When Alfred's army finally arrived in Altdorf, they were somewhat late to the party.
Over 20,000 church troops had already gathered in the Imperial capital. Among them were numerous religious forces, provincial troops, and contingents sponsored by the Elector Counts. For instance, Countess Emmanuelle von Liebwitz of Nuln generously sent 20 of her elite Blackstone Guard to participate in the holy war.
Given the distance between his diocese in Mousillon and Altdorf, Alfred's tardiness was understandable. Moreover, as the childhood friend and close companion of Knight King Ryan (with some old rumors even suggesting they were "closer than brothers"), Alfred was treated with respect by most members of the clergy—or at least spared from mockery.
However, Alfred's demeanor was noticeably reserved. Despite the polite greetings and inquiries of others, his smiles were strained and forced. Many speculated whether he had upset Ryan or the Fay Enchantress to the point of being "forced" into this expedition.
"Archbishop Alfred Damian Wayne of the Western Bretonnian Diocese, it has been quite some time." Esme III, one of the two Arch-Lectors of the Church of Sigmar and Karl Franz's religious advisor, personally approached Alfred with a warm welcome. "Like many others, I've heard of you, Alfred. Welcome back to Altdorf, the city of Emperor Sigmar. We now face yet another trial together."
Alfred wasn't surprised by this reception. It was widely known that Esme III was ambitious and hoped to succeed Volkmar the Grim as the next Grand Theogonist. In his bid to build alliances within the church, Esme was particularly eager to extend goodwill toward influential figures like Alfred.
Alfred maintained polite decorum but kept a deliberate distance. "Greetings, Your Eminence, Esme III. May the blessings of the God of Justice shine upon us all."
Under normal circumstances, an Arch-Lector's position far outranked that of a diocesan archbishop like Alfred. The Church of Sigmar's hierarchy, which had evolved over 2,000 years, was notoriously complex and bloated:
At the top stood the Grand Theogonist. Below him were two Arch-Lectors, three Cardinals, and twelve Curators. These were followed by numerous senior bishops responsible for specific regions or major cities, such as primates and metropolitans. Finally came archbishops like Alfred, who were responsible for military and administrative governance in their respective dioceses. Regular bishops, priests, and clerics handled local religious affairs, while monks and nuns occupied the lowest ranks.
The church also had nine departments to manage internal matters, including the Congregation for Doctrine, the Congregation for Worship and Sacraments, and the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. In addition, there were three judicial institutions (including the Tribunal of Religious Law and the Inquisition), eleven committees, and six administrative agencies. The structure was so vast that even experienced members often found it bewildering.
Unlike a diocesan bishop, Alfred wielded both administrative and military authority in his role as archbishop, making him an important figure despite his relatively junior rank.
But Alfred's cool reception of Esme III's overtures did not go unnoticed. "A bumpkin from Nordland with no vision!" Esme silently fumed. However, the Arch-Lector could do nothing about Alfred, whose backing—Ryan, the Fay Enchantress, and the Lady of the Lake—was simply too powerful. With no choice but to maintain appearances, Esme offered a few more pleasantries before departing.
Shortly after, Alfred was granted an audience with Grand Theogonist Volkmar the Grim. The formidable leader of the Church of Sigmar sat in the Relic Chamber of the Great Cathedral of Sigmar, behind a simple yet slightly worn oak desk.
"You're late," Volkmar began bluntly, his piercing gaze falling upon Alfred. Despite the harsh words, Alfred could sense no real anger in the Grand Theogonist's tone. Respectfully stopping twenty paces away, the archbishop bowed deeply. But Volkmar gestured for him to approach, his presence as commanding as the emerald gryphon insignia on his chest and the golden sunburst halo adorning his head.
"You look troubled," Volkmar continued. "Must you always bring me headaches, Alfred? Have these years taught you nothing about maturity and composure?"
"That was long ago, Your Eminence," Alfred replied calmly. "I am now a husband and father. My journey here is solely for the glory and will of the God of Justice." Standing firm under Volkmar's scrutinizing gaze, Alfred added, "But I encountered an unusual situation en route. May I have a moment of your time?"
"My time is extremely precious, Archbishop," Volkmar growled, his hand gripping a pile of scrolls on the desk. "Very… precious."
