Chapter 518 Summation
In just half a month.
The sacred Vatican, once revered as a divine miracle by the people of six nations, began to bleed on the third day after the Tsarist Empire's iron hooves trampled it.
It's not a crack in the city wall, but a collapse of faith.
Cardinal Bruce stood on the observatory, watching the Tsarist army slowly advancing across the distant plain, his scepter trembling slightly.
He suddenly remembered that a few months ago, he had personally sent a secret order to the kings of various countries: "Urge the kings of various countries to send troops to attack the Tsarist Empire on the grounds that the Invincible Duke has broken the alliance."
Then his eyes gleamed with the cold light of political maneuvering; now, only ashes remained. Because—even the allied forces sent by various countries could not stop the army of the Tsarist Empire.
That night, the bells of the Vatican did not ring, because the Papacy, a state founded on divine authority, had vanished.
......
On the morning of the seventh day after the destruction of the Papacy, the frost was as heavy as lead.
The massive bronze gates of Beigong City slowly opened in the morning light—not to welcome guests, but to demonstrate power.
The door hinges made a low, mournful sound as they turned, as if the entire mountain was breathing.
Outside the door, envoys from the other four countries knelt on the cracked blue stone steps, their knees covered in frost that had formed thin, blood-red scabs.
......
At noon, the bronze bell struck for the third time.
The envoys from the four countries were led to the main hall of the North Palace.
It wasn't done by walking in.
He was escorted in by two rows of black-armored imperial guards who lightly touched his back with long halberds.
The palace doors slammed shut behind them, shaking the dust from the dome like a miniature avalanche.
They finally looked up.
On the throne, there is no emperor wearing a crown.
He was dressed in a plain black robe and sat upright on an obsidian pedestal.
The four men's Adam's apples bobbed, but they swallowed very quietly. They then immediately knelt and bowed, fearing that their disrespect would disturb the invincible king on the throne.
a long time.
Odin spoke. His voice was not loud, but it was like a piece of cold iron falling into a deep well:
"Get up."
It's not "Please rise," nor is it "No need for formalities."
It consists of two characters, like an imperial edict or a drawn sword.
The four men felt as if they had been granted a pardon and immediately stood up.
The old prime minister, Nero, was the first to prostrate himself forward, holding up the gilded sheepskin scroll with both hands. His voice was trembling with sobs as he said, "My king is willing to offer the three western provinces, to pay tribute every year, and to remain a vassal state forever!" As the sheepskin was spread out, gold dust fell in a flurry, like the feathers of a dying phoenix being shaken off.
The shaman followed closely behind, removing the bone bell from his neck and offering it with both hands: "My king is willing to offer the entire territory of the 'White Ridge Plateau'."
General Ji Yizhi knelt again on one knee, drew his sword, and held it horizontally in his palm, the blade reflecting the light streaming through the skylight: "My king is willing to offer the 'Iron Spine Mountains' mineral vein!"
Three official documents, three maps of the territory, three blood oaths.
They were carried by attendants to the foot of the throne and arranged neatly.
When it was the English envoy's turn, his Adam's apple bobbed, and he held the jewel-encrusted peace treaty high above his head: "Our country is willing to cede three cities south of East Harbor..."
Before he could finish speaking, Odin immediately gestured for a knight to step forward and interrupt him, then snatched the peace treaty from him.
The hall was deathly silent; even the embers seemed to have died.
Odin lowered his eyes and gazed at the trembling figure below, his fingertips tapping lightly on the armrest.
A faint smile played on his lips, his mind clear as a mirror: the battlefield of Inglelie had been opened, and the game of the Heavenly Demon God had reached its final chapter. How could Inglelie, this pawn, be allowed to be captured now?
"Regarding the affairs of your kingdom," Odin's voice was like cold iron falling into a well, "we'll discuss them after the internal strife has subsided."
Odin's words struck like a thunderbolt!
The English envoy trembled violently.
"Your Majesty! Our country is sincere..." the English envoy pleaded hoarsely, but before he could finish speaking, a guard covered his mouth with his sleeve.
