Free Web NovelDusk hung over the wilderness outside the northern gate of the Imperial Capital like a layer of dirty, golden gauze.
Two skinny horses mingled with the sparse flow of people entering the city, their hooves crunching dryly over the frozen mud ground to dust by wagon wheels.
On the leading horse sat a middle-aged man wrapped in a linen cloak, its edges frayed and stained with the dust of the road.
He kept his hood pulled low, as if unwilling to let any gaze linger on his face.
His name was Varius, and he was a Viscount.
The knight Cassian, riding beside him, wore no cloak, merely buttoning his outer garment tightly.
The man had been silent the entire journey, even suppressing his coughs, his gaze constantly sweeping over the crowds and the edges of the road.
Varius knew that Cassian didn't believe in comforting words; he trusted only the sword in his own hand.
As for Varius... he preferred to believe in something else.
He kept one hand tucked inside his cloak.
There lay a stack of documents, wrapped in oiled paper, more than one set.
The topmost document was one of the revised drafts of the *New Empire Charter*.
During the Fourth Prince's regency, he had been summoned to the Imperial Legal Affairs Office, tasked with revising and compiling the original draft.
He had cross-checked it clause by clause, scrutinized it line by line, tempering overly idealistic language with reality, and dismantling and rewriting articles that could potentially cause chaos.
When the great war erupted, he was not in the Imperial Capital.
At that time, he was conducting research on the enforcement of local courts in one of the empire's most remote territories.
The roads were blocked, and by the time he heard the news, the flags on the city gates had already changed.
He dared not return, and the fragmented news that trickled in later grew increasingly terrifying.
The Legal Affairs Office had been raided, its archives sealed. Most of his colleagues who had remained in the capital had likely been hanged on the city gates or in the squares.
Varius stopped in a border territory, lying low to let the storm pass.
And now, nearly a year had passed. freeweɓnøvel.com
No matter how bloody the empire became, someone still needed to write documents, collect taxes, and adjudicate cases. Even the most brutal rule could not function without civil officials.
And he... at the very least, wanted to return to see if his family was still alive. If they were gone... then at least he needed to see it with his own eyes.
The small procession of horses rounded a bend.
The walls of the Imperial Capital loomed into view.
Varius's pupils contracted sharply, and his breath caught for a moment.
The wall in his memory was a work of art, built from white obsidian.
Its surface was carved with bas-reliefs depicting the empire's founding epic: columns of knights, bountiful harvests of peasants, and oaths sworn between various peoples, all etched into the light by the delicate chisels of stonemasons.
During festivals, the viewing platforms would be draped with colorful cloths, and the scent of spices and incense would drift with the wind beyond the city walls.
But the wall before him looked as if it had been brutally hammered.
Those reliefs had been crudely scraped flat, leaving jagged white scars like a disfigured face.
The outer surface of the wall had been coated with a layer of black, molten iron, which solidified into a rough, scale-like texture.
Above, barbed wire was strung taut.
The original viewing platforms were gone.
In their place stood dozens of heavy ballistae. Their arms were as thick as tree trunks, their arrowheads sheathed in black iron, cold and devoid of any gleam.
What made Varius's stomach sink even more was that those arrowheads were not pointed towards the wilderness or enemies outside the city.
They were aimed at the roads leading into the city, aimed at civilians like him.
A wind blew from the direction of the moat.
There was no scent of spices, only iron rust, horse dung, and a faint yet persistent smell of blood.
The water in the moat had a dark reddish hue, as if mixed with alchemical waste, with fine black debris floating on its surface.
A few crows perched on the barbed wire, pecking at something before lifting their heads again, their eyes like two dots of lacquer.
Varius's hand trembled uncontrollably, and the oiled paper package rustled softly against his chest.
He struggled to swallow the dryness in his throat, only then realizing he couldn't utter a complete sentence.
"This is no imperial capital..." he spat out the words in his heart, "This is clearly a giant prison, perpetually prepared for slaughter."
Cassian reined in his horse beside him, his gaze sweeping over the ballistae above the gate and the patrolling armored soldiers.
His face showed little expression, but his hand tightened more firmly around the hilt of his sword.
