"Long live Julius!!!"
"Long live the Marshal!!"
"Long live Julius!!!"
"..."
Triumph City.
This is the expedition place where millions of Weilante people place their spirit and faith, and also the heart of the Giant that occupies two-thirds of the world.
At this mont, this city, covering millions of square kiloters, reverberates with the shouts of millions.
People stand on the streets, holding torches in their hands, and unleash all their emotions in that chorus of shouting.
That is the na of their leader.
It’s also their faith!
In his na, they have fought countless worlds, conquering tens of millions of square kiloters of land.
And now, they just hope he will wake up...
Glory Court.
This is the tallest building in the entire Triumph City, and also the Marshal’s residence and the Imperial Guard’s base.
Over a thousand steps lift the tens of ters high arch from the ground, and a century of storms and rains have left traces of ti on the magnificent marble relief.
A century ago, to commorate the founding of Triumph City and the hard-won freedom, Weilante people leveled a marble mountain to build this grand wonder.
This is both a gift to Marshal Julius and a monunt built to commorate the opening of a great era.
At this mont, the burning stars at its foot connected into flowing rivers, like the giant’s pulse.
At the convergence of those stars and gazes, a tall man, with piercing eyes, stands with a straight spine, along with his not-so-high nose bridge.
Yes.
He is not a Weilante, just like the one disappeared a century ago.
Although neither are Weilante, they both possess qualities that Weilante people aspire to.
For example, bravery.
For example, loyalty.
For example, fearlessness against power.
It is precisely because of these differences, without the heavy historical burdens, he can speak the thoughts in Weilante people’s hearts which could never be said aloud.
"...Since you don’t want to say anything and don’t know what to say, then call his na!"
"All survivors of suffering! All survivors who do not yield to authority! Let your god hear your devout cries! Let him open his eyes and see what exactly has happened beneath his feet!"
"And let us see, who is truly afraid! Who is fearful! Who is trembling, who least wants him to awaken!"
The Battlefield Atmosphere Group clenched their fists and shouted deafeningly towards the bustling crowd.
Pairs of passionate gazes focused on him, and the loud shouting responded to him.
The entire Triumph City’s guard team was mobilized, including the city defense army stationed within the city.
Yet, even if all of them combined, they couldn’t encircle that surging crowd.
Not only that.
So guards and soldiers even joined the crowd.
They did nothing wrong, they just called Julius’s na.
In the Army, Julius is synonymous with correctness.
No Weilante would ever question the loyalty they spend their life embodying.
In other words, even the most shaless scoundrel, who uses the Marshal and loyalty as tools for personal gain, cannot order the arrest of a Weilante for their heartfelt loyalty to Marshal Julius.
Loyalty!
It’s not just sothing that Weilante people regard as honor.
It is also the source of their legitimacy!
When praise is no longer praise, cheering is no longer cheering, this unstoppable sword of authority ultimately stabs back like a boorang.
Not only the faction represented by the Southern Legion, the other three great legions and even the Civil Official Group are all helpless at this mont.
After all, none of them have enough confidence to claim they’re absolutely clean without exploiting Weilante people under the Marshal’s na and distorting their mission.
To say the least, that fellow nad "Pangolin" has offended all the interest groups he could... even those civil official groups who sympathize with him and have helped him.
Except for the People.
Or, say, the ordinary people long ignored living within the Legion.
That is the only group he has not offended.
Not only that, he stands firmly with them.
And they never abandoned him.
Weilante people can be suppressed, but they will never abandon their hero.
No matter whether he is a Weilante or not.
And that is the greatest difference between Weilante people and the Mouse Tribe, Snake Race, Horse Tribe People, etc.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, Brock held a cigarette at the corner of his mouth, with more lying at his feet.
"...I’ve been a guard for twenty years, and it’s the first ti I’ve seen so many people simultaneously shouting that great man’s na."
Beside him stood his colleague, a Centurion who had retired from the front lines.
The face, ravaged by ti, was indistinguishable between wrinkles and scars, with the years etched onto it like the rings of a tree.
However, compared to Brock, he was more magnanimous, rely squinting his eyes as he smiled.
"Marshal above, I don’t believe you haven’t heard this. Anyway, it’s sothing I keep on my lips every day."
