The Mad Spearman of the Northern Front - Chapter 272

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Mad Spearman of the Northern Front (272)
“…What did you say?”
Marcello, the Second Prince of the Neolth Kingdom, could not fathom the news before him.
His hand trembled faintly as he held the letter, and the faint rustling of thin parchment seemed unnaturally loud.
“Belakrod… that damned bastard….”
The curse that escaped his lips was whispered, yet the shock and fury contained within could not be concealed.
Marcello’s gaze fell back upon the letter.
He reread the same sentences countless times, but the content remained unchanged.
Belakrod dead.
Rebellion suppressed.
Imperial Palace control failed.
Brief sentences, yet their weight transcended imagination.
Belakrod’s rebellion had swept across the Empire like a tempest.
Meticulously timed preparation.
Cooperative forces within the Capital.
And military strength to support from without.
Everything had aligned—a game that could not fail.
That was why.
Marcello too had lent his hand to that perilous rebellion.
He had been certain that when Belakrod seized the Empire, this merit would be returned as an extraordinary reward.
And if relations with the Empire were established, the very landscape of the succession war he now waged could be dramatically transformed.
But….
That rebellion had failed, and a letter announcing Belakrod’s death now lay clutched in his hand.
Marcello’s pupils dilated violently.
His heart began to beat irregularly.
This failure of the rebellion was not simply Belakrod’s failure alone.
With Belakrod’s death, all those who had stood beside him would likewise come under scrutiny.
And somewhere on that list, the possibility that his own name was written.
Marcello’s fingers clenched the edge of the letter.
The paper crumpled.
His mind had gone blank, unable to comprehend how to manage this situation.
No calculations came, no excuses, no next moves.
And in that moment.
Thud.
“…?!”
The door suddenly burst open with violence.
The door panel struck the wall with a dull sound that echoed through the room.
Marcello reflexively lifted his head.
Then the Royal Palace Guard Unit surged into the room.
With the clash of steel armor, the air within the room instantly froze with tension.
Standing at the center of it all was a figure.
Bahelon, Captain of the Royal Palace Guard Unit.
His posture was as composed as always, yet his gaze had grown far colder than usual.
There was neither courtesy nor hesitation in the way he looked at Marcello.
Bahelon spoke, his eyes fixed on Marcello.
“His Majesty has just issued an order for you to bring the Prince at once.”
“Wait, hold on!”
Marcello shot to his feet, his voice urgent.
The chair scraped sharply against the floor.
If he had learned of this news, then his father, the King, must already know as well.
Which meant there could be only one reason.
‘He’s summoning me.’
No.
Not summoning—dragging me in.
Marcello’s throat tightened visibly.
His mouth had gone completely dry.
Despite his urgent cry, Bahelon’s expression did not change in the slightest.
If anything, his gaze grew even colder.
One step.
Bahelon stepped forward.
“Should you resist…”
His voice was low but rang with absolute clarity.
“I have orders to sever one of your limbs if necessary and bring you by force.”
The room froze completely.
The guards standing behind him placed their hands on their weapons without a word.
The order had already been given; they were merely its instruments.
“So then.”
The blade sang as it left the sheath.
Bahelon drew his sword with a metallic whisper.
The cool ring of steel cut through the silence.
The exposed blade caught the dim light, gleaming with lethal coldness.
He held the sword low, regarding Marcello with a merciless expression.
“Come willingly.”
There was no negotiation in those words, no persuasion.
Only a choice remained.
Marcello’s face drained of color visibly.
The hand that had been clutching the letter moments before trembled helplessly.
The air in the room grew suffocatingly heavy.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
And Marcello, standing at the center of it all, could only stare at Bahelon in silence.
* * *
In just a single night, an enormous tempest had swept through.
The Capital, shrouded in darkness, had become a battlefield where blood, flames, screams, and the clang of metal intertwined—and at its center, the Imperial Palace lay utterly devastated.
And now.
