Chapter 232: The Silvermoon Knight's Funeral |
In the imperial capital of Lyon, the low, mournful sound of horns echoed for three full days.
Citizens poured into the streets of their own accord, grieving the passing of the Empire's greatest hero.
The life of the Silvermoon Knight was known to all. Countless youths could recite his victories as if they were their own memories.
For a hundred years, he had stood as Lyon's guardian, a figure worthy of reverence.
This grand and solemn funeral was no more than what such a hero deserved.
The Silvermoon Knight's coffin entered through the gates of the capital, borne by ten legendary paladins. They carried it all the way to the grand plaza before the imperial palace. The silvery-white drapes that once adorned the palace walls had been replaced with black. Before the coffin stood the young Emperor of Lyon, delivering a eulogy in a voice heavy with grief.
Sorrow filled the air. No one knew when it began, nor who started it, but the sound of weeping spread until tens of thousands of mourners were crying openly, their eyes red with grief.
When the Emperor finished his tribute, the coffin was carried to the imperial cemetery and laid to rest at its very center.
That place had once belonged to another general from centuries past. But by imperial decree, his grave had been moved aside so that the Silvermoon Knight could be buried there, in recognition of his unparalleled achievements.
Unable to preserve the honor of his lineage, forced to watch his ancestor's grave relocated, he could only wash away his humiliation with blood.
To Lyon, however, this was a trivial matter. Few even knew of it. And those who did saw no issue with what had happened.
Following the funeral, a month-long period of mourning was declared. All large-scale entertainment was forbidden. Even on the streets, people were expected to suppress their smiles. Even the birth of a child was not cause for open joy. Those who dared celebrate risked public outrage.
When Lyon proclaimed itself a nation where "man stands above all," it also had to accept the extremes that came with such a belief.
After the funeral, the young emperor returned to his palace.
Lyon's High Inquisitor, Allen's father, approached the emperor with a solemn expression. "Your Majesty, due to Winston's sudden death, our offensive against the orcs must be halted. Our morale is too low to continue. We can only hold the cities we have already taken."
The young emperor rubbed his temples. "Without him, can Lyon truly not defeat the orcs?"
The High Inquisitor, James Watson, replied calmly, "It is not that we cannot win. Lyon's strength surpasses that of all other kingdoms. Our army is the strongest, our faith the most steadfast. But if we press on now, the casualties will be immense."
The emperor let out a faint, mocking laugh. "Casualties? Since when has Lyon feared casualties? I grew up hearing that even if half the army falls, Lyon's morale would never falter. The war has already begun. If we don't seize this opportunity to crush the orcs, how many more years must we wait?"
James Watson frowned slightly. "Your Majesty, our army does not fear casualties. But unnecessary casualties are the mark of a foolish commander. Now is not the time to continue. At the very least, we must wait until the men adjust to life without Winston."
James Watson's words were blunt, borderline disrespectful. But he had the standing to afford such a risk.
In recent years, Lyon had cycled through emperors at an alarming rate. James Watson had already served three.
This current emperor was only sixteen, having ascended the throne less than three years ago. Young, inexperienced, and lacking brilliance, he commanded little true authority.
The emperor's expression darkened. "James Watson, you are my subject. Do not forget that. I am the emperor. I can replace you as High Inquisitor at any time."
Watson showed no reaction. "Then I ask Your Majesty to select a suitable successor as soon as possible. I am old. It is time for another to bear this burden."
The Emperor hadn't expected such a decisive response, and suddenly found himself cornered. If he backed down, he would lose face. But if he agreed… he had no idea who could replace the man.
Seeing the emperor's restrained anger, Watson sighed inwardly.
This boy had once been nothing more than an obscure royal offshoot, raised without proper education, unfit even to become a paladin. He should have lived an ordinary noble's life. Yet among the royal bloodline, he was the only one presently capable of eliciting even the faintest reaction from the Draconic Armaments.
Since his ascension, his only real duty had been to produce heirs. Watson had long since lost count of how many children he had. After the sixth son, he had simply stopped paying attention.
