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Chapter 553: The Empire's Afternoon
Inside the gates of Isthalia, banners fluttered and crowds surged.
Tens of thousands of imperial citizens gathered there, crowding both sides of the broad roads, waving flags and banners, cheering in waves to welcome the returning imperial army.
"For the Empire! For His Majesty Cassius!"
"Welcome home, heroes of the war to defend the nation!"
"Under His Majesty Cassius's wise leadership, the Empire has once again achieved a great victory!"
"Warm congratulations to all returning imperial heroes!"
In this passionate atmosphere, the Empire's soldiers marched in neat ranks, heads held high, stepping into the city with the rhythmic stomp of standardized leather boots.
Steam tanks rolled in behind them, their engines rumbling at low intensity, issuing deep growls like steel beasts.
These were also "heroes" of the war to defend the nation, having slain countless demons on the battlefield. Even their treads were stained purple-black with blood.
"By Cassius!"
"Steam tanks! These are our Empire's secret weapons!"
"What kind of monster could possibly damage these imperial war machines?!"
"Look, it's the Emperor's Wrath! They say it killed tens of thousands of demons in battle!"
At this moment, the "Emperor's Wrath" was covered in scars. Its left armor plate bore a shocking gash several meters long.
Yet this was no simple damage, but a testament to its glorious combat against monsters like Demon-Hunting Spiders and Slaughter Demons.
A dragon-blooded goblin wearing a "Hero of National Defense" medal stuck his head out of the tank, waving excitedly and shouting:
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live His Majesty Cassius!"
The crowd paid no mind to the goblin's race, enthusiastically responding, raising fists and echoing the cry of "Long live the Empire!"
This goblin, named Bill, had appeared in the Imperial Daily for killing multiple Demon-Hunting Spiders.
He had been awarded titles like "Loyal Imperial Tank Commander" and "Three-Foot Giant," becoming a role model among goblins, kobolds, and other often-scorned smaller races.
"Buzz—"
Steam whistles sprayed white mist, like roars from iron beasts. The spectacle amazed the watching crowd.
"This is the Empire's steam tank legion!"
"How impressive!"
"Even a goblin can become a war hero—I want to drive a tank too!"
Among the infantry was George, wearing his imperial uniform adorned with medals, standing at the front. As he looked at the celebrating crowd, a rush of emotions filled his heart.
He could feel his searing, dragon-blood-filled heart pounding within his chest.
"Another brilliant victory... as always.
No matter the enemy, His Majesty always leads us to victory—even when that enemy is godlike."
On the brutal battlefield, George had survived the siege of several Bazut Demons thanks to the red dragon's blessing, holding out until reinforcements arrived.
Just days ago, he had witnessed that earth-shattering battle, where the entire Anstica region became ruins, and a godlike Abyssal dragon fell before the emperor's feet.
"By Cassius!"
George quietly looked up at the towering Great Altar of Isthalia in the distance. The red dragon's majestic figure seemed to reappear before him.
The triumphant troops continued their march. The Empire's ogre heavy artillery corps, hobgoblin infantry corps, Crimson Scaled Conquerors, and Dragon-Oath Paladins—
These groups that had proven themselves in the demon invasion now paraded before the citizens, displaying the Empire's military might and evoking deep pride and belonging.
"Long live the Empire!"
"Long live His Majesty Cassius!"
The cheers echoed endlessly throughout the city of Isthalia, nearly all day long.
Even as night fell, under the dim streetlights and in the flickering taverns, drunken patrons still raised bottles, shouting those same slogans.
Postwar Ember Empire was always the liveliest, and in city squares across the land, festivities often lasted for days.
The returning soldiers needed alcohol and tobacco to forget war's pain, to release their long-restrained emotions, and to splurge their abundant spoils.
As such, returning soldiers were usually the most lavish spenders—especially those just back from the front lines, known to spend like rain.
Sensing this, sharp-nosed imperial merchants would hang banners reading "Soldiers First," "Welcome Home Heroes," or "Imperial Soldiers Receive Discounts" at their storefronts.
They laid out dazzling arrays of "special deals" for soldiers to buy in bulk, earning huge profits in mere days.
Players in the commercial sector came up with shameless marketing tactics to ride the hype, often dominating the market and raking in unending gold narls.
Even establishments offering "special services" advertised with slogans like "Reward the Heroes" or "Serving the Defenders of the Nation," both hilarious and absurd.
Meanwhile, the war brought a flood of orders to the Empire's arms factories. Workers toiled overtime but received generous bonuses—they were exhausted yet delighted.
Victory brought unimaginable rewards, energizing the economy and making imperial life vibrantly lively.
After repeated suicidal attacks by demons, hatred toward the Abyss had reached its peak—nearly a unanimous fury.
This war let the imperial people vent their rage, earning widespread cheers.
Tens of millions of abyssal demons were slain under the Empire's concentrated firepower. Even that mountain-sized Abyssal dragon was felled by the radiant and supreme His Majesty Cassius.
At the mention of that glorious victory, every citizen would puff their chest with pride and joy.
Three days had passed since the army's return, but the nightly celebrations continued, and the stirring "Cassius Anthem" echoed in the emperor's plaza.
"This grace, how could we forget? His Majesty made the mountain springs flow across the plains, blessed all lands with gentle rain."
Fired-up "Conquest Party" supporters marched in packs, singing crude songs about conquering the south.