Brock glanced at him, then at the crowd not far away, muttering under his breath.
"I’m talking about the sa ti."
And yet...
Can such offhand remarks truly compare with this current scene?
Not to ntion, there are so many people here.
Staring at the excited crowd, he gradually felt a heat on his back, spontaneously considering joining these madn after handing over his shift.
Perhaps the marshal could really be called out by them?
This wasn’t impossible after all.
Most people don’t live that long, yet in this world, there exists a series of technologies like "cryogenic sleep" and "DNA telore repair."
The inevitable birth, illness, and death for ordinary people had many solutions for that esteed individual.
The more Brock thought, the more tempted he beca.
But just then, a group of ard soldiers approached.
His colleague nudged his shoulder.
Brock was startled awake, imdiately looking to the ard soldiers and the Ten Thousand Leader standing ahead of them.
The Ten Thousand Leader stared at him expressionlessly, commanding indifferently.
"Move aside!"
Sohow, courage supported his spine, and Brock did not retreat but squinted his eyes.
"What’s your na?"
Adjusting the brim of his officer hat, the man fixed his gaze on him, slightly raising his nose.
"Glaston, Ten Thousand Leader of the 11th troop of the City Defense Army, and you?"
"Brock, Centurion of the Enforcent Team of Gryphon Street, Triumph City Guard," raising his chin just like Glaston, who looked at him with disdain, "What if I say no?"
Hearing the refusal, Glaston was briefly shocked for two seconds, then glared at him fiercely.
"This is a command from Legion Leader Teil! Do you intend to rebel?"
Listening to the arrogant tone, Brock remained unmoved, coldly laughing.
"Legion Leader Teil? Ha, I don’t recall swearing loyalty to him. If you want to lick his rear, feel free not to involve . But if you wish to defy the marshal’s order, you’d better step over my dead body first."
"You..." A soldier angrily stepped forward, hand pressing on his waist.
Just as he intended to go up and teach this ignorant guard a lesson, he was stopped by the officer beside him.
Glaston stepped forward, squinting his eyes at Brock who refused to budge.
His gaze was like the wolf’s claw.
After a while, he said in a low voice.
"Think about your family, especially your child... I guess he’s probably a military school student. Are you sure you want to oppose the South Wind Legion? Are you willing to jeopardize his future over this?"
"Ha, finally resorting to that tactic?" Brock scoffed as he flicked his finished cigarette butt in front of Glaston’s boots, "My family doesn’t need you dogs to worry; they’re brave warriors who will only feel proud of my decision today."
Brock did not know that, thousands of kiloters away in Giant Stone City, soone had once said these words.
Heroic choices among heroes always coincide, even if they don’t stand in the sa position.
Looking at the obstinate guard, Glaston was so enraged internally that he wished to tear the guy apart.
However, he couldn’t do so.
Triumph City isn’t under the dominion of the Southern Legion; he must consider the stances of the other three legions and the Civil Official Group.
If he does not want to beco Cannon Fodder in factional battles.
Just as he was caught in a dilemma, a voice suddenly ca through the communication channel.
It was the voice of the Southern Legion’s Chief of Staff.
"...Retreat."
Glaston was stunned for a mont.
"But—"
"The leader of the Imperial Guard has co out."
Imperial Guard!
Hearing the term, a hint of apprehension finally crossed Glaston’s face, instinctively glancing towards the steps at the end of the crowd.
A faintly visible figure stood at the edge of those steps, overlooking the bustling districts below.
Although the Imperial Guard rarely appears in the political scene of Triumph City, everyone knows they’re the eyes of the marshal, tasked with conveying his orders.
If those guards serve as priests to the gods, then the leader of the Imperial Guard is akin to the chief priest.
Few know that the leader of the Imperial Guard is technically also a Legion Leader.
However, since this Legion Leader is as enigmatic as the marshal, rarely appearing in public view.
Thus, in most contexts, people assu there are only four Legion Leaders.
In an instant, Glaston had understood the implications, glaring angrily at the unyielding guard before him, and signaled his confidants to retreat.
Watching Glaston slink away, Brock couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows in triumph.
What Ten Thousand Leader.
It’s nothing special.
However, since the choice has been made, there’s no turning back.
