Warhammer Divine Throne

PS: Here I’m going to complain a bit; recently, in many chapters, a lot of people enjoy making references to Slaanesh, but they don’t actually understand what Slaanesh is about. The doctrine of Slaanesh is about pursuing mental stimulus and indulging in all thoughts to achieve sufficient mental enjoyment. It is not what many people think—that Slaanesh equals to lust—which is a very shallow and dull way to understand it.

The wedding ceremony of the Lake Fairy’s Chosen Champion, Count Glamorgan Laine Macado, had just taken place two weeks ago, and the entire kingdom’s citizens were still immersed in the joyous atmosphere of this grand wedding. Within two weeks, from the kingdom’s most remote villages to the Knight King’s Palace in Kulona, everyone was discussing Laine’s wedding.

This wave of excitement was still ongoing when another Oracle from the Fairy Cathedral of the Lake disseminated throughout the Brittania Kingdom, completely shaking it. Groups of Holy Grail Knights, holding the Golden Iris Army Banner, delivered the Lake Fairy’s oracle to the mortals.

”Lady’s oracle: Darkness is invading, the Northern Barbarians are eyeing like eagles and stalking like wolves, savage and vicious. The Eastern Green Skins wreak havoc without restraint, and the Undead corrupt the land, usurping our territories. Surrounded by enemies, to save the masses from disaster and repel foes at the nation’s borders, it is decreed that Brittania’s dukes may select brave and devout citizens to grant knighthood titles.”

——Lake God Witch Mogiana

This oracle from the Lake Fairy was like hot oil over a roaring fire, igniting the entire kingdom. Amongst peasants, free people, knights, and titled great nobles, it sparked a massive uproar. Under the night sky, countless peasants gathered to crazily discuss how there could actually be peasants elevated to knights. This was simply a miracle!

Many peasants cried tears of joy. They hadn’t expected the Lady to be so considerate of their lowly selves, actually willing to decree that the lowly could become knights. After work, people gathered in rundown taverns, drinking cheap and sour ale and eating roasted bread, loudly discussing who might have the opportunity to be knighted. Especially the sergeants and rangers, as professional soldiers and junior officers who spent the most time with the knights, became sought after. Everywhere they went, peasants crowded around them, all asking how to become a knight? Do I have a chance?

In response to the Lake Fairy’s oracle, the great nobles of Brittania uncharacteristically kept silent. Even if some nobles opposed, they just went through the motions, while most chose not to comment. After learning there were only three slots per year, many great nobles, especially the conservative dukes, suggested to Mogiana that perhaps one or two slots per year would be more reasonable.

A significant reason why the dukes didn’t strongly oppose was that the northern Chaos invasion at the beginning of the year had heavily damaged the kingdom’s north, with many duchies even unable to field full knight contingents. Peasant Infantry Corps and sergeants, as well as rangers, were also critically understaffed.

Laine seized this perfect timing to have the Lake Fairy promulgate this oracle. The great nobles wouldn’t strongly oppose it because the smarter ones knew that this oracle was very beneficial for replenishment and motivating the peasants. Three slots per year wouldn’t possibly destabilize the nobles’ rule.

The goddess’s oracle originated from within the Count Glamorgan’s domain, making discussions there the liveliest.

As time entered early winter, the Count’s domain began to be enveloped by ice and snow. This year, winter arrived a few days earlier than usual. When the sun’s light was obscured by clouds, when winter wheat was covered by white snow, when trees wilted, their bare branches stretching weakly into the sky, when villages fell into desolation and silence, and at night people bundled up tightly beside fires, even peasants knew winter had arrived.

Gene Town was livelier than other places; even during the deep winter, many residents could be seen walking the streets. The cobblestone-paved streets were solid, with pedestrians coming and going, but most hurriedly, since no one wanted to stay outside too long in this damned weather.

There were many small vendors on the street hawking their wares, strictly confined to spots near storefronts, not allowed to occupy pedestrian thoroughfares. Yet, these vendors always cunningly pushed towards the road’s center to peddle their small goods, only to retreat back behind the ”safety line” when patrols passed by. Their daily ”battles” with the guards had become a town routine, and residents were already accustomed to it.

The largest commercial purchase and trade center in town was the ”Oliver Commerce Association,” located not far from the Count’s castle. Merchants from the Empire came, led by Oliver, selling various goods, with traders coming from all over to do business.

At five in the afternoon, the setting sun slowly descended behind the Oracle Mountain Range, marking the end of another day. Remon, a runaway serf from the Leonais Duchy, dressed in expensive leather clothing, especially the comfortable bear skin coat wrapped around him, indicating his status, traversed the streets alone as a regular Long Halberd Soldier from the Long Halberd Battalion, with many snowflakes resting upon his brown hair.

This runaway serf from Leonais was now a formal soldier in the Long Halberd Battalion. Today, he underwent rigorous training, even more strenuous than laboring for the knights in Leonais.

However, the treatment here was much better; at least the meals were filling. During lunch, he savored a rich corn meat soup, with everyone given a portion containing a big bone. Remon gnawed the meat off the bone entirely, licked the bone’s surface, and even sucked out the marrow.

Breathing out a cold vapor, the young Long Halberdier clutched a few silver coins in his chest, hesitated for a moment, and abandoned the bustling market, heading towards the lesser populated areas of the town.