This mindless breeding… felt more like blasphemy than legacy.
The great founder's bloodline and his glory were both fading.
Watson began to question whether the selection of the emperor itself had become obsolete.
But he could do nothing. The choice of emperor lay solely within the purview of the royal family. Unless he intended to rebel, he had no authority to interfere.
Fortunately, there was a clear division of power within the empire. The Inquisitor's Tribunal remained beyond imperial meddling, unless the emperor truly dared to replace him.
And clearly… he did not. "I am tired," the Emperor muttered, before storming out of the gilded hall.
Once he was gone, James Watson approached the throne and studied its carvings.
The relief depicted the founding emperor, Arthur Lyon, slaying the Dragon Tyrant and establishing the Lyon Empire. It had been commissioned by the second emperor after Arthur's death. In life, Arthur had disliked such displays of personal glorification. Historical records described him as nearly flawless, a perfect sovereign, save for a touch of vanity about his appearance.
And yet, seventeen hundred years later, this was what sat upon his throne.
Watson gazed at the carving and murmured, "Your Majesty, your descendants can no longer govern this empire. If you were still here, what would you do?"
The stone, of course, offered no reply. The question was meant for himself, but he had no answer.
He lifted his gaze toward the window, where the dawn light streamed in, and silently prayed to the Lord of Dawn for guidance.
No divine light answered him. It seemed his doubts were of no concern to the gods.
At that moment, he recalled his youngest son, stationed in the orcish mountains. Reports said the boy had recently received a divine revelation from the Lord of Dawn. Perhaps… he should recall him and ask about it.
But military affairs were beyond even the High Inquisitor's reach. He would have to inform the newly appointed commander, Anron Light, grandson of the Silvermoon Knight, now over seventy years old. A veteran with deep roots in the army, he and his lineage had swiftly secured him the title of Supreme Commander.
In truth, the position was largely honorary. In Lyon, supreme command only held real authority when granted by the emperor during wartime. Once the war ended, that power was revoked.
The Silvermoon Knight had been an exception, wielding absolute authority within the army due to his unique strengths.
Now, though, the army would have to readjust to the strictures of the past.
Burdened by countless concerns, Watson felt the weight of exhaustion on his shoulders, but there was no time to rest. He returned to the Tribunal to begin the day's work.
Yet as he arrived, something caught his eye. Among the towering stacks of documents lay a single emerald-green letter.
Its design marked it as a magical message from the Court of the Silver Moon.
Normally, elven correspondence would be opened and filtered by his subordinates before reaching him. He didn't have the time to review all the correspondence he received himself.
But magical letters were different. They contained secrets too important for anyone else to read.
"Has something happened to the elves?"
Watson didn't dare delay. The elves were Lyon's greatest—indeed, only—ally. Such a letter could not be trivial.
He carefully broke the seal. The letter consisted of only a single sentence: "I have information regarding Arthur Lyon. Come to the Court of the Silver Moon and let's talk."
The moment he finished reading, the letter ignited and burned itself to ash.
There had been no pleasantries, nothing beyond that one cryptic line. Arthur Lyon had ascended to the divine realm long ago. What did it mean to have "information" about him?
If the letter had come from anyone else, Watson would have dismissed it as a cruel prank.
But the signature at the bottom read Hildas Terra, the name of the former elven king. He had been a close friend of Arthur Lyon, one of his companions in their travels across the continent, and a fellow hero in the rebellion against the Dragon Tyrant.
Watson himself frequently shared personal correspondence with him.
His words carried an entirely different weight.
Watson knew he had to take this invitation seriously. But as Lyon's High Inquisitor, with the Silvermoon Knight just having been buried, he simply could not leave Lyon at such a critical time.
He looked again at the mountain of documents on his desk and let out a long sigh. Casting an enhanced vitality spell upon himself, he steeled his resolve. There was only one real option: finish everything as quickly as possible, then request leave to visit the Court of the Silver Moon.