Humans, hobgoblins, ogres, tieflings—soldiers from many races crowded the square, toasting together despite racial differences.
"Come! To the Empire, cheers!"
"To victory! Cheers!"
"Drink more! We barely survived, so now we live it up!"
An ogre roared, "Boss, two more barrels of ale! Yeah, the biggest ones—I'll chug them all!"
"Which front were you stationed at? I was in the third—fierce battles! I crawled out of a pile of corpses!"
"What a coincidence, I was third front artillery."
"Ha! Maybe you fired the shell that saved my life!"
Amid this lively scene, George and Grace, two unremarkable humans, stepped into a tavern.
The doorman was initially indifferent, but seeing George's "Hero Medal" and his badge as a Dragonblood Baron, his eyes lit up and he welcomed them warmly.
In the Empire, such military nobles were most revered. Taverns and shops loved them—for they often spent dozens of gold narls at a time.
The attendant blushed, gesturing, "Right this way, my lords. Let me take you to the VIP table."
George, clearly used to this treatment, replied casually, "No need. We'll find a spot ourselves."
The attendant nodded repeatedly, "Of course, sir. If you need anything, just call."
George and Grace found a quieter corner and ordered a few fine liquors.
—Including the wildly popular and extremely expensive "Song of Triumph," priced at three gold narls per bottle.
The server soon brought over the elegantly packaged bottles, gently shook them, and poured into their glasses.
Legend said "Song of Triumph" was specially brewed by a master brewer among the Starfallers, made for triumphant soldiers.
It was said to evoke the thrill of battlefield victory, flooding the mind with joy and triumph—but it came at a steep cost.
A single bottle cost months of wages for a common worker.
Though once a starving serf, George wasn't fond of luxury. But in this moment of triumph, he chose to treat himself.
"Heh, Grace...
I've always said, as long as His Majesty Cassius stands supreme, the Empire will never lose. Your worries... were unnecessary."
George gazed out the window at the bustling streets and downed his drink.
The magically infused warmth surged through his body, indeed recalling the thrill of slaying on the battlefield.
"Yeah... The Empire will always win."
Grace chuckled, shaking his head, "How foolish I was to ever doubt His Majesty."
Just a sip turned his face red, sweat beading on his forehead, and excitement flickering in his eyes.
George nodded slightly, then said seriously, "But... the demons were no joke. Totally different from those northern trash. They say this war cost over a hundred thousand lives."
Grace burst into laughter, "Still, we survived. Didn't we?"
He rose unsteadily, toasting George and nearby soldiers, "To victory! To surviving!"
George smiled, refilled his glass, and said softly, "To victory."
He raised his head and drained it in one gulp—yet his face remained calm, unaffected.
"Thud!"
Grace collapsed onto the table, drenched in sweat—just one glass and he was down.
It was said that "Song of Triumph" contained powdered flame drake bones, producing fierce effects. Even dragon-blooded beings could barely handle two glasses.
Lying on the table, Grace looked up at George with envy, "You really stole the show this time, George."
He leaned on his elbow, scanning George: "Your dragon blood concentration must be at five percent by now, right?"
He pointed at George's hand, where faint crimson scales could be seen.
"Close."
George nodded again and took another sip.
Grace marveled, "Tsk... Holding a ragtag squad alone, defending against elite abyssal heavy infantry—dozens of Bazut Demons, even killing some. No wonder you got the Hero Medal."
"Just luck."
George glanced at his scaly hand and replied, "If I hadn't awakened my dragon blood mid-battle, I'd be dead."
"Haha, Prime Minister Langpu once said: luck is part of strength. Without that clumsy mage apprentice, he'd still be just a regular ogre."
Grace, clearly drunk, let slip the Empire's well-known secret.
George's face changed and he quickly gestured to hush him. Langpu's vengefulness was notorious. Grace nodded knowingly.
"But... I don't envy you."
Grace leaned back, eyes glazed, staring at the dragon-claw carvings on the ceiling.
"Sure, life's better now. Back when I was a peasant under northern nobles, who dreamt of gold, wine, or fine food? But now I'm scared."
He trembled, voice shaky, fear on his face. He pointed to his heart and pounded it.
"You know, George—just one inch more, that demon's claw would've pierced my chest. My most trusted man blocked it. He took death for me. I could only... watch."
George frowned, "You mean—"
Grace's eyes dropped, a bitter smile on his face, "As much as I enjoy victory... I don't want to fight again. I'm afraid of losing everything. Afraid all this luxury will vanish like a dream."
He looked at George again: "You know, right? The Empire's next goal is the south—Feanso Continent.
But I'm tired of this uncertain life. I want to stay in Anzeta. They say His Majesty will give us power to guard the homeland.
What about you? What will you choose?"
George barely hesitated. He looked south, eyes burning.
"The south. I'll go to the south—to win land under the sun for the Empire. And for myself... to reach the true peak."
Even drunk, George's tone remained firm and resolute.
"Knew it. Still the same, Baron George.
Haha... I hope I live to see you become a duke. When I do, I'll salute your statue."
Grace, unsurprised, raised his glass again and said softly, "To the Empire."
"To the Empire."
George clinked glasses and drained his drink. A faint light flickered in his golden eyes, like dragonfire igniting.
Around them, ogres, hobgoblins, tieflings, lizardfolk—all kinds of soldiers raised their glasses, echoing the cry of "To the Empire."
Even the dragon-blooded goblin Bill, a fellow "Hero of National Defense," shouted it sharply.