Chaos reigned. The entire Warhammer Kingdom had descended into turmoil. Freed from the Expeditionary Army's restraint, the major factions had launched into a frenzy of infighting.
First, resistance forces from various regions had joined hands to crush the exile faction. Then divisions had erupted within the resistance itself, with the grassroots faction and the aristocratic faction fighting incessantly.
Without a doubt, the Moxi people had played a part behind the scenes. Without outside provocation, even if there had been conflicts and disagreements, they would not have escalated so quickly.
After all, the previous war had already eliminated countless old noble houses, leaving vast stretches of ownerless land for everyone to divide.
None of this had anything to do with Hudson, who was returning home. For the people of Warhammer, internal strife was a deadly matter; but across the continent, it was merely an insignificant disturbance.
Its international impact did not even draw as much attention as the Elves' raid on the camp to rescue their prisoners.
But it was only attention. The Warhammer Kingdom was in a state of anarchy, so no one even knew whom to approach with a protest.
They had come like the wind, but on the return journey they had become snails. It was not that the Expeditionary Army's quality had declined; there was simply too much loot.
They had not directly seized much, but they had received too many gifts. Hudson had not kept everything for himself and had distributed it according to military custom.
To transport the loot, even the packhorses they normally rode had been put to work pulling carts. The cavalry had not only become infantry, but also had to moonlight as laborers.
No one complained, no matter how bitter or exhausting it was, when they were hauling their own loot. Everyone