Even in the years before awakening her [Divine Gift], Vela's memory had always been exceptional.
The more people she came into contact with, the more noble houses that flocked under her banner, tangled and complex as they were—she still remembered them all.
"House Breisgau… that would be the Count of Weisswolf Castle who defected and fled to the E.U.? Bradow von Breisgau and Claudia von Breisgau—weren't the couple already eliminated cleanly by the Empire's External Affairs Bureau? Oh, it seems there were flaws in the purge, and the remnants have leapt out themselves…"
White underlay, golden carvings, delicate patterns, latticed railings, carved holy icons, towering pillars, spotless windows… The opulent hall was decorated with magnificent splendor. Third Princess Vela leaned comfortably on the sofa by the flame-art electronic fireplace, savoring the rare and exquisite aftertaste of 'the tiger's roar, and all come to bow.'
Having just finished interviewing the successors of the military nobles headed by Lord Blücher, in a fashion of 'the lord chooses his vassals, the vassals choose their lord,' she crossed her legs—one hand holding a fine bone-china teacup, the other gripping a list of young imperial elites offering their service.
Family background, academy attended, current department of employment, records of merit and achievements, personal aspirations, former lordly relations, even historical records of distant marriages by alliance… All were classified in detail, nothing omitted, provided for her to select.
Vela turned her gaze to the Duke of Hohenzollern, seated on the opposite sofa.
He was also her maternal uncle in this life.
A burly, solid figure, his muscles firm. He had blue eyes and thick golden cropped hair. His aquiline nose lent him severity rather than handsomeness, full of a pugnacious air. His neatly trimmed beard was already beginning to gray. He wore a military dress uniform with decorations and sash, paired with sabre and tall boots.
A typical military noble, the bearing of a man of arms heavy upon him.
"Uncle Wilhelm."
Picking up the folders neatly stacked on the round table before her, their covers bearing titles such as WZERO Special Assault Unit, Self-Destructive Assault, 11th District Conscription, Vela asked: "Who provided this batch of intelligence?"
The seals and signature stamps on these papers belonged to the Warsaw garrison headquarters of the European Republic Union.
"They have no intention of showing their faces for the time being."
The Duke of Hohenzollern lifted his cup and drank a mouthful of tea.
"Shrewd fence-sitters can be found everywhere—hedging bets on both sides, nothing more."
He laughed gruffly and said: "To make them stake life and fortune in allegiance, my dear Highness—Bakhmut annihilation, Avdiivka raids—those victories are not enough. You would need to smash through the E.U. defenses along Sumy, Kharkiv, Poltava, Zaporizhzhia, and Berdiansk, seize Kyiv, even break into Minsk of the Belarusian theater, threatening Poland itself."
"A pack of opportunists who won't release the hawk until they see the hare."
With a faint sneer, Vela made no further comment.
All these years of cultivating old ties and weaving networks had not been in vain.
Indeed, from the founding onward, Britannia and the E.U. had never ceased their open and hidden struggles.
And likewise—that saying, how did it go? Sitting on the fence is an art that never dies.
One can never have too many escape routes.
This was no exception.
As the Holy Britannian Empire's national power flourished ever more, the exiled feudal families like the Hohenzollerns in the Americas had grown increasingly ambitious. Voices calling to return to Europe and reclaim ancestral castles grew louder naturally.
If not for the blood-soaked slaughter of Napoleon's 'Great European Revolution'—the hangings, the guillotines, whole families exterminated—that terrified Europe's nobility at the time, Britannia would not have had so many old-guard nobles crowding together.
By ordinary logic, not putting all one's eggs in a single basket, diversifying investment, bowing low, lying dormant and waiting for the time—this was the wiser path for many families' long-term survival.
Napoleon was both blessing and curse.
Compared to its contemporaries, Britannia was indeed more unified and cohesive in its foreign policy—especially in its stance on war with Europe.
And this coincided perfectly with Emperor Charles' national policy, with his ambition to unify the entire world into the vision he imagined. Every method that could weaken the E.U. citizens' will to resist, divide and undermine Europe internally, and destroy Paris' rule—all were employed unreservedly by Emperor Charles.
Vela's stationing in Euro Britannia was precisely a countermeasure card personally laid by Emperor Charles.
"The Seraphim Knights stationed in the 13th Baltic Theater reported encounters with E.U. suicide assault infiltration units. They suffered considerable losses, caught off guard."
The Duke of Hohenzollern glanced at Vela, who was calmly flipping through the documents, then continued: "Intelligence indicates the WZERO Assault Unit is composed entirely of refugees from Area 11 who fled to Europe. Area 11ers… and lately that district has had no shortage of sensational news."