Looking back at the thousands of compatriots standing behind him, Brock’s mouth curled into a smile.
He had muddled through the first half of his life, and only now did he truly understand his mission.
What he defended and was loyal to should never be the authority of one person or group.
But order.
And the dignity of all Weilante people.
At this mont, the voices of his colleagues reached his ears.
"The Marshal above... is the officer of the Imperial Guard!"
"Rezer..." The elderly guard’s pupils shrank into a dot, his face full of disbelief, muttering under his breath, "He’s actually still alive..."
Hearing the cries of disbelief, Brock suddenly lifted his head, gazing past the masses, and saw the old man standing on the steps of marble arches thousands of steps high.
He wore a scarlet robe, his face marked by age spots, yet the golden painted power armor he wore was lifelike.
The city’s clamor fell silent, everyone’s gaze fixed on him.
Those countless gazes were filled with surprise and bewildernt like Brock’s, and so were apprehensive and scared like Glaston’s.
Excitent, fear, joy, anger, and countless expressions that are indescribable filled everyone’s faces.
The one constant was the burning torches.
Everyone waited for his answer.
Rezer slowly lowered his head, his cloudy and sharp pupils like a vulture’s gaze.
His gaze fell on everyone’s head, finally stopping at the man standing below the stone stairs.
The man called Pangolin looked at him unflinchingly, like everyone else, waiting.
The whole world seed to hit pause, as if a century had passed.
Just as the Battlefield Atmosphere Group’s hearts began to drum, doubting whether the server had frozen, the old man finally broke the silence, slowly speaking.
"When I was a child, Marshal Julius told ... that on one future day, a young man different from all of us would co from the lands the legion had not conquered, and stand on the steps of the Glory Court, to tell the Weilante people the other aning of loyalty..."
"He didn’t tell us the aning."
The voice was not loud, even weak, like a kite about to have its string snapped, yet in the quiet night, it was clear and firm.
The Battlefield Atmosphere Group held their breath, staring at the old man in power armor atop the thousand steps, listening quietly to every word, fearful of missing a single word.
An intuitive sense told him, he had one foot already at the mission’s finish line.
This began with a joke, a hidden mission so long he nearly forgot his real ID, and now it was finally about to be completely fulfilled!
However, halfway through his words, the old man suddenly stopped, his eyes lost in mories cleared once again.
"Seems you are the one the Marshal has been waiting for."
After saying this, he turned around, stepping towards the dozens of ters high archway behind him.
"Follow ."
"I’ll take you to et him."
...
A century has passed since Marshal Julius disappeared from the public’s view.
Or to say it more accurately, it’s been a century and 14 years.
No one told the Weilante people where their revered Marshal went, or if he was still alive.
The loyal Imperial Guard stands guard over the Glory Court like statues before Valhalla, day after day for a century.
Now finally soone has found the key to open that door, and is ready to unveil the final answer to those gazing upon it.
"Hope Sir Julius is still alive..." An old man raised his torch, dry lips moving, praying silently, "Hope he points us the direction forward, lost in confusion."
So remained silent, just quietly watching the man ascending one step at a ti.
years...
If that lord is truly still alive, he might be over 200 years old.
Instead of hoping he’s alive, it might be better to hope he’s hidden his wisdom in a desk drawer.
Standing among the crowd, Penny involuntarily clenched her fist, silently praying.
But unlike those around her, she’s not praying for the Marshal’s health, or for a perfect solution the lord left under the desk.
After all, whether such a thing exists or not was decided long ago.
Whether she prays or not will not change a thing.
However, although she does not believe in the power of prayer itself, she believes in him who can gather so many people.
Miracles have happened nurous tis.
Let it happen once more!
Just as the Battlefield Atmosphere Group followed the footsteps of Imperial Guard Legion Leader Rezer, walking towards the arch at the top of the stairs, sowhere across the Western Ocean’s New Continent in a secret room, a secret eting was being held.
Here were the high ranks of the Western Legion.
Unlike other Weilante people.
They are born adventurers and sailors daring to fight against mighty waves.
Rather than waiting for others to decide their future, they prefer to make choices themselves.
In front of the conference table.
A man with his beard curled upward placed his right fist on the table and stared angrily at the image on the holographic screen, saying,
"These idiots... Do they not know that this is the scene His Excellency the Marshal least wants to see?"