Currently, in Gene Town, the most expensive real estate was the city center near the Count’s castle—Champion Avenue. There, it was filled with densely packed buildings, many rented to merchants and nobles, with quite a few Ranger Knights settling there. These houses, all constructed with stone tiles and oak structures, were both attractive and sturdy, making it a place many knights and merchants flocked to, many sergeants dreaming of buying homes there.

Further from the city center, the houses grew newer and simpler; wooden structures still abound, though further expansions were rumored. The town had already undergone two expansions but remained overcrowded. Rumors of a third expansion were ever-present, possibly kicking off after the New Year.

After crossing several streets, Remon found himself on a street with rows of two-story houses. This kind of street typically represented half-residential, half-commercial settings. Few pedestrians were present, with many doors tightly shut, only the light and smoke from chimneys indicating residence.

If it’s this type of street... Remon looked around and indeed found a house. In front of the house was a wooden sign hanging with ropes, depicting a cartoon resembling a dog and a bear. Fortunately, there was text below.

”Dog Bear Bar.”

In Gene Town, almost every street had a bar, which served as inn, restaurant, and retail store all at once. This Dog Bear Bar seemed unremarkable, occasionally emitting sounds of human speech from inside. The door was half-open, perhaps the owner agonizing over whether to open the door to the cold wind or shut it to refuse guests, finally choosing this half-open, half-closed approach—an invitation masked in rejection.

Remon didn’t care. This place had beer and grilled meat, and that was all he needed.

”Knock~” The door was gently pushed open as Remon walked into the bar.

Thick straw covered the wooden floor, and candles made from animal fat illuminated the dim interior of the tavern. The long bar counter was somewhat greasy, and at least one server was vigorously wiping down the tabletop with a cloth. Behind the bar, the landlady was pouring drinks. Two rows of cabinets were filled with various liquors, from the worst Brittania Ale to Imperial Black Beer, Kislev Vodka, mead, and whiskey. Poor quality wine from Winford also occupied a corner—it’s well known that Count Laine’s wife, Lady Surya, is the Duke of Winford’s daughter, and aside from producing excellent wines, this duchy also produces inferior ones.

The high-quality wine is consumed by the noble masters, while the inferior wine is drunk by the lower-class commoners, and it seems there’s no issue with it.

Inside the tavern, the long bar seats were filled with patrons, leaving only one or two positions. Beside them were two wooden tables, which also had many people seated. When Remon pushed open the door, almost everyone fixed their eyes on him. Most were middle-aged men with scruffy beards worn under black or brown cloaks.

His bearskin coat and youthful appearance seemed out of place in this tavern, but as Remon firmly believed, none of this would hinder him from enjoying himself here.

”He’s a soldier of the Count!”

”He’s one of our Count’s Long Halberdiers!”

”I’ve heard of them. These soldiers from the Long Halberd Battalion are heroes. They once faced the Chaos Chosen Warriors of the Northern Barbarians in the Battle of Leonais!”

”A hero! I, Duff, salute you with a drink!”

The patrons and drinkers in the tavern quickly recognized Remon’s identity from his badge and uniform. In Count Glamorgan’s domain, the Count’s soldiers were always respected and celebrated, as every peasant hoped to have a family member become a soldier or ranger, granting the whole family free people status.

This is Remon’s confidence, his confidence in his identity. This sense of confidence intoxicated him; it was a respect he couldn’t feel back when he was a peasant in Leonais.

”Welcome, Mr. Long Halberdier of the Count. Can I do anything for you?” The landlady, who had been busy pouring drinks and counting her coins, quickly looked up with a reluctant smile upon seeing Remon heading straight to the bar.

”Beer.” Remon found a stool in front of the bar and said directly.

”Local ale or something else?” The landlady seemed to be probing.

”Imperial Black Beer.” Remon knew very well what the local ale was like—that’s for the downtrodden peasants who muddle through life every day, not for him. He was a soldier of the Count.

”A glass or a small keg?” The landlady, recognizing him as someone knowledgeable, continued.

”A small keg.” Remon fixed his gaze on the beer kegs in the cabinet. These kegs perhaps stored seven or eight liters of beer, though he didn’t know how much water was mixed in, but likely not too much—an establishment with a reputation for watering down excessively wouldn’t have so many patrons.

”Hmm?” The landlady, looking under thirty and fairly presentable, spread her hands.

Remon handed over a silver coin.

The coin swiftly disappeared into her sleeve, and she counted out twenty copper coins in change for him, then retrieved a large wooden beer mug, filling it to the brim with deep brown liquid before placing it in front of Remon. ”Anything else, sir?”

”That’ll be all for now.” Remon accepted the beer mug, this massive mug being the so-called ”small keg,” approximately 650 milliliters. If it was a ”glass,” it would resemble a mug, roughly 150 to 200 milliliters.

The Imperial Black Beer exuded a rich aroma, with foam adorning the surface of the beer, each sip satisfying, undeniably better than the local sour barley beer.

One gulp, and a third of the large mug was gone. Remon was just about to say something when the door swung open, the wind and snow swept inside, and Remon frowned, instinctively looking toward the door.

A figure in a green ranger’s cloak, chain mail and a luxurious robe, carrying a large bow, appeared at the tavern’s entrance.

”Oh, hello, Mr. Bertrand! What brings you to my humble establishment?”

”I’ll have a glass of Imperial Black Beer first, Matty.”

”Alright.”