MacArthur

In the brightly lit chapel, a young officer in a wig strode toward the figure kneeling devoutly before a holy icon in prayer.

"Knight Commander John, the reconnaissance battalion has sent word. Grand Knight Rodoc has been killed in action."

Yet Knight Commander John, kneeling before the icon, seemed like a statue. He merely recited his prayer in a low voice. Star-like patterns were engraved upon his silver-white armor, depicting Saint George astride Pegasus, piercing a dragon's body with a crimson lance.

"Grand Knight Rodoc pursued them on Pegasus, yet he died silently in Texas without even managing to send back a message. Please believe me. As a frontline officer who has dealt with Texans for years, the Louisiana garrison as it stands—even with your Knightly Order added in—is no match for the Texans."

Only after finishing the final line of his prayer did Knight Commander John rise unhurriedly. "From the moment every holy knight joins the Knightly Order, he is prepared to devote his life to God."

Colonel Arthur said solemnly, "Knight Commander, we need to win this war, and win it cleanly, like an autumn wind sweeping away fallen leaves. That is absolutely beyond our current strength. So I hope you can send a telegram to the homeland—either request more holy knights, or simply bring over the London airship docked in Massachusetts and use the Purifying Fire to erase those dark creatures' nests."

Hearing the young officer's impassioned words, Knight Commander John glanced sideways.

The officer before him was named Arthur MacArthur. At nineteen, he had been promoted for his achievements in suppressing unrest, becoming lieutenant colonel and commander of the Twenty-Fourth Infantry Regiment. Now, he served as commander-in-chief of the Louisiana State Militia.

He was called commander-in-chief, but he commanded only five hundred proper State Militia soldiers—not