"Who is he?" Selene asked, curiosity flashing in her crimson eyes.
The man bound before her was clearly different from the other captives. His skin was much fairer than that of the dark-skinned southwestern tribes.
"General," one officer reported, "he may look like one of the tribesmen, but his accent gives him away—he's from the Empire's southern provinces. We haven't interrogated him yet, but judging from his position, he's likely a liaison officer—one of the rebel intermediaries tasked with coordinating with the tribes."
The officer sneered and kicked the man in the ribs. "Tch. Filthy traitors."
"Rebel forces, huh?" Selene murmured. "Then there's no need for interrogation. Just execute—wait…" She paused, then a faint smile appeared. "No. Send him to Patripol City. Let the so-called 'people' put him on trial."
Her tone turned faintly mocking. "Aren't these rebels always claiming to be liberators, fighting to overthrow the Empire's so-called tyranny? Fine then—let the people judge them. I wonder if the very citizens they doomed to starvation and exile will forgive them."
To destroy a man's body is simple. To destroy his spirit—that's the true art of war.
"Oh, and send a few extra men to guard him," Selene added lightly. "I don't want to hear about some ridiculous 'escaped prisoner' incident later."
"Yes, General!"
Selene already knew how this would end. Once the people of Patripol learned what this man had done—inviting foreign invaders that left thousands dead and homeless—he wouldn't last an hour. They'd tear him apart with their bare hands.
She turned her attention back to her officers. "Did you capture the tribal leader? Alive or dead?"
"Alive, General. Bring him forward!"
Two massive Imperial soldiers dragged a bloodied man forward like a carcass. He was barely conscious, his fine ornaments shattered, his body covered in wounds.
"This is the chieftain of the southwestern tribes," one officer said. "He's one of the four main instigators of the raids on Imperial territory. Three are already dead. Only the southern rebels remain. These letters—" he held up a bundle of documents, "—were found in his palace. Correspondence between him and the rebel army."
Selene took the papers, flipping through them casually before turning her gaze to the kneeling chieftain. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
"I am a vassal of the Empire! I hold an Imperial title! I demand to see His Majesty! You have no right to judge me!" the chieftain shouted, emboldened by Selene's calm expression.
Thud!
"Silence!" Before he could say another word, an officer stepped forward and punched him in the stomach, forcing him to collapse, gasping and choking.
"How dare you speak that way to the General!" the officer barked. "You stand before the Commander of the Eighth and Ninth Imperial Guard Legions—the supreme authority over all Imperial forces in the southwest—"
"Enough," Selene interrupted, raising a hand. "No need to lecture a dead man." Her lips curved into a cold, amused smile. "You really are shameless, aren't you?"
"Oh, the hypocrisy. When you win, it's 'resisting tyranny,' 'fighting for freedom,' and 'securing land for your people.' But the moment you lose, you suddenly remember you're an Imperial noble—a loyal vassal."
"When you were raiding Imperial villages and burning our towns, did you think of yourself as a vassal then?" She tilted her head. "And now, with one breath, you think a few words can erase the blood you've spilled? How convenient."
She waved a hand. "Take him away. Dismember his limbs, but keep him alive. I want him as proof of our victory."
Then, turning to her officers, she declared, "We march home!"
With the battle over and the counts complete, Selene issued her order to return. Leading over a hundred thousand captured prisoners, the Imperial army began its triumphant march back toward the Empire.
The captured tribal chieftain would make the perfect trophy for her return to the Capital. No doubt Minister Honest would welcome such a victory—it would further secure his fragile political position.
"Honest," Selene murmured with a smirk, "you'll owe me dearly for this."
...
The Imperial Capital — Southern "Lake" District Dock.
A few idle citizens lounged under the shade of trees, looking toward the central island where the Imperial Guard garrison stood.
"I heard the nobles are furious," one man chuckled. "They can't claim a single piece of land or profit from that entire 'lake.'"
"Ha! Let them fume," another replied. "What are they going to do—complain to General Selene? They'd have to be suicidal."
Before the onlookers lay a breathtaking sight—hundreds of colossal ships, towering and magnificent, occupied most of the docks lining both shores of the "Lake Island." Along the banks, the Imperial Guard stood in tightly packed formations, gleaming weapons at the ready as they kept watch over every direction.
Blades and bayonets glittered under the sunlight, a clear warning that no civilians were allowed to pass.
On the great bridge, construction continued without pause. Countless laborers moved about like a swarm of bees within the narrow, hive-like structure, while the overseers—almost all from Selene's Ninth Imperial Guard Legion—maintained strict order.
Everywhere one looked, the project bore the mark of Imperial authority. No private noble, merchant, or guild had any stake in it. Only the Empire—and Selene herself. Naturally, this had enraged the wealthy elites of the capital, who now saw their lucrative opportunities slipping away.
Some, blinded by greed, had even dared to try their luck, reasoning that as native magnates of the Imperial Capital, it was only "fair" for them to share in such a massive enterprise taking place on their home turf.
But those fools quickly learned their place. The first one who tried was hung by Sebas at the bridge's entrance—left dangling in the cold wind for three whole days and nights.
Though not as ruthlessly brutal as his mistress (had it been Selene herself, the man and his family would likely have been erased from existence), Sebas was nonetheless a devoted and capable steward. Protecting his lady's assets was part of his duty—and he performed it with quiet, unyielding efficiency.
He was kind, yes—but not the sort of man to be toyed with by every petty schemer and parasite in the capital.
That single act was enough to remind the entire aristocracy of the truth: even in General Selene's absence, her old butler was no less formidable.
Realizing resistance was futile, the city's noble families quickly adopted a more pragmatic attitude. So what if we lose a little profit? they told themselves. Consider it an offering to General Selene.
When faced with overwhelming power, people always find ways to rationalize submission.
After all, what else could they do? Did anyone really expect these pampered lords to stand against a woman like Selene—the same general who leveled mountains and massacred armies without blinking?
By now, even the common folk of the Imperial Capital knew the truth behind the lake's creation: it was born from General Selene's "ultimate technique," God's Wrath.
Then, suddenly—
From the bridge construction site came a roar of cheers and celebration.
"What's going on?" one of the citizens asked.
"Sounds like good news—victory on the front lines!" another replied.
Following the noise, countless civilians turned their heads just in time to see a squadron of Imperial couriers galloping in from the south, banners fluttering behind them as they passed through the city gates and raced straight toward the royal palace.
Their voices rang out loud and clear along the streets:
"Victory in the southwest! A great triumph for the Empire!"