The visiting procession, like a river of silver and steel, surged majestically into the Novgorod city gates.
There were three hundred of them in total, with the loyal Bodyguard Unit forming the main body of the force, all clad in chainmail, sporting large beards, and exuding the aura of battle-hardened elites.
The cold wind from the Baltic Sea flapped dozens of blue banners held high above their heads, embroidered with the Rurik Trident, the symbol of the Rurik Dynasty.
It was once merely an emblem on the coins of the previous Kiev Grand Duke, but now it has become a symbol of family heritage.
In front of the Saint Sophia Cathedral, the Kiev Grand Duke's procession halted, and the Prince of Novgorod's son and his retainers awaited him there.
When Rostislav returned to Novgorod, his grandfather's army was about to enter the city, and he had just made it in time, so the Prince quickly changed into clean clothes and headed to the cathedral.
For the North, the Saint Sophia Cathedral of Novgorod was unrivaled in its grandeur; it had a magnificent set of domes, the largest of which was golden, while the other silver domes surrounded it like stars around the moon, much like loyal Bodyguard Unit protecting a Prince.
Within this house of God, even the most arrogant pagan would feel a touch of awe at the authority it exuded.
Rostislav looked at the Grand Prince's powerful Bodyguard Unit, and an envious glint appeared in his eyes; if he had such a loyal and powerful force by his side, he could face even a million powerful enemies with pride!
And the owner of this force, the supreme ruler of the Ross lands, Yaroslav Vladimirovich, the "Wise," emerged surrounded by his Ross Warriors.
Though he was in his twilight years, Rostislav felt his grandfather's strength immediately upon meeting him; his eyes still held the wisdom of a ruler, and his trimmed beard made him appear just as sharp; the sun of Kiev still radiated astonishing heat.
Although Yaroslav was old, as long as he lived, no one in Ross would dare to stir up major trouble.
"Greetings, Grand Prince."
Rostislav bowed to the sun of Kiev, and the nobles of Novgorod behind him did the same; regardless of their inner thoughts, their submission to the Kiev Grand Duke was heartfelt at this moment.
"You must be Vladimir's son; yes, the child I remember has now become a mighty Ross Warrior."
Yaroslav looked at his grandson, and there was an emotion in the Grand Prince's eyes that Rostislav couldn't quite describe, but his words were a sigh of admiration for his grandson's growth, and then he gave his grandson a hug.
Rostislav had left his grandfather early to go to Novgorod with his father, so Yaroslav's sigh was only natural.
"You seem to have some blood on you; have you just been in a fight?"
After the hug, the Wise Man stroked his beard and said; though he was not skilled in battle formations, he was no stranger to the scent of the battlefield, for how could the ruler of this land not be familiar with warfare? If he did not know how to conquer, he would have died in some unknown place long ago.
"We were ambushed by the Chud on the way back to Novgorod, but none of us were even injured, while the barbarians left behind dozens of corpses."
Rostislav's face was relaxed, for that battle was so insignificant; the ambushed party won a complete victory, while the ambushers suffered heavy losses—truly a clumsy performance.
"Well done, that is how a Rurik Prince should be."
The Wise Man praised Prince Rostislav, and a smile appeared on his face, but it quickly faded, though it was not directed at Rostislav.
"They killed my son, and now they want to kill my grandson; it seems the restless Chud should be thoroughly swept clean, and Alar too; I will make them pay for their actions.
But for now, the most important thing is my son's funeral."
This was another reason Yaroslav came to Novgorod; the problem of the Chud had to be resolved, and the unrest had to be suppressed.
Having said that, Yaroslav stepped into the magnificent cathedral, and the others quickly followed the Grand Prince's pace, fearing to fall behind.
Entering the cathedral, the first sight was exquisite mosaic murals and holy icons, works by artists from Constantinople.
The cathedral was filled with Novgorod clergy, dressed in splendid vestments and holding beautiful ritual objects, gathered for the Prince's funeral.
The most important guests had arrived, and everyone took their places in an orderly fashion, while the Bishop of Novgorod, who was presiding over the funeral, greeted the Grand Prince and then delivered a funeral oration from the pulpit, recounting the life of this Yaroslavich (a patronymic, meaning son of Yaroslav) Prince to all present.
As the host of the funeral, Rostislav was able to stand beside the main position, observing the various expressions of the guests.
At the funeral, Grand Prince Yaroslav, who ruled this trading nation, appeared extremely sorrowful; this majestic ruler had once possessed glory as dazzling as the sun, and had also endured utterly tragic failures.
But for him now, nothing was more tragic than a white-haired man burying his black-haired son; he had thought he would never witness such a sight—the ruler of the city-states was very clear about his own physical condition; he had only a few years left to live.
What concerned Rostislav more was that none of his father's brothers had come; his grandfather had asked them to guard the south during his absence from Kiev, but it probably suited their intentions, as the situation was unclear, and waiting to see how things unfolded was the correct approach.
Rostislav knew very well that with his father's death, his uncles saw the upheaval of power and the throne of Kiev.
Moreover, Rostislav absolutely did not believe that his father's death had nothing to do with them.
Power in Ross was never gained through order of seniority, but through daggers, poison, and armies.
Were not the "Saint" of old and the "Wise Man" of today both achieved this way? The brutal Valangian blood still flowed in the Yaroslavich, and they were now eager and expectant.
The Prince had already experienced this deeply; the suspicious circumstances of his father's death, and the attack he suffered, all made him feel the great vortex of power struggle.
The intentions of the nobles from various regions were also unpredictable; the death of the Wise Man's heir would inevitably lead to a reshuffle of power.
Now was the eve of a new power struggle, and the dice had not yet fallen, so no one dared to relax.
Everyone at the funeral appeared very sad, and Rostislav couldn't help but feel ironic; the people before him seemed immersed in a calm sea of sorrow, but this sea was actually turbulent, and everyone harbored their own intentions; no one cared about his father's death, most only cared about the supreme throne of Kiev.
As for him, his father's heir, most of those present had no interest in even glancing at him, for in their hearts, this youth had already been excluded from the stage of power struggle.
Even if a few gazes were cast his way, those gazes carried pity.
It was a pity, however, that even so, some people were still unwilling to let him go, didn't that attack prove this point? As he thought about it, the Prince couldn't help but clench his fists, and his mood grew even worse.
If before it was anxiety over losing his father's position, then now it was about the preservation of his life.
And to speak more broadly, he also had his ambition, the ambition of a transmigrator, and a longing for the throne of Kiev.
No matter for what, he had to press forward relentlessly from now on, pushing straight ahead.