News Of Defeat From The Mainland

A few days later.

At a military officers’ tavern located in the colonial city of Beyru.

Despite the presence of dozens of officers, the atmosphere in the tavern was far from cheerful. The news coming through telegraphs was grim. Reports indicated that the Doicheun Empire’s fleet was now stationed not far from the Polia Kingdom’s mainland.

A major battle was imminent, and the outcome would inevitably affect the course of the war here in the colonies. A victory would be ideal—but that seemed nearly impossible. Even a successful defense would help shift the war in their favor.

But if they lost? The battles to come would be far more grueling. Still, there was some hope: if they could inflict significant damage on the Doicheun fleet—even in defeat—it could greatly tilt the strategic balance.

Even though the war was technically between the Polia Kingdom and the Doicheun Empire, both sides were keeping a close eye on the other empires. Any misstep could lead to betrayal, and the Doicheun Empire, in particular, was likely doing all it could to minimize its own losses.

On the Polia side, everything was focused on inflicting as much damage as possible on the Doicheun Navy. In one corner of the tavern, an officer set down his glass with a loud thud. His mood was clearly sour. Someone approached and called out to him.

“Captain Milan Russo.”

“Lieutenant Mardin Gaso. What brings you here?”

“I should be the one asking that. Why the long face?”

Mardin asked with his usual gentle expression. Milan gave a bitter chuckle and shook his head.

“Lately, I’ve been thinking how miserable military life can be.”

“Is it… because of him?”

At the word “him,” Milan immediately thought of Prince Eight. A blond, refined-looking man—on the outside. But in reality, his behavior was a complete disaster. Selfish, impulsive, and utterly inconsiderate. Milan’s role as his aide was driving him mad.

Seeing Milan’s troubled look, Mardin shook his head and replied,

“That must be rough.”

“And what about you? Is your assignment going okay?”

“Oh, I’m doing fine. He’s surprisingly diligent.”

“Really?”

Milan looked almost envious. He knew that Mardin served the Ninth Prince. Given that Ian was only sixteen—the youngest of the princes—he assumed it would be the hardest job. But apparently, that wasn’t the case.

“I’ve heard he keeps making requests to the governor for things the ship needs…”

Lately, Count Rolchen, the governor, had started going out of his way to avoid Ian. The prince asked for so many things—equipment, supplies, support—it became overwhelming. Still, Milan thought this was exactly the kind of behavior a responsible captain should have.

“We’re still short on food, fuel, and shells.”

With two fleets based at the naval port, supplies were stretched thin. Logistics officers were fighting tooth and nail at the supply depot to get whatever they could. It had been this way for days, and it would only get worse.

“We do get some preference since we have a prince aboard, but if he got involved himself, we’d get even more…”

But if Milan even tried to bring this up, he’d probably get slapped again—just like at the welcome party. The thought made him sigh. No matter how much he cared about rules and protocol, dealing with someone as erratic as Prince Eight was exhausting.

“These days, His Highness has been studying naval tactics with me. He’s really interested.”

“With you? Is he any good?”

“Well, not exactly good, but not bad either. He wants to learn, but he’s no genius.”

“I see.”

Milan had half-expected the prince to be like the heroes in stories—flawless at everything. But apparently not. Still, the desire to learn counted for a lot. Prince Eight, by contrast… he spent most of his time at the governor’s parties and hadn’t returned to the ship since the first day.

“Telling us to handle things ourselves—how could a captain act like that?”

It might be disrespectful to think, but Milan couldn’t understand what the king had been thinking when he made his sons captains and sent them to war.

He raised his glass and clinked it against Mardin’s.

“To victory in the battles ahead.”

“Yes. To victory. Let’s drink.”

Clink. The sound of glasses echoed faintly as time passed slowly by.

Somewhere Else…

“Hmph, this is hard.”

Naval tactics were proving more difficult than Ian expected. Unless one was a genius, it was nearly impossible to master military strategy in a short time. And Ian wasn’t a genius—he had been a psychic in his past life, nothing more. Even now, he was only moderately sharp.

“Maybe I should just go out on deck and train instead.”

With that thought, Ian closed the tactics manual and stood up. He was currently in the captain’s quarters—a spacious room he had been staying in lately.

His older brothers were reportedly living in fancy hotels in the city, but Ian had chosen to stay aboard the ship from the start to grow accustomed to it. Thanks to the ship’s displacement of over 10,000 tons, it barely rocked at all.

Granted, it was docked, so the lack of motion was expected. Creak. Ian opened the iron door of his quarters, stepping into the steel-clad hallway. As he walked, soldiers saluted him one after another. He returned their salutes and headed toward the deck.

There, atop a wooden deck stood a large naval gun. As Ian walked closer, his eyes fell on the twin-mounted cannon—the cruiser’s primary armament, 200mm in caliber.

“The Lamit-class armored cruiser—second ship, the Luda—really is a decent vessel.”

But the problem was its age. It only had two twin-mounted main guns—one at the front and one at the rear. And its secondary battery consisted of just six 100mm guns, three on each side. Only eight guns in total.

He had heard that newer cruisers had more guns. Even the ships assigned to his older brothers had one more main gun than his. That made Ian’s ship feel outdated by comparison.

