Homecoming, And A Plan For Independence

Pitter-patter.

Rain fell. Ian watched the water bead on his palm, his eyes filled with quiet satisfaction. A gust ran straight through him and rattled his clothes.

“Your Majesty, if you stand in this wind and rain, you’ll catch cold.”

“I’m fine. The rain will stop soon.”

Mardin sounded worried behind him; Ian answered lightly—and indeed, the rain stopped. The sky cleared and even the wind died. Mardin murmured in wonder.

“You did the same yesterday… how do you call it so precisely?”

“Well, after staying here a while, I feel I can read it.”

“Read it…? I can’t make sense of the weather here at all, but Your Majesty can. Remarkable.”

‘What’s remarkable is me, frankly.’

Ian marveled at his own ability. A week had passed since the Third Ability unlocked. In that time, he had probed what the new power was and what phenomena it could produce.

‘Weather control—now that, I like.’

The brief squall and wind moments ago had not been natural; they had been Ian’s doing. He had gained the power to control weather.

‘Right now I can only bring light rain and a breeze, but as my power grows, a true storm shouldn’t be impossible.’

If he could summon a typhoon at sea, no fleet could match him in his home waters. Should anyone invade, he could raise a storm and annihilate them.

‘Nothing at sea is more terrifying than a typhoon.’

He wasn’t there yet, but once he was, the realm would be virtually impregnable. He had also learned he could call wind and rain separately.

This Third Ability might sound mundane, but its versatility was tremendous—especially for governance. If a drought struck, he could bring rain to that region and transform harvests.

“Shall we go in so you can wash up?”

“Mardin, you’ve become terribly fussy since you became my aide.”

“It’s all for Your Majesty.”

“Ha, I know. Anyway… it’s impossible to completely exterminate the goblins, isn’t it?”

“It seems so.”

They had hunted for a week with disappointing results. The jungle terrain was a problem, and even when they cleared creatures, new ones appeared from somewhere—despite blocking the ruin’s entrance.

Ammunition consumption soared.

‘And our casualties are slowly adding up.’

Goblins were weak individually, but fighting them in jungle was tricky. He felt like burning the entire island—or turning it into a dead zone.

‘We could release poison gas, but then the land would be useless for a long time.’

So, why not leave them? In fact, it might be a lucrative asset. The world’s eyes would be glued to the island.

‘People would pay to see living goblins, even from offshore.’

Tourism could boom. Ferries could bring visitors to observe the island by telescope. Risk remained if goblins reached the shore, but a picket line of patrol ships would stay in place.

‘Or we make it impossible for them to reach the sea at all.’

If the danger grew, he could still burn the island—or use gas. With the ocean as a moat, the goblins had no path off.

‘And we should thoroughly study goblins, too.’

Ancient creatures might yield useful materials. He would order full research—blood, flesh, bone—for anything that might help the treasury. Then another thought: what of the other ruins?

‘If other sites stayed quiet, maybe their monsters didn’t spawn en masse?’

He had heard of no other mass outbreaks. Perhaps those sites had been purged, or like the Kraken, their manifestations were one-off. Maybe goblins kept coming because they were weak, and the Kraken appeared only once because it was too strong.

“Leave a few destroyers for picket duty and let’s return to the mainland.”

“Truly, Sire?”

“You look awfully happy to hear that. Ah—of course, your wife and daughter await you at home.”

“Ahem, that’s not it—I only worry we’ve left the capital unattended too long.”

“You fear for the capital without me?”

“To speak frankly, yes. Your Majesty has been restraining the nobles. If any should entertain… thoughts, it could be grave.”

“Don’t fret. I prepared for that. Frankly, I rather hope someone tries a revolt.”

“P—pardon?!”

Mardin stared as if the words themselves were dangerous. Ian smirked. Without knowing the whole picture, of course Mardin fretted; the reaction amused him.

‘Blanket mental manipulation is not the way.’

If he did that, everyone around him would obey without thought—like puppets. One could argue that wasn’t different from Mardin’s loyalty, but to Ian it felt utterly different.

“Heh. Why so startled?”

