn't bring Olika so you could have the spotlight, love," Ryan replied slyly, his hands roaming to her stockinged feet.
Veronica rolled her eyes but didn't resist, letting herself be held for a moment.
After a few moments, she handed Ryan a letter. "Your Empire Lady and Theresa are on their way. They'll arrive in about five days."
Ryan skimmed the letter and nodded. "Anything else?"
"Plenty. First, decisions need to be made about the spoils of war. Second, your brother is still waiting for you to discuss compensation. And third..." Veronica hesitated, her tone softening. "There are a lot of orphans in the ruins, Ryan. Some of them have magic potential."
Ryan sighed, rubbing his temples. "Handle it. Negotiate with the Elector. Just remind him you're my woman."
"Always your woman," Veronica purred, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek before urging him to get up.
Outside, a commotion drew their attention. Soldiers and knights alike gathered, marveling at something in the ruins.
"Your Majesty! You must see this! It's... it's bears! But they're unlike anything we've ever seen!"
"Bears?" Ryan approached, curious.
In the clearing, two massive creatures were munching on food.
Black-and-white, with round faces and floppy ears, the bears looked more comical than fearsome. One sat
contentedly, chewing on a roasted rib, while the other stood upright, its paws on its hips, demanding more food.
Someone handed it an apple, which it sniffed before biting into with obvious satisfaction.
Ryan froze, his mouth slightly agape.
Pandas?
What in the Lady's name are pandas doing here?
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