The Red Wine in the crystal glass swayed in the candlelight, reflecting Harrison Abbott's slightly contracted pupils.
He sat silently in a corner of the banquet hall. The lively voices of the generals filled his ears, but his thoughts were like the surface of the sea in a storm, churning up raging waves.
He had underestimated Paul Greiman.
No, it was more than underestimation. Harrison even felt a trace of lingering fear.
He had originally thought that the strength of Northwest Bay came merely from a few elite legions and advanced firearms, along with Paul's dazzling inventions.
When the Royal New Army had trained in Crystal Radiance, he had been astonished by the power of the Flintlock Gun's salvo fire, impressed by the artillery's precise range, and applauded the value of Linear Tactics.
He had thought that this was the full extent of Northwest Bay's military strength.
But now, he had witnessed with his own eyes what a true war machine was.
In the armories, firearms, shells, and uniforms were produced at an astonishing speed, seemingly without end. Even the most ordinary farmer could become a qualified soldier by shouldering a rifle after just two or three months of training. Steam Trains transported troops and supplies day and night, unleashing an immense capacity for war.
More frighteningly, Marquis Greiman's war strategy had long since surpassed the purely military level.
Harrison's gaze unconsciously swept toward the map—the control of water sources on the northern grasslands, the assimilation and utilization of the Forest Orcish, the navy's long-range deployments... This was not a battle at all, but a complete strategic rout. No matter how brave Alba's Orcish warriors were, they were merely struggling in vain within this vast net that had already been woven.
He took a sip of wine, his throat tightening