Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Everyone deliberately maintained an appearance of being busy and calm, as if just a few raindrops had fallen on the lake's surface.

And yet everyone knew that in a not-so-large room above their heads, senior army officers urgently recalled from their respective states were holding a meeting concerning the fate of the Monta Republic, and even the Alliance's fate.

Everyone working at the Army Headquarters was extremely eager to know the outcome of the meeting, only lamenting that their ears couldn't fly to hear what was being discussed in the meeting room.

However, in fact, nothing was being discussed in the meeting room.

The Monta army generals and colonels, rarely gathered in one room, were silently smoking their pipes, with no one opening their mouth to speak.

Thick smoke filled the entire meeting room, even dimming the candlelight, just like the gloomy expressions on the faces of the military men present.

The public notice from the State Palace was thrown on the table, not even unsealed.

But even without opening the public notice, the senior officers present knew what the content was.

Although as early as two years ago, many Monta officers believed that the internal war in Paratu would be the spark for a full-blown civil war within the Alliance—no, to be precise, since the inception of the Alliance, many people had made pessimistic predictions about this unstable political structure.

The clouds of civil war had always hovered over the Alliance.

But when the "foresight" was really about to be fulfilled, the disaster prophets felt no joy, instead, the public notice on the table seemed as heavy as a thousand pounds.

Finally, someone broke the silence indignantly: "Paratus fighting Paratus, what does it have to do with us? Why should we bleed for a war the Provincial Guys want to fight?"

The speaker snatched the public notice from the table, held it in his hand, and angrily said: "Sending a piece of waste paper here and expecting to dispatch the Seventh Corps? Does Mayerhaus think he's the Pretender Emperor? Do those bastards in Guidao City really consider themselves a suzerain country?"

These words expressed what most people were thinking, and a faint voice of agreement rose in the meeting room.

"The arrogance of the United Provincial people is as usual," another magnetic voice resonated in the room: "But, the crucial issue is not with them but with us—we lack the ability to refuse."

The magnetic voice continued slowly: "Our people have to rely on grain exports from the Van Republic to survive, our government depends on funds from the Provincial Bank to operate, and our production still relies on firms from the United Provinces to purchase. The truth may make dignity bleed, but ignoring the truth, the bleeding will extend beyond just dignity—whether the Montans are willing or not, the Monta Republic has long been bound to the chariot of the United Provincials."

The owner of the magnetic voice picked up the public notice and tapped on the bright wax seal: "More importantly—this order is not issued by the United Provincials but by the Great Council of the Monta Republic! Legally, we can only comply."

"Cut it out!" The colonel who spoke earlier slammed the table and stood up: "The State Palace is full of puppets from the United Provinces! Who doesn't know that?"

"You're right, so what do you plan to do?" The owner of the magnetic voice calmly retorted: "Stage a coup like the United Provincials?"

This time, there was no voice of agreement in the meeting room, instead, it was eerily quiet.

The colonel who spoke earlier was also stumped by the question, his face flushed, fists clenched, teeth grinding audibly.

"If you can't take responsibility," the general sitting at the end of the meeting table reprimanded solemnly, "don't say it out loud."

The owner of the magnetic voice nodded in acknowledgment and sat back down, composedly.

The general scanned both sides of the long table, continuing word by word: "The spearmen can only survive on the battlefield by standing shoulder to shoulder. The more dangerous the time, the more the army must clench together like a fist. Regardless of what today's resolution is, no one is allowed to dissent."

"Yes, sir," a round of low voices of compliance echoed in the meeting room.

The general's gaze zeroed in on a silent old subordinate to his right, unceremoniously calling him out by name: "Marx, from the start you've been there smoking with your head down, so? Nothing to say?"

Under the scrutiny of everyone's eyes, [Marx Berni] the colonel put down his pipe, and twirled the broken iron ring on his finger: "I've been pondering... General Alpad's fate."

"No nonsense," the general ordered bluntly, "speak up!"

"According to the plans from the United Provinces side," Colonel Berni's brows furrowed tighter as he continued, seriously asking: "Does General Alpad... still have a chance to win the war?"

Glancing around at his colleagues, Colonel Berni saw negative answers in everyone's eyes.

"This time the United Provincials are all in, mobilizing not only us but also the Van Republic's army," the first colonel to speak asserted irritably: "We're attacking the northern line, with the United Provincials and the Varns attacking the eastern line, even if that old guy Alpad is a great fighter, there's no way he can withstand a double-edged attack. Besides, how many troops does he have? Squeeze them dry and they still can't outlast the United Provincials."

After these words, many in the meeting room let out a sigh.

Participants in this meeting were all seasoned career officers, and although many emotionally hoped that Alpad could give the United Provincials a good thrashing, the strengths and the situation of both sides were plain to see, the outcome was obvious.

"However," the magnetic voice rose once more: "Who can ever be sure about what might happen on the battlefield?"