Alfred said nothing further, carefully observing Volkmar's expression. Despite the Grand Theogonist's gruff demeanor, Alfred could tell he wasn't truly angry. He remained silent, awaiting Volkmar's permission to speak.
"Fine. Speak. But it had better be worth my time. Otherwise, get out!"
Alfred proceeded to recount his encounter with Voten, the blacksmith's son from Grinsdorf. He omitted certain details but emphasized Voten's extraordinary combat prowess and the twin-tailed comet-shaped birthmark on his chest.
"What? A twin-tailed comet?!" Volkmar shot to his feet, his face a mix of shock and disbelief. He began pacing the chamber, muttering to himself. "Impossible. Impossible! If there were a divine incarnation or a chosen champion, why hasn't there been a divine revelation? Are you sure you haven't spent too much time in foreign lands, listening to that lake goddess's nonsense?"
"A mere mortal could not achieve Sanctuary-level strength at the age of 17 or 18 without divine intervention!" Alfred argued. "Your Eminence, the twin-tailed comet... His hammers moved with unparalleled grace, leaving golden flames with twin trails. Surely you understand what that means? We all remember the ancient prophecies. When Emperor Charlemagne departed for the World's Edge Mountains, and when the Savior abdicated after fifty years on the throne, there were divine revelations…"
"That they would return with the twin-tailed comet in the Empire's darkest hour!" Volkmar interrupted. "But do you realize what it would mean if this Voten truly is Charlemagne reincarnated? As the founder of the Empire, he would naturally hold a claim to the throne! It would render all of Karl Franz's efforts over the past two decades meaningless. The Empire's fragile centralization would collapse, and it would split in two! Franz's enemies—nobles, merchants, radicals, zealots—would rally around Voten. Civil war would be inevitable! In these turbulent times, with the Winds of Magic so unstable, another civil war would be disastrous. Sigmar would not forgive this!"
"I understand the potential consequences," Alfred said softly. "I've already instructed Voten to keep a low profile. Grinsdorf may boast of a powerful champion, but it will not claim to house a god of war."
"You've suppressed the news?" Volkmar's sharp gaze locked onto Alfred.
"Voten himself chose to remain inconspicuous," Alfred replied, puzzled. "He said the time was not yet right."
"That's... not the mindset of a mere blacksmith's son," Volkmar murmured, his expression growing darker.
The Empire prided itself on being the most advanced in the Old World when it came to public education and upward mobility. Even in the culturally sophisticated southern provinces, self-sufficient farmers could send their children to school or church for basic education, or have them join the military, where merit could lead to further opportunities. Skilled craftsmen like blacksmiths were often well-educated, and their children could sometimes ascend to positions like knight's squires.
Even so, Volkmar knew full well that no ordinary blacksmith's son could possess Voten's level of political savvy and wisdom.
Could he truly be Charlemagne reincarnated?
But if so, why had there been no divine signs or revelations?
"Do not let this information spread," Volkmar commanded, his tone grave. "Aside from you, who else knows about the twin-tailed comet birthmark?"
"The entire village of Grinsdorf, neighboring villagers, and many visitors," Alfred admitted.
"...Very well," Volkmar said cryptically, his expression unreadable. "If necessary..."
Meanwhile, in Bretonnia
News of the Church of Sigmar's large-scale military mobilization had not escaped Ryan's attention. However, without an invitation or permission to intervene, Ryan had no grounds to involve himself. He ordered close monitoring of the situation but refrained from further action.
Ryan himself had other matters to attend to. Shortly after Alfred's departure, he and Sulia traveled to Mousillon to inspect its industrial district.
Years of effort had transformed Mousillon into a semi-industrialized hub with a well-rounded array of industries. In addition to producing war machines, many factories now manufactured everyday goods. In Mousillon's bustling industrial zones, the sight of active factories and the sound of machinery were now commonplace.
Arriving incognito, Ryan found himself in the midst of an inspection by First Guard Lancers Commissar Beria, who was accompanied by his young maid, Holkina. Beria, initially surprised by Ryan's presence, quickly broke into joy.
Finally! Beria thought. I spend all this time inspecting factories just to make sure His Majesty knows I'm working hard. Today, fortune smiles upon me!