Every remaining conspirator had been apprehended, and most of those in high positions had been cut down on the spot.
Those who resisted fell to the blade, and those who fled were captured somewhere in the alleys.
Not a single one escaped.
As the sun rose, all of it was resolved as if it had been a lie.
What remained were only the dried traces of blood, piles of shattered stone, and the ragged breathing of those who had fought through the night.
“Move the wounded at once!”
“Hey, clear the equipment over there! They’re in the way with all that moving back and forth!”
Shouts and orders erupted from every direction, filling the space before the Imperial Palace.
The debris of the collapsed Castle Wall was cleared away, and the wounded were loaded onto stretchers and carried one by one to the Rear Position.
Soldiers moved busily across the bloodstained ground.
They carried stones, collected weapons, and checked for lingering embers, erasing all traces of the battlefield.
The Capital was swiftly regaining its original appearance under the thorough control of the soldiers.
The expressions of the Imperial Citizens watching the scene were complex.
Curiosity.
Relief.
And an anxiety that had not yet fully dissipated.
Through window cracks, at the edges of alleys, and from behind collapsed buildings, there were cautious gazes peering out.
Though they had guessed what had transpired through the night, few had directly witnessed the reality of it.
And….
“I haven’t the faintest idea where to even begin with this.”
Sedrian, standing before the shattered Imperial Palace, murmured quietly.
His gaze was fixed upon the utterly devastated Imperial Palace.
The traces of entire stone walls torn away.
It resembled less an Imperial Palace and more a vast ruin.
“…I share your sentiment, Your Majesty.”
Svein replied quietly.
He too could not tear his gaze from the sight before him.
Constructing an Imperial Palace is an entirely different realm from ordinary architecture.
It was not merely about the symbolic meaning of centuries of history, prestige, and the authority of the Empire contained within such a space.
Each pillar supporting the Imperial Palace was made of material far beyond the dimension of ordinary stone.
A single pillar contained easily over ten kilograms of precious metal, and refining it was another matter entirely.
Likely, millions of Gold would be spent on restoring the Imperial Palace alone.
‘But….’
Sedrian slowly shifted his gaze.
Beyond the wreckage, a single figure moving among the soldiers.
Arteon.
Sedrian spoke one last time, looking at him.
“You are truly remarkable, are you not.”
“…I agree entirely, Your Majesty.”
At Svein’s brief response, a faint smile crossed Sedrian’s lips.
But that smile did not last long.
Soon his expression grew serious once more.
“Then let us set aside our lamentations here. There is far too much work to be done. But tell me—where has His Majesty been moved?”
“He has been safely relocated to the Annex in the Capital Outskirts. He has not yet awakened from his slumber.”
Sedrian’s gaze lingered for a moment in empty space.
“When Father awakens… I do not know how to explain the current situation to him.”
A short sigh escaped.
Worries piled up like mountains, but this was not the time to surrender to emotion.
Recovery came first.
And in that same space.
Arteon observed the soldiers moving about busily.
“….”
Though I had made every effort to prevent them from being injured, it was impossible to resolve such a grave matter without any casualties.
Complex emotions flickered in Arteon’s eyes.
But then it happened.
“Commander.”
Isaac approached Arteon’s side and spoke.
“What are you doing here?”
“…Nothing. More importantly, how are things with the collapsed Castle Wall?”
At Arteon’s question, Isaac shrugged his shoulders.
“Well… aside from the section you destroyed, there is not much that requires significant repair. Besides, there is no one else who could demolish such a thick wall.”
A knowing smile appeared on his face.
Isaac turned his head to look toward where the wounded lay.
“Since we fought in a way that minimized bloodshed, there are almost no fatalities or seriously wounded. Most should be able to return to their normal duties after resting for about a month.”
Those who were severely injured had only broken arms or legs.
Even those were not fatal wounds.
Arteon nodded quietly.
“You have worked hard.”
It was a brief statement, but sincerity lay within it.
At that, Isaac scratched his head and laughed.