The line at the city gate inched forward slowly.
Someone ahead was stopped. The gate guard used his spear to pry open the man's bundle, fished out a silver ornament, and tossed it directly into an iron chest at his feet.
The man tried to say something, but was immediately kicked and sent sprawling into the mud.
When it was Varius's turn, the inspection showed no sign of leniency.
The soldiers rummaged through his travel bag, tossing every bit of property he had brought with him into the iron chest. Several silver coins he had intended to use for "greasing palms" were struck, their quality verified in front of him, then confiscated without a second thought.
Even an old ring—a family heirloom of little monetary value—was met with a soldier's cold sneer before being tossed into the chest.
Then, someone's attention turned to Cassian. "Sword."
Cassian's hand instinctively tightened for a moment before quickly relaxing.
He unfastened the knight's sword and laid it flat on the ground.
The blade was worn with age, the guard still bearing the engraved marks of an old oath.
A soldier kicked the sword aside with his boot, as if discarding a piece of scrap iron.
The line moved forward again. No one made a sound.
Varius stared at that city gate; the world beyond it now felt like a tightening iron cage.
He tried to find some semblance of the familiar order within the wall's shadow, but all he saw was black iron and barbs.
Beyond the gate lay a different kind of order.
The streets of the inner city had been widened and straightened, yet they felt anything but open.
The stone slabs had been repeatedly torn up and relaid, their seams filled with dark asphalt. Horse hooves striking them produced a dull, echoing sound.
Every hundred paces or so, a makeshift guard post could be seen, iron plates nailed to wooden stakes, with fully armed soldiers standing behind them, their crossbow strings perpetually taut.
When a patrol of knights rounded a street corner, pedestrians prostrated themselves on the ground like wheat stalks flattened by the wind.
No one needed to remind them; the rules here were clearly etched into their bones.
Commoners must kneel, foreheads to the ground, hands spread open.
One person, moving a beat too slow, was kicked over by a warhorse's front hoof, his body rolling halfway across the stone pavement before being trampled by a following hoof.
A scream rang out, but the procession didn't stop. The knight didn't even glance down.
Varius also dismounted.
The chill of the stone seeped through his knees, filling him with an indescribable sense of absurdity.
As they moved forward, a commotion erupted from a side street.
It was a tavern, surrounded by a circle of knights.
Two knights were dueling, their blades clashing and sending sparks flying, as if performing for an audience.
Surrounding laughter and jeers blended together. Someone was loudly placing bets, their tone as flippant as if gambling on dice.
Instinctively, Varius looked for the referee, but his eyes found only a woman pinned against the tavern wall.
Her hands were roughly pressed against a wine barrel, her mouth gagged, unable to make a sound.
Only then did he understand what the wager was.
The outcome was decided quickly.
The victorious knight kicked his opponent aside, casually swung his sword, and blood splattered across the tavern's wooden door, leaving several wet, glistening streaks.
The knight raised his sword overhead, wrapped an arm around the woman, and accepted the cheers of the surrounding knights.
Varius's stomach churned.
He remembered once lecturing on chivalry, on restraint and honor. Those words now seemed hollow and laughable.
"They are not knights," Cassian said in a low voice.
Varius did not respond. He had no words left for rebuttal or explanation.
Further ahead lay the Empire's Supreme Court.
That building had once been the quietest place in the Imperial Capital.
Beneath its vaulted ceilings, only hushed conversations were allowed. What echoed between the stone pillars was the sound of judges pronouncing verdicts.
Now, wooden stakes stood in the square.
Ropes dangled in mid-air, above stains of blood not yet cleaned. The side hall that once housed case files had been emptied, its contents piled into a small black hill.
Books and legal codes were tossed together haphazardly, some already charred, others still emitting faint wisps of smoke.
A soldier crouched by a fire, holding a torn piece of paper.
Varius recognized it at a glance.
It was a torn page from the *Ancient Imperial Code*, a statute he had cited countless times.
The corner of the paper was curled and soaked with grease. The soldier used it to wipe his fork, then casually tossed it into the fire.
