CHAPTER 67

  LOYALTY MEANS NOTHING

  Within the grand, echoing halls of the castle, the air itself began to shake with tension as the rhythmic tremors of distant explosions reverberated through the stone walls. "Boom! Boom! Boom!" Explosions echoed through Galenhall like a relentless storm, shaking the very foundation. Dust filtered through the ceilings, and doors loosened from their frames.

  Hans stumbled out and saw a huge incoming meteor their way. It shattered the barrier protecting the castle and hit the walls directly. The embedded runestones, the last line of defence, crumbled as they fell helplessly. “So this is a magic tower?” Hans took in the grand, terrifying scene of a long-standing tower at their door that was breathing down spells after spell.

  “Incoming.” Someone else shouted, giving them time to brace.

  Another great explosion echoed, sending the floors to shudder underfoot. The magical assaults were flashing like lightning. Hans yearned to join the fray, but Sierra's firm resolve and her grip over his shoulder kept him away from the walls.

  “Ugh, Grandma, just let me get to the walls at least. People are dying there. They need help,” Hans pleaded desperately, trying to find a way out.

  “No, others will bring them here. Your job is to aid me. Ensure war supplies reach the right people. Get your vines to work and do not argue. I don’t have time for this— Boom!” The biggest explosion yet rocked Galenhall and shattered the gates.

  “The gates are breached!” someone shouted.

  “Damn it,” Hans muttered, soaring high. “I’m not leaving, don’t worry. Just taking a look—what the?” He witnessed a bizarre scene: Thalorian forces were running chaotically, consumed by their own fires. The Thalorian tower was unleashing devastating dark spells, striking both enemies and allies indiscriminately.

  “This is nuts—Grandma.” He descended swiftly. “I think the Thalorian has lost it. He’s attacking his own army.”

  But Sierra, overwhelmed by the injured piling up, had no time for Hans's observations. “Child! DO YOUR JOB. Deliver injured in a timely and reliable manner. Don’t think about anything else. Understood?”

  “Fine. But I’ll do it my way.” Hans’s eyes searched for his friends. Chris and Delimira were watching him. “I’m gonna be real thirsty,” he hinted, signalling them to assist.

  With a burst of speed, Hans shot into the sky, stopping at the level of Galenhall's walls. The scene below was gruesome, with rubble burying both friendlies and foes. “Haa... Deli was right. I’m an attention wh—seeker,” he admitted, launching his solar spell.

  ParadiseGarden

  Visible bubbles of light, depicting as photons in the book of fate, converged around Hans and transformed him into a beacon of radiant light. A brilliant beam descended from him, spreading across Galenhall like water on dry soil, covering the entire ground with astonishing speed.

  “Haa. I’m parched…” Hans grabbed his dry throat. The fine green fibres erupted from the ground, connecting with the injured and uninjured alike. Some resisted, wary of the unknown entity, but those who did not—or could not—felt an overwhelming surge of energy. Instead of harm, their wounds, even the grievous ones, began to mend instantly. Exhausted bodies regained their full vigour in an instant.

  Seeing these miraculous changes, even the resistant ones allowed the energy to flow through them. The light made no distinctions; friend or foe, all were healed as if under the watchful eyes of a benevolent entity.

  “Is he a god?” someone exclaimed.

  “Damn, now Hans’s nose will grow even higher,” Delimira remarked. She knew Hans could heal himself and a few others, but this was on an exponential scale. Sierra observed him in silence, while Rudolf stood proud.

  Chris, on the other hand, looked at Hans in awe. “Come on, buddy.” He lamented. “If you excel in everything, what are we normal people supposed to dream of?”

  The Clandorians and other elf houses felt a bitter taste. This was their war, yet all the glory was going to a foreigner they despised. But they couldn’t complain, as it was ultimately to their benefit.

  Hans continued his dazzling display of power for several minutes. The gravely injured were soon turned to mildly hurt, while the mildly hurt were ready to fight again. As the flood of injured ceased, Hans fell from the sky to his knees, gasping. “Ha...ha... I’m THIRSTY. Bring me water!”

  Delimira and Chris rushed to his aid. Meanwhile, Reina’s mind raced, as it became closer to answering how Hans had survived their previous encounter in the Deadlands. Even after she had dismembered his hand. “Every technique, every spell has a weakness. What is yours, Hans of Parv?” she mumbled, scrutinising his actions with her sharp gaze.

  She was also bitter, but Hans’s miraculous intervention disrupted the Thalorian magic tower’s devastating impact. As the fallen stood again, it threw the enemy army into disarray, forcing them into a retreat.

  The prince of Parv became an awe-inspiring figure instantly. Even if he was from an enemy nation, there was something in the Imperials that they respected and Hans was filling those shoes very well.

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  As he rested chugging down gallons of water, people kept praising and thanking him. But he ignored them, minding his own business. “This is disappointing. I was done in mere minutes—”

  “Shut up, Hans. That’s why I call you ‘princess.’ Because you act like one, you know.” Delimira scoffed, “Just accept that you’ve done fine. You’re like that bitch in class who scores 99% and still cries about doing badly on the exam.”

  “Aren’t you talking about yourself?” Hans let those words rest in his mouth; he had no retort for her; anything he could have said would only prompted her to come up with something even sharper to silence him. So, instead of arguing, he just kept quiet. As she continued her rant, his attention shifted elsewhere, honing in on a particular individual and his mumbling.

  It was an elf, skinny, even by elven standards, clad in armour that seemed like someone else’s. As if he were forced into wearing clothes not meant for him. Hans signalled to her ranting friend to halt, and surprisingly, she did as she noticed the intensity in his gaze.