"Governor Clovis assassinated, the Black Knights… that's the name, right? The 'Orange Incident,' Lord Jeremiah of the Pureblood Faction accused of treason?"
"Uncle, our main focus is Europe. Eyes on the bowl, eyes on the pot—wanting both will only make us a target of all sides."
Vela frowned slightly, not lifting her head as she said: "Cornelia will handle everything."
The Duke of Hohenzollern did not take offense. Instead, he nodded in relief.
My niece shall be Empress of Britannia.
Just as he prepared to follow her words onward, Vela suddenly shifted the subject: "However, the resources of Area 11 must be put to good use. We cannot allow the French to take all the glory."
Since the E.U. capital was Paris, and historically France had led European unification—even if the E.U. now stood as a de facto single state—Britannia's political correctness insisted on never calling them 'Europeans.' To Britannians, they were always just 'the French.'
"Oh?"
The Duke leaned forward, interest piqued, catching the gleam of amusement in his niece's eyes.
"Uncle, look here."
Vela spread the WZERO Special Assault Unit intelligence across the table.
"…In order to reduce casualties among E.U. soldiers and avoid stirring public backlash, Parisian politicians chose to fill the gaps with the lives of Area 11ers—lives not counted as national losses."
Reading this line, Vela smirked in disdain, almost reflective: "Timid, disorganized, fearful of casualties. The Gallic rooster that once braved ice and snow, charging bare-chested into storms of gunfire—has lost the sharpness and valor of Napoleon's age."
"And the proposer of this WZERO Unit—"
Tapping lightly on the page, Vela pointed to a half-length photo: "The remnant of House Breisgau."
"Leila Malcal."
The Duke pronounced the name aloud.
"Or rather, Leila von Breisgau. Heiress to Weisswolf Castle."
Vela studied the photo of the E.U. female officer.
Long wavy blonde hair, tied into twin braids. Violet eyes. Tall figure. She wore a dark blue E.U. uniform, black pencil skirt, and over-the-knee black military boots. Rank: Major.
The intelligence reported that after losing her parents, she was adopted by the wealthy Malcal family, thereafter dropping her noble surname and taking the Malcal name.
"Shall I order the External Affairs Bureau to eliminate her at the first opportunity?"
The Duke's blue eyes flashed with icy coldness.
That surname—von Breisgau—was tied to his own faction. Their betrayal and flight from the Empire had been a major diplomatic incident, leaving him humiliated, shamed, and scolded harshly by the Emperor. Had Vela not been brilliant enough, his rivals would have seized the chance to brand him negligent and remove him from power.
"No rush."
Vela smiled wordlessly, tapping again at the words 'WZERO Unit.'
"The last Prime Minister of Area 11, Genbu Kururugi, had a son recognized as an Honorary Britannian, serving in the 11th Army. I recall his name—Suzaku Kururugi. He was even a suspect in Clovis' assassination case, though later cleared…"
"Your Highness, you mean—?"
"Use Area 11ers against Area 11ers."
Vela spoke lightly: "Area 11 is Britannia's colony. And yet the French throw kamikaze attacks upon my soldiers? What logic is that?"
"That Kururugi boy, the son of the last Prime Minister. Instead of serving as a grunt in Area 11, reassign him to the Eastern European front. If he wants to prove his loyalty to the Empire—very well. I'll give him the chance. Either he persuades the Area 11ers of WZERO to surrender on the battlefield, or he executes those stubborn E.U. 11ers."
"I'll coordinate with Cornelia. All the Honorary Britannians of Area 11's military who were purged when the Pureblood Faction seized power—I want them. If they can't stomach suppressing their own kin, then let them suppress the E.U. They'll earn merit on the battlefield, shed the yoke of discrimination, and prove themselves as true Second-Class citizens. I will give them that chance."
In brief, Vela outlined her strategy of 'fighting fire with fire.'
The Duke listened, lost in thought.
The Eastern European front was undeniably difficult. The E.U. was no weakling, and unlike Africa's vast open plains suited for mobile warfare, Europe was crowded with fortress cities. Once the two sides escalated into full-scale war, each stronghold would become a meat grinder…
Closing the files and setting his cup back down, Vela looked out the window, her mind already turning to another matter.
Currently stationed in Area 11 was the Special Dispatch Guidance and Technology Department under Second Prince Schneizel. And among them—the Empire's senior technical officer, Lloyd Asplund, nicknamed 'Earl of Pudding.'
Your crucial 'component' for the Seventh-Generation Knightmare Lancelot, I'm taking it to the Eastern European front. Will you follow?
That indispensable component for the Lancelot's development—she needed it. Some accumulated technology and practical integration—she needed even more.
So thinking, Vela rose to her feet.
"Time to pay respects to Mother Consort."