As the flames leaped up, the writing was consumed.
Varius stood rooted to the spot, his chest feeling as if something heavy were pressing down on it.
He finally understood one thing.
This place no longer needed laws. Or rather, only one law remained here.
Varius did not proceed any further.
He led Cassian into a secluded side alley.
The stone slabs here were older, the walls repeatedly scraped, bearing mottled red stains like blood that had dried and been smeared.
His former residence wasn't hard to find.
Yet when the estate truly came into view, Varius still halted his steps.
The main gate had been repainted, its color garish—an almost ostentatious crimson—and hung with an unfamiliar military banner. Against a black background with red patterns, the emblem of the 13th Legion swayed faintly in the twilight.
The tree in the garden was gone.
It was one he had planted with his wife. In its first winter, it almost froze to death, and he personally wrapped it in straw rope.
Now, a rough wooden stake stood in its original spot, with a war beast's reins tied to it. The ground was trampled into a muddy mess.
Laughter came from the balcony.
A Legion Commander with a face full of brutish flesh sat imposingly on a lounge chair outside the study.
He held an antique wine glass in his hand. Varius recognized it—a piece he had acquired at an auction in the south many years ago.
The wine was poured into a copper bowl on the ground.
A hound lowered its head to lap at it, the liquid dripping from its jaws onto the stone slabs.
The Legion Commander patted the dog's neck and laughed heartily, as if praising some obedient livestock.
Varius slowly averted his gaze.
"Let's go." Cassian said only one word, already stepping sideways to shield him.
They circled to the back alley. The lane was piled with filth buckets, the stench pungent.
A hunched figure struggled to pull a °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° wooden cart laden with overflowing urine buckets. The person staggered, nearly slipping on the icy patches on the ground.
Varius recognized him at a glance—he had once been his steward.
Now, one of the old man's eyes was cloudy and white, the socket sunken, the wrinkles on his face carved deep as if by a knife.
"...My lord?" The old man's voice was hoarse as he looked up.
He froze for a few breaths, then suddenly knelt, not daring to reach for the hem of Varius's clothes.
"You... how have you returned..." Before he could finish, tears fell into the filthy water.
Varius steadied him and helped him sit against the wall.
The old man's voice was fragmented, as if afraid of being overheard.
"My lord, a month after you left, the Second Prince's men came. They said this house had good feng shui, suitable for raising dogs..."
He trailed off, his throat seemingly choked. freewebnσvel.cøm
"The lady... the lady presented the legal documents, trying to reason with them." His voice suddenly dropped very low. "But she was... right then and there..."
He didn't finish the sentence, leaving only suppressed sobs.
"The young master and young miss were sent to a Shelter." The old man lifted his good eye, now filled only with fear. "Never... never any news again."
The alley was quiet.
In the distance, a military horn sounded; nearby, only the faint sloshing of the night soil buckets.
Varius just stood there, head bowed, clutching the oilpaper package in his embrace so tightly his knuckles turned white.
A dozen seconds later, he slowly released his grip.
Clear bloody fingerprints were left on the oilpaper.
Varius looked up at the old man leaning against the wall. "Come with me."
The old man was stunned for a moment, then shook his head slowly but with unwavering resolve. "It won't do, my lord. These old bones can't move fast or hide well. If I followed you, I'd only be a burden."
Varius frowned, about to speak, but the old man raised a hand to stop him.
"Besides..." The old man looked down at his own filthy hands. "Even if I left, where would I go?"
The words fell like a stone.
Beyond the Imperial Capital lay war-torn territories, noble hunting grounds, lands that could be requisitioned or discarded at any moment.
For an old servant who had lost his status and his sight, no path truly led to survival.
Varius stood in place, momentarily speechless.
The old man forced a crooked smile. "That you're still alive is enough."
Varius finally closed his eyes and took a deep breath... The night wind swept across the wasteland, stirring dry grass, emitting a low moan in the distance.
They did not linger long in the Imperial Capital. That very night, they had already left.
The campfire was small, barely enough to ward off the cold. The flames swayed in the wind, casting the shadows of the two men long and short by turns.
