Arknights: Prime Minister of Kjerag — Chapter 83

Chapter 83: Act on My Flare!

Kjerag. Turicum. The Karlan Trade Building.

Enciodes SilverAsh sat behind his heavy mahogany desk. He had already dismissed the latest wave of requests from the Karlan Trade caravans, leaving stacks of unread reports—including the urgent dispatch from the returning Lungmen delegation—ignored at the edge of his workspace.

Economic matters were far too tedious for the current crisis.

“I will focus my energy entirely on the military,” he had declared. Consequently, the sprawling commercial operations of Karlan Trade had ground to a temporary, uneasy halt.

The hour for debate had long passed, and Matterhorn knew this better than anyone. Yet, watching the grim, unyielding set of Enciodes’s jaw, the towering Forte could not suppress his lingering dread.

“My Lord,” Matterhorn rumbled, his deep voice thick with worry. “Do you truly intend to strike during the Holy Hunt Ceremony?”

The Holy Hunt was one of Kjerag’s most sacred traditions. In the hearts of the Kjerag people, it stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Saintess Selection and the Grand Prayer Assembly. Even the revered Holy Stone Judgement held slightly less weight. To launch a military coup during such an event meant a violent, irreversible severing of ties with the traditionalist factions. Worse, it guaranteed a direct, bloody collision with Ernst and Enya, both of whom would be in attendance.

Enciodes had only three siblings. The SilverAsh bloodline was fragile, resting solely on their four sets of shoulders. As a fiercely loyal retainer, Matterhorn could not bear the thought of this family tearing itself apart.

Enciodes was already estranged from Enya; the two were little more than strangers sharing a surname. If he now drew blades against Ernst, what would remain of the SilverAsh legacy?

How would he ever look Encia in the eye? Would he have to travel to Rhodes Island and tell her that, while she suffered through her Oripathy treatments, one of her brothers had orchestrated the ruin of the other?

Matterhorn desperately wished his master would step back. There was no immediate threat to Kjerag. The goddess Kjeragandr had already manifested. Why rush?

Enciodes’s gaze remained as cold and sharp as the mountain winds. “The arrow is nocked. It must be loosed.”

It was not that he was blind to Matterhorn’s anxieties. He had agonized over them in the dead of night far more than his loyal bodyguard could ever guess.

Ernst and Enya. He knew the depths of his sins against them. He had dragged Enya into the suffocating web of Kjerag’s politics, forcing the mantle of Saintess upon her. He had abandoned Encia to Ernst’s sole care when he departed for his solitary studies in Victoria. And upon his return, he had ruthlessly pushed Ernst into the unforgiving crucible of leadership. He owed them a debt he could never repay.

Measured against the moral compass of a righteous man, Enciodes SilverAsh was a villain.

But he had no other choice.

This was his burden. No one had forced it upon him; it was a mandate of the era, a crushing responsibility he had willingly strapped to his own back.

Those who had never left the snowy peaks of Kjerag—who had never walked the gleaming streets of Victoria or Columbia—could never comprehend the suffocating inferiority that gripped a man when he stared up at foreign skyscrapers piercing the heavens.

While the people of Kjerag still jolted along treacherous mountain paths on the backs of Sumpter Beasts, wasting entire days to travel a few miles, Columbian high-speed rail lines connected sprawling metropolises in under thirty minutes.

While Kjerag’s citizens huddled in coarse burlap and crude animal hides, Victorian fashion had evolved into a sophisticated art form, a display of personal expression and overwhelming national wealth.

And the cruelest truth of all: while Kjerag’s warriors still swung primitive blades with the lethality of farming hoes, the high-speed dreadnoughts of the great powers could obliterate an army of thousands with a single, deafening artillery shell.

Lesser men might let that inferiority rot into self-pity. Enciodes forged it into a weapon. ‘Why can they conquer the world, while we freeze in the dark?’

How could Kjerag carve out its rightful place on this ruthless earth? He had demanded the answer from himself a thousand times.

Why could Kjerag not be a titan? A nation that commanded respect rather than pity? Should a pathetic excuse like objective conditions strip his people of their right to greatness?

If no one else would drag this country into the future, he would. If others tried to stop him, he would crush them. He would not fail.

This was the path he had chosen.

If this bloody road demanded he choose between his bloodline and his homeland, the answer was already written. His lover was Kjerag.

His body and soul were pledged to the snow and the stone; there was nothing left to give to a family.

Enciodes looked at his subordinate’s troubled face. He knew his vision was too vast, too terrifying for ordinary men to grasp. He had long since given up trying to explain the fire that drove him.

‘You do not need to understand. You only need to obey.’

Matterhorn bowed deeply and withdrew, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind him.

Enciodes shifted his attention to the woman standing in the shadows of his office. Degenbrecher. The Black Knight of the Kazimierz Major. She was a living weapon, a blade that had chosen her own master. She had recognized his ambition, and Enciodes had no intention of letting her rust in a scabbard. She would be the supreme commander of the impending strike.

“Degenbrecher,” Enciodes began, his tone shifting to pure, calculating ice. “The Holy Hunt Ceremony commences tomorrow morning and concludes at noon. Immediately afterward, at the Holy Stone Plaza, I will publicly accuse Arctosz and Ratatos of treason. I will declare that they conspired to install Ernst as a puppet and attempted to assassinate me during the hunt to seize control of the SilverAsh Family.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on steepled fingers. “Valais and Monch will move on my mark. They will seize control of the Paleroche and Browntail forces respectively, spreading the accusations through the ranks.”