He staggered back and saw Odin staring down at the table—three vermilion edicts were being held up on a golden tray by his attendants, while the jewel-encrusted peace treaty was casually tossed into a bronze basin in the corner of the palace by a knight.
Flames roared up, the iris emblem curled and charred in the flames, and the shattering of the gemstones sounded like a heart breaking.
"Respectfully seeing off the English envoy." Odin's voice rose slightly at the end.
At Odin's command, the guards immediately "invited" the Ingres envoy away from the hall.
......
Another half month passed, and the wind, carrying the stench of blood, swept across the last line of defense of the British Empire.
The once-renowned "unbreakable" royal city walls are now groaning in despair under the iron hooves of the Tsarist Empire and the combined forces of Marseille.
The iris banners on the city wall had long been torn to shreds, fluttering in the wind like dying butterflies.
Below the city, two torrents of steel converged—on one side was the Star Knights, the elite troops of the Tsarist Empire, forged in the crucible of war and with eyes like wolves, under the command of the invincible Odin; on the other side was the Marseille City Allied Army led by Hua Tianyou.
Hua Tianyou stood atop his warhorse, his black armor stained with blood, his eyes blazing.
He gazed at the once-lofty royal city before him, and what surged in his chest was not simply the joy of victory, but a sense of relief bordering on sorrow.
"Finally..." he murmured, his voice drowned out by the roar of the battering ram striking the city gate.
The sound was like the roar of an ancient behemoth, and each impact seemed to strike the drumbeat of his destiny.
Marseille is no longer a vassal state that had to defer to England, but a player who holds the decree of the Heavenly Demon God Shen Mo and is rewriting the map.
The city gates burst open with a deafening roar.
The black eagle flag of the Tsarist Empire, like a lightning bolt tearing through the sky, was the first to pierce the royal city of the British Empire.
The shouts of the soldiers, the clash of weapons, and the neighing of warhorses merged into a torrent of destruction and rebirth, instantly engulfing every corner of the royal city.
The crown of England, the jewel that once symbolized supreme power, rolled into the dust in the chaos and was mercilessly trampled by countless pairs of muddy war boots.
Count Casio stood on the high slope behind, witnessing it all. This old man, who had spent his entire life navigating power struggles and navigating the cracks of society, now had no ecstatic joy in his eyes, only the murky tears of someone who had survived a catastrophe. He watched the flag symbolizing England fall from the city walls, as if he saw the mountain that had weighed on Marseille for centuries finally crumbling into dust.
His thin, bony fingers gripped his sleeve tightly, knuckles turning white, as he silently chanted, "Ancestors of the Casio family! Under Tianyou's leadership, the Casio family is about to rise again!"
When the last whistle of resistance faded into the ruins of the royal city, the machine of war came to an abrupt end.
Odin—the newly crowned king of the Tsarist Empire—did not indulge in the revelry of his triumph.
He stood in the captured English palace, the broken glazed tiles beneath his feet reflecting his deep and weary face.
He knew that the end of conquest was not destruction, but reconstruction.
A golden edict, like spring rain, fell upon this war-torn land: "Cease hostilities and allow the people to recuperate."
The smoke of battle gradually dissipated, replaced by a long-lost, suffocating silence.
The battlefield, once filled with roars, is now only echoed by the rustling of autumn winds sweeping through withered grass.
The Tsarist army put away their blood-stained spears and began helping the local people clear away the ruins; the craftsmen, filled with the desire to rebuild their homes, moved among the ruins, measuring, planning, and laying foundations.
In the former gardens of King Englehill Palace, an old soldier put down his rifle, picked up a hoe, and turned over new soil in the scorched earth.
His movements were slow and firm, as if he were comforting this wounded land.
Not far away, an orphaned English child timidly accepted a piece of black bread from a Tsarist soldier. For the first time, a glimmer of hope appeared in his eyes, which had once been filled with fear.
The map of the far west was pieced together anew after being baptized in blood and fire.
The former "six kingdoms standing side by side" has now transformed into a new pattern of "one large and three small" - the Tsarist Empire hangs high in the center like a blazing sun, while the three remaining small countries are like frightened birds, trembling under the glory of the Tsarist Empire, no longer daring to have the slightest thought of disobedience.