Varius stood by the fire, not sitting. His back was slightly more bent than during the day, as if weighed down by the night.
He slowly unwrapped the oilpaper package from his embrace.
The manuscript was revealed, its corners stained with blood and mud, the pages frayed.
Varius looked at it for a long time, his gaze unfocused, as if observing an old relic unrelated to himself.
Then, he released his grip.
The manuscript of the *New Empire Charter* fell into the flames.
The fire quickly licked at the pages, the words gradually consumed by the heat.
Several clauses he had repeatedly deliberated flickered in the firelight before turning black, shattering, and dissolving into fine ash.
The fire gradually dwindled.
Cassian stood nearby, hand resting on his empty scabbard, speaking softly. "Where do we go? The south is full of heretics, the west is at war."
Varius stared at the embers, his eyes as hollow as the wasteland's night.
"This continent has gone mad." His voice was light, yet clear.
"Perhaps we should find a remote mountain, live out our remaining days like savages. At least beasts kill to survive, unlike the people in that city, who do it for amusement."
Just then, the shadows of the trees by the roadside swayed slightly.
A man stepped out from the darkness.
He wore a gray double-breasted woolen coat, its hem clean, free of mud splatters.
His footsteps were light. He stopped at the edge of the firelight, at a distance that could not be mistaken for provocation.
The man removed his hat.
He performed a flawless, classical noble bow to this tattered, dust-covered old man.
Varius narrowed his eyes, like a wounded old wolf, instinctively taking half a step back.
"Are you the Second Prince's lackey, or a scout for some bandits? If it's for money, you've found the wrong person. My last silver coin was trampled into the mud by those knightly lords."
The man merely smiled faintly, retrieving a silver flask from his coat and a scone carefully wrapped in a pristine linen napkin.
Steam escaped the seams, carrying the sweet scent of honey.
"The strong liquor from the North can ward off the cold." His tone was calm. "The scone has honey added. Please don't misunderstand, sir. This is not charity. This is the Red Tide's respect for you."
Varius's gaze fell on that pristine napkin.
It was the first truly clean thing he had seen since entering the Imperial Capital.
This deliberate propriety instead pricked at his heart.
"Respect?" He sneered coldly, not reaching out.
"The North? That lad named Louis Calvin? What, does he now want to recycle even an old fossil like me, discarded by the times?"
Varius's tone turned biting. "Or does he want to buy my name to gild his makeshift regime, reeking of copper and blood, with a veneer of legitimacy?"
He turned away, refusing to look at the food again, forcefully suppressing the cramps in his stomach.
The mysterious man retrieved the scone and flask, his expression still gentle. "You misunderstand."
He said, "It's not recycling. It's seeking guidance."
"The northern blizzards are too harsh. We need not only walls of steel but also rational laws to soften them."
He sighed, taking a scroll of parchment from his coat and offering it with both hands. "This is the draft of the *Citizen Law* currently being trialed in the Red Tide Territory."
Varius snorted coldly and snatched the parchment scroll.
"Let's see what nonsense that little lordling has written."
He glanced at it by the moonlight.
At first, it was disdain.
But when he saw the first clause regarding 'the inviolability of private property,' his gaze halted.
He continued reading.
The wording was straightforward, even crude, yet the logical framework was exceptionally clear, impossible to ignore.
Varius's fingers began to tremble slightly—a mix of anger and jealousy.
This should have been what I completed in the Imperial Capital.
He abruptly closed the parchment, snatched the silver flask, and took a long swig.
The pungent liquor slid down his throat, bringing color to his pale face.
"Crude, far too crude." He pointed at the parchment scroll, his tone like that of a teacher scolding a disappointing student.
"Articles 3 and 7 are in clear conflict. Enforced as is, your courts will be paralyzed within three years."
The mysterious man bowed again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "That is why we need you."
Varius snorted, stuffed the parchment into his mud-stained coat, and turned toward a nearby carriage. "Don't misunderstand.
I'm not joining you. I just... can't stand such garbage laws circulating in the world. If his wine cellar only has this swill, I'll leave anytime."
The carriage slowly started, leaving two deep ruts on the wasteland, stretching northward.