“You are too kind. All we did was provide support, after all.”
But then.
“Ah, you two! What are you doing? Do you not see us moving these stones?!”
A sharp cry erupted from the work site behind them.
Arteon and Isaac turned their heads simultaneously.
Bartell, his face covered in dust, waved his hands.
“Come on, everyone!”
At his shout, the Silent Spear Unit members nearby laughed and cheered in unison.
“The Unit Commander should do some work too!”
“Today we’re all laborers, laborers!”
Isaac chuckled at the sight.
Tap.
Arteon lightly tapped Isaac’s arm.
“Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting.”
The two moved toward the pile of rubble without further words.
They naturally blended in among the soldiers carrying stones and clearing away collapsed walls.
The tension of the battlefield had vanished, leaving only sweat, dust, and laughter-filled shouts.
Finally….
It felt as though something had returned to its proper place.
But that was when it happened.
“Arteon.”
“…?”
Arteon turned his head at the sudden call from behind.
It was Belkain, and Duke Carbain standing beside him.
Belkain spoke to Arteon.
“Can we talk for a moment?”
At his serious expression, Arteon’s face hardened as well.
* * *
It was a dark secret chamber.
A windowless space. Within the room, surrounded by thick stone walls, only a handful of palm-sized lamps flickered dimly.
The firelight wavered unsteadily, and the shadows of those seated around the round table twisted grotesquely across the wall surface.
One figure’s shadow swelled like a colossal monster, while another was compressed as if pressed against the floor.
It was a middle-aged man’s low voice that first broke the silence.
“The continent will be thrown into turmoil. It’s as though we’ve tickled the nose hairs of a sleeping lion.
A dull sound pierced through the stillness of the secret chamber.
Several nodded at his words, but the man seated across from him gave a light shrug.
“However, the damage won’t spread to our side.”
His tone was matter-of-fact.
It was the attitude of one who had already made his calculations.
Another figure seated beside him rested his chin and murmured.
“That’s right. Considering Prince Sedrian’s temperament as we’ve come to understand it… wouldn’t he first focus on containing what’s happened now?”
There was already a mountain of matters to handle within the Empire alone.
There was no room to turn their blades outward.
Various opinions were exchanged.
Within the low-voiced conversation, calculation lay thicker than tension.
And….
“…I wouldn’t know.”
A man who had been listening quietly opened his mouth.
His voice was not loud, yet it somehow pressed down upon the space.
“How the Empire’s blade will move because of this incident.”
A sudden silence descended upon the Secret Chamber.
After a moment, another man slowly spoke.
“Still, it would be wise to prepare ourselves.”
His eyes gleamed as they caught the lamplight.
“If they were to turn their blades toward us, that alone would pose an enormous threat.”
There was no exaggeration in those words.
The very name of the Empire was already a sufficiently immense threat.
A younger man who had been hesitating carefully opened his mouth.
“There are rumors that Prince Belakrod failed because of a new 8-Star monster, not Duke Carbain of the Empire.”
In that instant, the air in the Secret Chamber grew heavy.
The lamp flickered faintly despite the absence of wind.
Everyone seemed to hold their breath, and no one spoke.
A new 8-Star.
The meaning of those words transcended mere rumor.
An existence that would shake the balance of power across the Continent.
But as if to break that silence, a man let out a dry laugh.
“Rumors are always bound to be exaggerated, after all.”
He waved his hand lightly and continued.
“Rather, it would be more accurate to say that the Empire’s military strength has weakened with Jaife Bouldin’s death. There’s no need to be swayed by unconfirmed, absurd rumors.”
Several nodded at his words.
It was a realistic assessment.
The death of a 7-Star warrior was certainly a loss, and far more concrete a fact than an unconfirmed monster.
But as if to pour cold water on that atmosphere, the man who had been listening quietly spoke.
“…But if that rumor were true. On this Continent….”
His eyes slowly grew darker.
“A new order would be formed.”

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————