His na is Enoch, a three-star Ten Thousand Leader affiliated with the Western Legion.
Being an academic officer who almost entered the Imperial Guard, he is confident that he understands Sir Julius better than anyone.
Although the Weilante people often ntion that gentleman’s na, he is aware that the Marshal actually does not wish for his children to do so.
In the words of that gentleman himself, that appearance is simply like a child who refuses to grow up.
Of course.
While saying this, what he truly fears is another matter.
What if these guys actually wake up His Excellency the Marshal?
Even if the probability is small, it’s not impossible.
He once heard a rumor that when all the survivors of Triumph City are calling Julius’s na, Marshal Julius will step out of the Glory Court wearing his armor and lead the Weilante people to eliminate all those who enslaved them.
If the legendary story really happened, he simply couldn’t imagine what such a scene would look like.
At least, the "River Valley People," "Jinchuan People," and "Haiya People" haven’t enslaved the Weilante people; even if they did, it was ancient history from the War Construction Committee period...
Enoch nervously looked at the Legion Leader sitting at the head of the conference table, hoping he could say or do sothing.
However, the Legion Leader sitting there remained silent, and instead, Cliff, another Ten Thousand Leader opposite Enoch, interjected.
"But it’s indeed happening now."
Unlike Enoch, he is only a two-star Ten Thousand Leader.
However, one thing they share in common is that they are both Weilante people from Triumph City and graduated from the military academy there.
Enoch shot him a puzzled glance, then squinted his eyes into slits.
"What do you an..."
Cliff responded to his gaze with unwavering resolve and unflinching tone,
"I an, we all bear responsibility for things developing to this point today. Touch your heart, does anything exist there besides power?"
Enoch stood up furiously.
"Cliff, do you want to betray us? Betray everyone sitting here?"
Cliff also stood up, removed the dal from his chest, and slamd it on the conference table.
"From start to finish, the only one worthy of my loyalty has been one person and all the Weilante people."
There’s really no difference between the two.
Not only Cliff got up, but three other Ten Thousand Leaders also rose.
They left behind every dal they had gotten from the New Continent, retaining only those belonging to Triumph City, then walked out of the conference room with heads held high.
Enoch gritted his teeth and stared at the backs of those leaving, clenching his fist fiercely, only sitting down indignantly after the door closed.
"These cowards..."
Now, the room was left with only the faction of the Western Legion; the officers from Triumph City had completely split from them.
There’s no doubt that they will likely sail back to Triumph City later to greet the so-called Marshal.
As for whether to tamper with their ship, that’s a decision for the Legion Leader to make, not for a three-star Ten Thousand Leader like him.
Another Ten Thousand Leader sitting not far from him snorted coldly, speaking in a leisurely manner,
"Perhaps they’re just opportunistic gamblers... It’s already the Wasteland Era 214; no one truly believes that His Excellency the Marshal is still alive, right?"
Another person across the conference table said in a low voice,
"What if he’s no longer there?"
"I don’t know," the Chief of Staff from the General Staff shook his head and, with a aningful tone, uttered the first words since the start of this eting, "Before the box is opened, no one knows what color the mouse that runs out will be."
However, one thing is predictable: the great migration of the Weilante people is about to begin.
Weilante people loyal to the Marshal will return to Triumph City, and those loyal to power will head south.
Of course, this is not their only choice.
Tradition-bound ones can also go to the Eastern Legion or Northern Corps.
And if they’re tired of endless choices and traditional rules, they can go to the New Continent.
This might not be a bad thing for the Western Legion.
They have tribunes, a citizen assembly, and many things the old world did not have.
No matter how this reshuffle plays out, they will not lose out; at most, they’ll gain less.
Whispering continued in the secret chamber.
People exchanged opinions, imagined the choices of the Western Legion in this upheaval, and considered nurous future possibilities.
Only the Legion Leader sitting at the head of the conference table had an eye flickering with unknown secrets.
No one knew what he was thinking.
Not even his closest confidants.
But everyone was clear that this esteed figure had already made his decision.
And not just him, other Legion Leaders were the sa.
The Weilante people stood at the crossroads of fate.
It was ti to make a choice...
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