Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 871 - 4 Father and Son_3

Chapter 871: Chapter 4 Father and Son_3 Chapter 871: Chapter 4 Father and Son_3 Antonio looked at his son, “This isn’t your responsibility.”

“It is my responsibility! I sent them into battle, I led them to their deaths. I knew they would die! The massacre on the flanks was certain, yet I placed them there anyway—I knew the Terdun people would kill them, I knew it from the start.” Winters’ body trembled violently as the never-healed scars in his soul were slowly exposed, “Those men, they went to war because they trusted me, yet what have I done? I fed their flesh and blood to the wolves…”

Antonio wanted to embrace his son, but he couldn’t do that anymore.

“You can’t cry,” Antonio said, “If you choose this path, you can’t cry.”

Then he was silent for a long time before he began to recount slowly, “The old Marshall once told us a joke, he said, ‘Common wisdom advises a general to care for his soldiers as if they were his sons, for then they will willingly die for you. But if a general truly cares for his soldiers like his own sons, how could he bear to send them into battle?'”

“At that time, we all laughed.” Antonio also smiled briefly, his thoughts slowly sinking into memories, “Your father was laughing, I was laughing.”

“But now, my child,” Antonio looked at Winters, his eyes filled with indescribable pain, “I regret letting you take this road.”

…

...

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Sheltering Mountain range, in the heart of the Empire—the Worry-Free Palace.

News of the victory had already reached the Eternal City, and the thoroughfares were adorned with colorful banners to celebrate the triumph.

Thirteen triangular pennants hung from every rope strung across the streets, representing the thirteen victories the Empire’s army had achieved in the northern territories over the past two plus years.

The great bells of the churches also rang out thirteen peals to summon the faithful to behold the Victory Mass.

The grand banquet hall of the Worry-Free Palace was brightly lit and festooned with flowers, as courtiers of all ranks gathered there to offer their congratulations to the great Emperor.

But these were only preliminary modest celebrations because the victors had not yet returned to the Eternal City.

When the generals arrived with the spoils of war and prisoners, there would be an even grander and more spectacular triumphal procession and presentation of captives.

His Majesty would personally attend the great coliseum in a magnificent chariot drawn by four white horses, with the barbarians’ battle flags, weapons, and treasures thrown at the steps of his throne.

Then would come an endless feast to be recorded in the annals of history, with gifts for every participant.

Therefore, both nobility and commoners of the Eternal City were eagerly anticipating a dreamlike grand triumph.

As joyous victory songs played and toasts were exchanged in the grand banquet hall, the guest of honor sat alone in a small office.

The door cracked open.

“Your Majesty,” Earl Narzia called from outside the door, “the Prince has arrived.”

Without requiring any action from the Emperor, Earl Narzia understood His Majesty’s wishes.

The door swung fully open, and a young man entered the room.

In appearance, the youth was a tall, handsome, and dashing lad, whose demeanor and grace suggested a privileged upbringing.

But that was all; after all, his age was still young, and in the Empire where a beard signified a man’s standing, a hairless mouth never spoke with much authority.

However, when people knew who the young man’s father was, when they realized the youth was the Empire’s legitimate heir, this youth not yet twenty years old suddenly became sacrosanct and inviolable.

Interestingly, if the elderly man in the oil painting bore a nine-out-of-ten resemblance to the Emperor standing before the portrait, the young man inherited only one-tenth of that likeness.

People said it was because the Empress’s family bloodline was too dominant. Of course, there were also darker rumors that quietly spread through the sewers.

The door closed completely, leaving only father and son alone together.

The room was dark, illuminated by only one lamp.

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The young prince squinted his eyes but didn’t dare to look up directly at his father behind the desk, “Your Majesty.”

“Come here,” the Emperor spoke.

The young prince moved a few steps forward.

“Come to my side.” The person in the shadow of the lamp seemed to be smiling.

The prince was somewhat surprised but walked steadily to the side of the desk.

Although the Emperor remained unsmiling in front of the prince, the prince keenly sensed that his father had become a bit emotional… just a bit.

The Emperor stood, and under his command, the young prince took a seat in the Emperor’s chair.

It was not the throne; the coronation throne was placed in the main hall.

Anyone close to the highest power knew that it was this utterly unadorned chair in the small office corner of Worry-Free Palace that truly represented the ultimate authority of the Empire.

“How does it feel?” the Emperor asked with interest.

The young prince shifted uncomfortably, “It’s very hard.”

“Indeed, it’s hard, it chafes the buttocks.” The Emperor seemed in high spirits today, even explaining to his son, “But if you use a soft cushion, you’ll sweat from sitting too long, and it will be damp and uncomfortable.”

With a pleasant demeanor from the Emperor, the son grew increasingly apprehensive.

The great father was the son’s greatest obstacle; in the young prince’s eyes, the divine aspect of his father far outweighed his human side, to which he was more accustomed.

But when the god took on a human guise, when the Emperor became a father, the young prince felt somewhat uneasy.

The Emperor’s fingertips traced over the indentations and engravings on the desk, “This desk is made from the timber of a warship; starting from my father, it has been used for daily office work.”

The prince glanced over the desk surface, which bore not only stains of ink but also the distorted letters carved by a child, a very old desk indeed.

“From when I can remember, my father,” the Emperor locked eyes with the old man beyond the desk, “would work here. From dawn until deep into the night. At noon, he would walk in the garden. After dinner, he would take a stroll in the streets.”

The prince had certainly heard the stories of the former Emperor, but what he knew better was that after a failed assassination attempt, the former Emperor no longer ventured outside the bounds of Worry-Free Palace.

“Every day was like this, if he was not on inspection tours, in battle, or receiving his subjects, he would be working here,” the Emperor looked towards his son, “Every day, just like this. Only very late would he rest.”

Was the former Emperor really so diligent? The prince didn’t understand very well.

“But do you know what people called him?” the Emperor asked.

The question reached something the prince knew about, but he dared not answer.

The Emperor said calmly, “Richard, the madman.”

Richard III, the mad Emperor who had lost all the territories south of the Sheltering Mountains, was known by everyone far and wide.

“When I was small, people honored my father as a brave man, a handsome man, and a devout one. But when he died, they called him a madman.” The Emperor asked, “What do you think people will call me after I die?”

“The Great Emperor,” the prince answered.

“No,” the Emperor said with a smile, “they will call me—Henry, the betrayer of holy oaths.”