  “What did I do wrong?” The elf's mutterings became clearer as the three of them listened intently. Chris moved to help, but Hans grabbed his arm, stopping his march. “Let's listen first, Chris,” he urged, and the three leaned in, their ears straining to catch every word.

  “What did I do?” The skinny soldier's voice grew louder, his confusion and frustration evident. His audience, now, swelled from three to many more, all drawn by his wretched cries.

  “He is a rat, spreading plague.” Delimira unsheathed her rapier for the first time, but Hans halted her promptly.

  “If one dies, another cries. Stop. Clandor needs to handle it carefully.” Hans whispered, but Chris didn’t understand what these two were talking, so he whispered back. “What’s a rat?”

  Suddenly, both turned to Chris, their gaze asking if he was an idiot, but Chris was a kind man who accepted what he didn’t know with a proud face. “You two are weirdos, not me!” He exclaimed.

  “He is probably bribed or threatened so he could spread the doubt, aka ‘Plague,’ in our side, understood?” Hans explained, and Chris acknowledged with a nod, asking back promptly, “so why are we letting him spread the doubts?”

  “Just hear him out first.” Hans gestured, and the skinny soldier continued as everyone’s focus was on him. He fell on his bottom as he had lost everything.“I was just a farmer,” he complained, his eyes devoid of light. “It doesn’t matter who rules over us. You people should fight with yourselves. Why are you involving us commoners?”

  “This damned soldier. I'll cut your head off. Questioning your orders is desertion!” Another infuriated soldier, likely from a noble family, stepped in.

  Hans quickly signalled to Chris, who promptly stopped him. This was a place of recovery, where all exhausted and injured rested. They were vulnerable to thoughts of desertion. And upon hearing those words from their comrade, the thought strengthened. So their eyes searched for the one who saved their lives.

  “Tsk, this isn't my territory. Why do I have to calm Clandorian’s army?” Hans reluctantly stood, marching toward the whining soldier with calm, measured steps. “I don’t run on compassion,” he calmly said, “so your waterworks won’t be affecting me, soldier.”

  Hans’s tone commanded authority, yet there was no hint of punishment in his voice. The soldier raised his head, meeting Hans’s sharp gaze as Hans continued.

  “I admit, you’re right. Many of you were probably forced to come here.” His words were sympathetic, but his piercing eyes conveyed a different message. “Some of you might never have wielded a weapon before. But if you think you’re fighting for these high-ass nobles, these royals, or any of the trash they refer to themselves as, you’re wrong. Just look beside you. Who do you see?” Hans's voice suddenly raised, demanding the answer in rage.

  The soldiers looked around but remained silent. So, Hans pressed on, his voice still brimming with fervour, “There aren't any nobles around. It’s just people like you. Look closer—they’re as scared as you are, forced into this war just like you. You’re fighting to protect the person who ate with you, who sleeps beside you, who dreams of going back to their family just like you. Fight for them. Protect them, so they can protect you. I’m not a man of many words, heck I’m not even a man yet, but I think it is necessary for you all to hear this. You’re in this mess together, and only the people beside you can help you steer clear.”

  Hans turned to leave, but his back seemed broader and more commanding than any noble who forced them to draft. They stared at his departing figure, even the skinny soldier who had been prepared to lose his head for inciting commotion in the army that had robbed him of his home. Now, he remained silent.

  “You having a soft spot, Hans?” Delimira whispered, a teasing glint in her eye.

  “What do you think?” Hans's gaze was sharper than before.

  “How many times have you practiced that speech, then?” she continued to tease, but Hans suddenly grew somber.

  “I just repeated what someone had said in the past,” Hans answered as the scene of Dietrich vanished from his mind and exited the medical ward with them, mumbling, “When you take up arms, you become a soldier, but that must be a choice, not compulsion. These people don’t run on loyalty; they were bottom feeders, and now these nobles want them to fight their wars. It’s ridiculous.” Hans, unaware of how the Clandorians recruited their armies, was furious.

  “For a commoner, who rules over them doesn’t matter, but it does matter who forces them to fight. Right now, they resent us—our side,” he said sharply.

  “At this rate, desertion is just a matter of time,” Chris thought out loud, and both Hans and Delimira nodded in agreement.

  “My dear aunt needs to show them they’re not just being sent to their deaths and lead them from the front,” Delimira scorned.

  “That’s a huge disadvantage with an army of mages.” Hans ended up defending Reina, “Even worse if it’s a civil war where neither side wants to incur personal losses. They’re just feeling each other by sending soldiers to death. Just to see whose army will have the upper hand.”

  “But eventually, they’ll have to step in, won’t they?” Chris asked.

  “Yeah, but it would be too late for these commoners. I can’t have my name smeared with such a grim war.” Hans said, looking at the exhausted army, devoid of any motivation. “These soldiers need to know they’re fighting for the right side,”

  He stepped further, taking a good look afar. “Fear won’t work, and you can’t ignite loyalty in them,” he muttered. “That leaves only one thing—showing them that the Council is a worse option.”

  A silence settled among the three until Hans's lips curled into a grin. “Then let’s force the powerhouses to the front. I’ll change this game of Clandor—”

  “Wait! You can’t leave the rearguard,” Delimira quickly interjected. Sierra had tasked her with keeping an eye on her troublesome grandchild, and she wasn’t about to let her down.“Who says I’m the one leaving?” Hans’s face turned smug as he quoted his minion. “Vanir once said, I’m a mage with a biblical capacity for violence.” He patted his waist belt and rose into the sky once again.

  “And I think he was right.” All eyes, ally and enemy alike, turned to him, eager to see what kind of power the young imperial would unleash.