“It’s my fault for being the youngest.”

Being the Ninth Prince—and from a relatively weak maternal family—had clearly hurt his standing. Even the twins, Princes Seven and Eight, came from families with wealth and influence. No wonder they behaved the way they did. Honestly, Ian couldn’t understand most of what his brothers did.

“After the Fifth Prince, the rest of us are pretty much the same. I don’t understand what makes them think they’re so superior.”

Perhaps it was an inferiority complex driving them to act so high and mighty. Ian walked to the edge of the deck and stood before the railing, bound with chains. As always, he stood there overlooking the sea below.

At first, people used to approach out of curiosity, wondering what he was doing. But now, only a select few came near. He had told most not to come—everyone had duties, after all.

There, by the sea, Ian began training his psychokinesis—moving the water beneath the waves. The naval ships stationed nearby gently rocked, affected by the current manipulated by Ian’s power.

Of course, he didn’t move them violently. He concentrated on keeping the effects underwater and minimized the visible motion. Thanks to that, his training had seen some improvement.

Roughly thirty minutes passed in this focused state when he heard the sound of footsteps running toward him. It was his aide, Lieutenant Mardin Gaso, the big and gentle-looking man over two meters tall. Ian stopped his training and turned his eyes toward him. Mardin saluted, his face grave.

“A message just came in from the mainland.”

“What is it?”

“Yesterday, a major battle took place between our fleet and the Doicheun Empire’s navy. The outcome… was our defeat.”

“As expected, we lost…”

It was an outcome most had anticipated. What mattered now was how they lost—and whether they had preserved enough strength and inflicted any meaningful damage. Ian looked to Mardin, signaling him to continue.

Mardin hesitated briefly, then answered.

“Three of our battleships were sunk, one was critically damaged, and three managed to retreat safely.”

“…What about the enemy losses?”

“They lost two battleships and a few cruisers, reportedly.”

Three of their own ships were lost to sink two enemy battleships. One ship was heavily damaged. It was a significant defeat. Given the size of the Doicheun fleet, even this level of damage wasn’t enough to slow them down.

“So we lost because of inferior numbers and outdated technology…”

There must have been a difference in gun caliber and range. Still, it was impressive they managed to sink two battleships. Ian was sure it came at the cost of many cruisers and destroyers. In a way, they’d done better than expected.

“That means the battle here isn’t far off.”

Reconnaissance and espionage operations were still ongoing. But from their observations of the Doicheun colonies, it was clear the enemy was preparing its fleet. Now that the outcome of the ocean battle was known, they would surely aim for Beyru next.

“If it were me, I’d fight with support from the coastal batteries along the shoreline.”

Given their numerical disadvantage, the coastal artillery installed to protect the city would be vital. These land-based guns had greater caliber and range than ship-mounted ones. Perhaps they could even outrange the enemy fleet.

“Recall any soldiers on leave. Prepare everyone for immediate deployment.”

“Yes, sir!”

With a sharp salute, Mardin turned and hurried off. Ian could only brace himself as the tide of war drew ever closer. Even with psychic powers, he was still human—and humans could die. His power wasn’t all-powerful.

“I can’t die. I have to survive—so that one day I can leave this country and live peacefully with my mother and sister.”

With that resolve, Ian ended his training and began walking back into the ship.

Meanwhile…

The sky was a brilliant blue, and below it, a massive fleet cut through the sea. This was the colonial fleet of the Doicheun Empire—boasting four battleships, ten cruisers (both armored and light), and forty-two destroyers.

Compared to Polia’s two battleships and six cruisers, it was a crushing advantage. On top of that, nearly half of Polia’s ships were outdated, a major handicap.

The Doicheun Empire, having obtained detailed intelligence on Polia’s colonial forces, had every reason to be confident. This was a battle they couldn’t possibly lose. The only real threat was the coastal artillery stationed in the city of Beyru.

Still, if they could just defeat the colonial fleet, they could launch a landing operation and take the city from the flanks. In time, they were sure the city would fall.

“The weather is excellent today.”

“Just as you predicted, Admiral. An omen of good fortune.”

Smiling at his aide’s comment, Marquis Bodia von Dimitria of the Doicheun Empire let out a pleased chuckle. He was a renowned admiral, even within the empire, and in his mid-fifties, his command experience was second to none.

“The enemy’s main fleet has been crushed. They may still have a few battleships left, but they’re cowering in port. Once we take Polia’s capital, Pullea, they’ll have no choice but to surrender.”

That had always been the way of war: defeat the main force, capture the capital, and force the enemy to capitulate. After that, demand massive reparations and reap the profits.

If they could even seize Polia’s colonies, all the better. Marquis Dimitria already considered this war won. Complacency? Perhaps—but he truly believed this was an unwinnable fight for the enemy.

Their ships—battleships, cruisers, destroyers—were superior in every measurable way.

“The real concern is interference from the other empires.”

Just a few years ago, three empires had intervened when Polia fought another major war. Dimitria couldn’t rule out similar interference now. That would reduce the spoils of victory and complicate the situation. As far as he was concerned, foreign meddling was the only serious threat.