Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The trumpets sounded the melody of victory, cheers deafening as everyone vied to catch a glimpse of the hero's noble visage.

Over fifteen hundred years ago, a grand triumphal procession was taking place in a majestic city on the plains downstream of the Bythos River.

A triumph, by definition, celebrates someone's victorious return. And those who could hold a great triumph were known as triumphators.

The triumph started with a parade, shackled, ragged men and women at the front, in a column so long it seemed endless.

They were captives, the defeated, the spoils of the victor; some of them were destined for execution while the rest would be sold into slavery.

The captives looked upon the cheering crowds on both sides of the road with hatred and fear.

Carts laden with captured weapons, armor, heretic idols, and gold and silver treasures followed the captives.

These spoils were also a testament to the triumphant hero's great deeds.

Flag bearers holding up paintings, sculptures, and placards came third, proudly recounting the great battles and the triumphator's glorious victories.

Members of the senate, dressed in red-bordered white togas, adorned with gold and iron rings, and donning purple sashes, formed the fourth part of the grand procession.

Even the most powerful senators had to walk on foot at this time, paying their highest respects to the triumphator.

For in the triumphal ceremony, the triumphator ranked just below the gods, above all others.

The climax of the great triumph was fast approaching, with the triumphator soon to make his appearance.

People trembled with excitement, everyone engulfed in an almost frenzied, enraptured celebratory atmosphere.

At last, lictors clothed in crimson-robed regalia entered the Eternal City, heads held high.

They wore crowns of laurel leaves, symbols of a victor's high honor.

They were the loyal followers of the triumphator, clearing the way before him.

Everyone involuntarily held their breath, and the noisy square became eerily silent as they awaited the triumphator's arrival.

The silence was but a brief moment, shattered immediately by the thundering sound of rolling wheels.

Four pure white warhorses with not a single blemish pulled a dazzling chariot into the square.

A man stood upon the chariot, holding the laurel branch symbolizing victory in his left hand, and the eagle-tipped scepter denoting power in his right hand.

Cheers rose like a tsunami, frenetic shouts bursting forth from every chest.

The shouts reached the clouds and ascended to heaven, surely awakening even the gods on their high mountain.

But the triumphator wore no expression.

He was clothed in a pure purple embroidered robe, each pattern stitched with golden threads, dazzling to the eyes.

That was the attire of a king, which he could wear only on this day in his life.

His face was painted red, and the crown of Jupiter, the chief god, rested on his head.

That was the crown of a god, which he could wear only on this day in his life.

In this sacred celebration held just for him, he was granted both divinity and kingship.

At this moment, the triumphator became the king of the Republic, standing shoulder to shoulder with the gods.

His grand and glorious triumph would be recorded in the "Book of Victories," and as long as the Eternal City endured, his fame would be everlasting.

And the title of [triumphator] would ultimately become a more revered one than that of king—emperor.

At his moment of triumph, a slave whispered in his ear, "Remember! Remember! You are but a mortal, and mortals—must one day die."

More than fifteen hundred years after that brilliant triumph, in a place far south of the Eternal City, a town named Revodan was preparing for its own triumph.

The leading figure, naturally, was Winters Montaigne, the returning victor.

According to custom, a feast should have been held for the whole city. But Winters, known for his frugality, opted not to do so.

Another tradition required the distribution of gifts to all the city's inhabitants. But Winters had no money, so that too was forgone.

In any case, Winters did away with all ostentatious preparations.

But as Winters rode his horse with head held high into Revodan, his emotions were in line with those of the great triumphators of history.

The last time he entered Revodan, citizens greeted him to his face, yet no one believed he could last long in the city.

This time, he entered the city a conqueror, having soundly defeated the New Reclamation Legion's punitive forces, leaving no one to doubt him.

And this was precisely what Winters wanted.

He wished to declare his victory, to tell everyone that the storm had not broken him, but had made his roots grow deeper instead.

If previously there had been suspicions of theft in Winters's allocation of the New Reclamation Legion's land,

then through this battle, the ownership of Iron Peak County had transferred to his name through conquest, at his disposal to divide and distribute.

Winters, Andre, Tang Juan, Mason, and all the officers and soldiers were reveling in this moment.

They were victors entitled to their acclaim.

Not only did the soldiers enjoy their victory, but they were overwhelmed by "victory."

The people of Revodan were struck even more deeply than the soldiers.

Even in the Ancient Empire, which reveled in conquest and celebration, a citizen might never see a triumph in their lifetime, let alone for those living in the far-flung frontier of Revodan today.

The endless line of captives, carts filled with captured arms, exquisite seized military banners, and the awe-inspiring cavalry—all these firmly held the gaze of the people of Revodan.

Every single thing in the procession told them—"Victory! Beyond a doubt."

Excitement is infectious. When caught in the whirlwind of fervor, it becomes extremely difficult to remain rational.