Valais was a respected general within the Paleroche Family. Monch was the closest confidante of Sciurus Browntail. Valais’s sudden defection would shatter the Paleroche chain of command, while Monch’s betrayal would paralyze Sciurus, the sole remaining heir to the Browntail legacy.

A dark, cynical amusement flickered in Enciodes’s eyes. ‘Who told Ratatos to never marry or produce an heir?’

“Once the chaos takes root and the news spreads, you will lead the assault up the mountain under the banner of restoring order,” Enciodes finished.

“Won’t your dear brother and sister put up a fight?” Degenbrecher asked, a dry, knowing smile playing on her lips. She had absolute confidence in her own martial prowess. If there was a flaw in this grand design, it would be at the Holy Stone Plaza, standing directly in front of Enciodes. “What if he summons another miracle? Do you have a contingency for the goddess Kjeragandr?”

Enciodes pressed his lips into a thin line. This was the singular, terrifying variable.

If Kjeragandr were merely a myth, this coup would be a flawless mathematical equation. But the goddess had physically intervened during the Holy Stone Judgement. Her gaze was fixed squarely upon the snowy peaks.

If Ernst truly possessed the ability to call down divine wrath, the Snowcap Patrol would be reduced to ash in seconds. No mortal army could cross blades with a deity.

Silence stretched across the opulent office.

“Degenbrecher,” Enciodes asked quietly. “What kind of god do you believe Kjeragandr to be?”

The Black Knight raised an eyebrow, considering the question. “Benevolent.”

It was the only logical conclusion. Throughout history, gods did not intervene to stop petty mortal squabbles or halt executions. Yet Kjeragandr had shielded this land for millennia. A territory utterly devoid of Oripathy, sheltered by impassable mountains and eternal snow, was the closest thing to a pure land Terra had ever known.

Enciodes nodded slowly. “That benevolence is my only path to victory. This is a race against the clock. Ernst may hold Her favor, but no mortal in history has ever wielded a god like a summoned beast. We will strike with overwhelming speed. We will create a fait accompli, an irreversible reality. Once the board is set and the blood is dry, I will negotiate directly with Kjeragandr.”

He turned back, his eyes burning with absolute conviction. “If Ernst could convince Her to support his reformist ideals and declare him innocent, then I can persuade Her of my vision!”

His arrogance was staggering, a terrifying courage that bordered on madness. Yet, grounded in cold logic, it held weight.

A god was a god. Not a personal servant waiting on standby. Catching a deity’s attention once was a historical anomaly. The idea that Ernst could simply dial up the heavens whenever he pleased was absurd.

‘What, do you think a god is your mother?’

Degenbrecher gave a slow, appreciative nod. “A very bold gamble.”

“Beyond the strategy, there is the matter of coordination,” Enciodes said, pulling open a heavy iron drawer. He extracted three thick, cylindrical signal flares, their casings painted in distinct colors. “I will carry these on my person. They are the operational commands. You will move only when you see my signal in the sky.”

He tapped the yellow cylinder. “Yellow. When ignited, it will explode into the crest of the Snowcap Patrol. This means the board is clear. Proceed exactly as planned. I will have Matterhorn launch it the moment the Holy Hunt concludes.”

He set it down and picked up the blue casing. “Blue. This will detonate into my own portrait. It signifies a critical complication on my end. The operation is immediately paused. You will hold your position and await further instructions.”

Finally, he lifted the red flare. The color of blood. “Red. It will form the idol of Kjeragandr. This means I have failed.” His voice dropped, losing all its warmth. “If you see this, you ask no questions. You do not attempt a rescue. You order an immediate, total retreat. I will find my own way out. Do you understand?”

“Understood,” Degenbrecher replied, her tone sharpening into professional seriousness. She felt a genuine flicker of admiration for the warlord’s ingenuity.

Using aerial fireworks, a technology utterly alien to Kjerag, solved the fatal flaw of battlefield communication. It bypassed the slow, vulnerable courier routes. The Snowcap Patrol would receive their orders instantly. There was no risk of a Beastbird being shot down, or a messenger being intercepted and the orders forged.

Most, the commands were impossible to misinterpret.

Kjerag had never seen fireworks, let alone alchemical explosives engineered to paint the sky with the Snowcap Patrol insignia, Enciodes’s face, or the goddess herself.

Yellow meant the army moves. The plan is flawless.

Blue meant the leader is stalled. Hold the line.

Red meant the heavens have intervened. Run. Whether Ernst had summoned the goddess again, or the Paleroche and Browntail matriarchs had flipped the script, red meant death. Preserving the elite Snowcap Patrol was the only logical move.

It was a brutal, efficient, and beautifully simple system.

Satisfied that the Black Knight grasped the gravity of the signals, and certain that the heavy walls of his office concealed their treason, Enciodes extended his hand.

Degenbrecher met his grip with a firm, calloused handshake.

The trap was set. It was foolproof. Now, they only had to wait for the dawn of the Holy Hunt.

When the fires ascended, the operation would be complete.