86—Eighty-Six
PROLOGUE
THE KING OF CORPSES
Arcs Styrie, capital of the United Kingdom of Roa Gracia for the past millennium. At its northernmost tip sat the royal palace, its throne room currently dim, as if to symbolize the absence of the sun’s blessing upon this northern land.
However, contrary to the impression the term
northern land
may give to some, Roa Gracia was an affluent nation. Though its climate was ill-suited for cultivating grain or fruit common in the south, its lands were fertile, were graced with large rivers, and possessed rich mineral veins. A chandelier crafted from such minerals—gold and diamonds—cast a brilliant glow on the resplendent decor of the throne room. The light accentuated the shadows of the princes and princesses present.
The United Kingdom was a militaristic country, and as such, all members of the aristocracy were men and women of war. At the same time, this country was the last remaining despotic monarchy on the continent. It was a nation that still adhered to its archaic system of values.
The very personification of those beliefs, the king, began to speak from his throne. He wore a crisp military uniform, and his whitening reddish-brown hair and amethyst eyes marked him as a Viola, the race that had lived in the Kingdom since antiquity, as well as an Amethysta, one of noble birth.
His authoritative tone rolled like thunder, deep and grave, lending credence to his title as king of the frozen north.
“Viktor, my son.”
“Father.”
The one who answered him was a young prince in his late teens, standing on the stairs leading up to the throne. While normally one would kneel when in audience with the king, his royal privilege allowed him to stand upright before him. His reddish-black hair resembled the coloring of a bird of prey, and his eyes were purple lightning. While purple eyes were the key identifier of the Amethysta, his hue of violet was especially pronounced.
His hair was the dark, blackish red of eagle plumage hardy enough to withstand the unforgiving northern winter, his eyes the Imperial violet of the gemstones yielded by the Dragon Corpse mountain range, which stood as the shield of the country. His countenance was equal parts elegance and sharpness, the features of a monster made of ice.
He was the fifth prince, Viktor Idinarohk: the eighteen-year-old commander of the United Kingdom’s southern front—the front lines of the war against the Legion—and the youngest child of the current king.
“Our ally, the Federal Republic of Giad, has formed an independent detachment by the name of the Eighty-Sixth Strike Package. Do you know of them?”
“Yes, Father. They are an elite unit with the express purpose of suppressing key Legion territories and thinning their ranks. During their first battle, they struck at a Legion production site within San Magnolia and pushed back the enemy lines.”
The prince replied to the sudden question without hesitation. He’d returned from the front lines, where information was limited and scarce, only a day ago, and it was a question regarding a single unit from another country. Yet he answered as if it were simple arithmetic.
“They failed to capture a Weisel and an Admiral as they were ordered, allowed the escape of the new High-Mobility type, Phönix, and took considerable losses from the new Sheepdogs, so their first mission can be seen as a failure… But they did accomplish their primary objective. And their dragging the two new Legion types to the fray ahead of time is a
great achievement. If nothing else, it granted our country sufficient time to develop countermeasures.”
“Indeed.”
As his eyes glinted like blades, the king nodded his head, which sat atop his chiseled physique. A grave, earnest nod.
“It has been decided our United Kingdom will cooperate with that unit. The contents of said cooperation will be an exchange of technologies and dispatching of personnel… Vika—you will be joining them. Go forth and eradicate the Legion.”
“Ah yes, Father. I will be off.”
Opposite the resplendent, imposing throne sat a host of retainers.
Could you go run a little errand for me?
Sure thing, Dad.
It was as simple as that.
As the other princes looked on, trying to restrain their exasperation, the two continued their exchange.
“The coming operation will see the brunt of our forces on the second line, but after that we should have the leisure to dispatch forces to your aid. How many would you like?”
“I’ll be just fine with my personal unit. The Strike Package is a brigade-size force as is, and I doubt any front really has the leisure to send away any of its forces.”
Which, when simply put, translated to…
Well, while you’re at it, why don’t you use the change to treat yourself to something?
Nah, Dad, it’s fine.
This was the true, casual nature of their conversation.
The prince, incidentally, was clad not in the United Kingdom’s collared violet-and-black uniform…but in a normal black school uniform. His schoolbag sat at his feet.