“T-this isn’t amusing! A revolt is no trivial matter.”

“I told you—I’ve prepared. Even if a revolt breaks out, none will succeed.”

The reaction only reinforced his distaste for controlling every mind. Where would the fun be in a world without resistance? In any case, it was time to return.

February 24.

After more than ten days at sea, Ian reached the mainland and went straight to the capital. They had departed on January 22; a bit over a month away on inspection.

Nothing had happened in his absence. No unrest, no plots. To Ian, it was… a bit disappointing.

He was welcomed by ministers and citizens alike; even foreign journalists had come. He held a press conference—he had to say something about the goblins.

He had wired news of his return from the Marin Archipelago, so not only domestic reporters but foreign correspondents had gathered, including those from warring empires. Interest was intense.

He took the hastily erected podium and spoke into the microphone.

[We know many are anxious about the goblins. But they are confined to an island. Our warships are on guard. The situation is controlled. Please, do not worry.]

His words spread outward like ripples. Foreign reporters hurled questions; Polian reporters waited—knowing he preferred to speak without interruption. Sensing the mood, the foreign press quieted.

Ian continued.

[For now, the situation is contained. If there are those who wish to study the goblins, we plan to allow limited observation in time—so please wait for that phase. And later—not immediately, but if safety is confirmed—we intend to offer the public a chance to observe as well.]

The prospect of even limited access, and eventually public viewing, shocked many—then faces lit with eagerness. If they could be first to observe and record the island, they would return home with a guaranteed scoop.

With the (one-way) briefing done, Ian returned to the palace. He informed his mother and little sister of his return and endured a barrage of questions—mostly about goblins, but also about Princess Adrina and whether “history” had been made. He pled a mountain of backlogged work and escaped.

‘And it really is a mountain…’

Thanks to a telegraph line from the archipelago to the mainland, some matters had been handled remotely, but the backlog was real. His office was a forest of paper.

‘Now I see why a realm rots when a king stops working.’

Let a king take his hand off the tiller and policy and economy would veer into chaos. He limbered up and went to work.

At his side, Mardin ferried papers and assisted. Ian could sign without leaving his desk—but he still skimmed every item before signing.

Clearing the backlog alone took five days. March crept in, and the continent lurched toward extremes.

Battles broke out at sea—hundreds of warships ranging and fighting. Trade routes grew perilous.

Pullea Royal Palace, capital of the Polia Kingdom.

“Another shipment went out heavy with arms.”

“At this volume, we can fully equip a hundred thousand troops.”

They could not fill transports with rifles alone; they carried field guns, howitzers, and mountains of ammunition. Such convoys sailed several times a month; sales soared.

“Doicheun has mobilized over six million, yes?”

“Yes. And the Moria and Noma Empires have each sent more than three million.”

“So many.”

“And the dead mount daily.”

The chancellor looked relieved they had stayed out of the war. For many kingdoms it had ceased to be “someone else’s war.” Conscripts from allied kingdoms marched across imperial lands to far-off fronts.

“In that meat grinder, many of the dying are kingdom troops. They’ve also scraped men from the colonies.”

“A war of attrition uses expendables.”

“Hence the colonies are in turmoil. Censorship can’t plug every leak; both sides trumpet colonial losses, sowing confusion.”

“Rebellion will break out in the colonies soon enough.”

If people heard that their brothers, sons, and fathers died by the tens of thousands, rage was inevitable. The sides seemed to be spreading the truth indiscriminately, as if to drag each other down.

“We should prepare to grant independence to our colonies.”

“Independence, Sire?”

“Why that face? I already told you—we will grant independence.”

“But… in the middle of a great war—”

“Precisely why now. When the war ends, the empires will go quiet for a time. In that window, newly independent states can stabilize.”

“That is true.”

“And our elder brothers in the colonies should be ready by now.”

Contrary to expectations of a single victor consolidating everything, two blocs had formed in the colonies: Prince Vincent and Prince Rubid had built competing power bases and held each other in check.

‘One state would be easier to steward… but two it is. No helping it, perhaps.’