Seizing the moment, Beria eagerly reported on the state of Mousillon's arms factories. Ryan, well-informed about the situation, listened with a polite smile, mentally comparing Beria's report to the actual data.
When Beria finished, Ryan neither confirmed nor denied his statements. Instead, he asked, "I've heard the factory district has a famous food street. Beria, could you show me around and join me for dinner?"
"Of course, Your Majesty," Beria replied with a deferential bow, though his mind raced. Ryan's demeanor was always so inscrutable. No matter how much Beria flattered, tested, or schemed, he could never fully grasp the king's intentions. Ryan gave him considerable freedom to act, yet always maintained tight control.
The Mousillon food street was one of Beria's initiatives, aimed at organizing and regulating the various food stalls, taverns, and vendors that had sprung up near the factories. By relocating them to a designated area and offering financial subsidies, Beria ensured that workers could enjoy affordable meals and drinks after their shifts.
The street offered a wide variety of options, from seafood barbecue, noodles, and congee to bacon sandwiches, burgers, pizza, hot pot, and fried snacks. Prices were low, and quality was guaranteed. Since most workers were still on duty, the street was relatively quiet as Ryan and Sulia strolled hand in hand, sampling dishes.
After ordering two coconut drinks at a stand, Ryan smiled at his wife. "It's a pity Morgiana isn't here."
"Morgiana doesn't like industrial environments," Sulia replied
, holding a large coconut in her hands as they moved from one stall to the next. She turned to Beria. "You've done well here. How did you come up with this idea?"
"I believe that workers, especially researchers, work very hard and deserve some welfare," Beria replied, elated by Sulia's praise. "They should not only have enough to eat but eat well. His Majesty often says we must use various methods to boost workers' morale and happiness. On one hand, we establish evaluation systems; on the other, we provide appropriate benefits. Competition should be encouraged, but not left unchecked."
"You've got some good ideas!" Ryan nodded approvingly. "I don't know how to categorize you, Beria. You're a steppe bowman by origin, yet you're more of a bureaucrat than a soldier. I assign you to military administration, but you spend all your time at the factories."
"I am Your Majesty's brick—wherever I'm needed, I'll go!" Beria replied with a flattering grin.
"Alright, get up," Ryan said, biting into a golden fried chicken nugget drizzled with salad dressing. "You've done well here, Beria. Honestly, you're the right man for the job. Someone like Talleyrand? I wouldn't trust him with this."
Beria wisely chose not to comment, knowing that criticizing Talleyrand could backfire. Instead, he quickly changed the subject. "Your Majesty, is there a particular reason for your sudden visit? Should I summon Chief Engineer Shergo and Master Engineer Dugan Ironhammer?"
"No need for now," Ryan said, shaking his head. "I've come to Mousillon to welcome an old friend. Since I've run into you, you might as well join me at the docks tonight to greet him."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Beria replied, still puzzled but not daring to press further.
"Don't look so tense, Beria," Sulia teased, her smile warm. "He's an old acquaintance of yours as well—you won't find him unfamiliar."
That evening, Ryan personally led the Old Guard and several Mousillon nobles, along with Beria's Ugol units, to the docks. As the rumbling of dwarven ironclad warships grew louder, Beria's curiosity reached its peak.
When the ship's doors opened, a familiar figure emerged:
Draped in rune-inscribed mithril plate armor crafted by the ancestor smiths, with the Ankor Hammer at his waist and the Shield of Defiance strapped to his back, the true king of Eight Peaks, Belegar Ironhammer descended the gangplank. Behind him marched his loyal Angrund Oathguard. From afar, the dwarf king extended his arms in welcome.
"Ryan, my brother! Lady Sulia! It's been too long since our last farewell! Ha ha ha! Belegar Ironhammer has returned!"
"Welcome, the true King of Karak Eight Peaks!" Ryan declared, as a grand ceremony unfolded on the docks.
After years apart, Belegar had returned to Bretonnia for an official state visit.
And with him, he brought a piece of intriguing news.
"What? The High Elves of Ulthuan are planning a second round of peace talks with the High King of Karaz-a-Karak? And they're sending the next Everqueen, Alisara, as their envoy?"
"Even Everqueen Alarielle is willing to let her go?"
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