The son of the God-Emperor in Warhammer Fantasy

"Besieger Pogil was a very powerful mercenary leader. Because of his unparalleled expertise in siege warfare, he was called the 'Besieger.' When the city-state was invaded by ratmen, he was the greatest mercenary of that time. It is said that all the cities of Tyrell, even the intricately fortified Miraglenno, could not withstand the prince's siege. Pogil was indeed a tactical expert, and most of his battles ended in victory."

"After three great victories, he made Miraglenno the most powerful duchy in Tyrell. After this, his enemies had no choice but to surrender to his siege capabilities, avoiding open conflict and hiding behind their walls. He was also a shrewd yet ruthless ruler; once an opponent emerged, they wouldn't live long."

"But Prince Pogil's strength also attracted everyone's hostility. He experienced countless assassinations. All the nobles of Tyrell, including many mercenaries from the city-state of Miraglenno, united against him. In the end, he was assassinated while unarmed during a bath."

The halfling Habi, a legendary peak rogue swordsman, followed behind Fugen, introducing the situation.

Halflings are not hard to hire. When Fugen offered enough gold and silver, it was natural for Habi to choose to join the Ash Legion. He agreed to lead his dozen or so halflings on an expedition to Luscia for fifteen chests filled with wealth. This money was enough for these halflings to return to their homeland, Mutter, and find halfling women to marry after completing this job.

Seeing the amount Fugen offered, Habi was speechless with surprise. He immediately accepted the job, gleefully stating that he would retire from mercenary work after completing this mission.

The group walked through the streets of Miraglenno. The streets here were magnificent, luxurious, grand, simple, and elegant. Despite the opulence, it didn't feel overly embellished. Instead, the people here, far from war, had time to ponder philosophy and pursue art. While listening to Habi's narrative, Fugen also took an interest in admiring the streets and house designs along the way, occasionally stopping to listen to street performers.

In contrast, Angron had no interest in these things. His gaze absentmindedly wandered over the differently styled streets, finding nothing special even after looking for a long time, while listening to the halfling's introduction.

In terms of talent alone, Pogil the Besieger might have been the best mercenary leader in the southern kingdoms. He relied not only on his bravery and wisdom but also on sharing hardships with his mercenaries to become the Prince of Miraglenno. In three wars, he successively defeated three duchies and completely crushed the green-skinned Waaagh from the southern Gray Mountains that tried to invade Tyrell, splitting it into three small tribes that no longer posed a threat to Tyrell.

However, when Pogil revealed his ambition and declared his desire to become the true king of Tyrell, he faced unanimous and resolute opposition. Everyone united against him, including his own mercenaries.

Pogil could win every war and defeat all enemies in his path, but once he left, those conquered places would immediately rise in rebellion and fall. No matter how hard he tried, he could only control Miraglenno. Worse still, his mercenaries began to oppose him as well.

"It's normal. We can't expect mercenaries to offer the same loyalty as a nation. That's unrealistic. Pogil wasn't Jonson." Fugen listened to the halfling's story and calmly analyzed everything. "Unlike the Empire and Bretonnia, where people have developed a desire and awareness for unity under the threat and pressure of Chaos, undead, and greenskins, Tyrell and Estalia don't face such threats. Everyone is used to self-governance and likes autonomy, refusing change. So the pressure to unify is surprisingly high. Pogil obviously lacked the abilities of Emperor Charlemagne or the first Knight King Arthur, and also lacked the chaotic and threatening environment of war."

"But why did his mercenaries also oppose him?" Angron asked Fugen. "According to Habi, Pogil always led by example in every battle, shared hardships with his mercenaries, and even ate from the same pot."

"Yes, but their relationship was ultimately that of a superior and subordinate," Fugen sneered. "The relationship between superior and subordinate is different from that of ruler and subject, Angron. We must not confuse them."

"You understand, you always understand!" Angron grumbled. "This is why I hate talking to you. You always say half and leave half, then mock me!"

Fugen knew Angron well, just as Angron understood Fugen. Seeing Angron grumble, Fugen just smiled and said no more.

Perhaps due to the chaos caused by Pogil's death, the entire city was in a state of extreme disorder. As they had just encountered, even Chaos cultists dared to openly preach Chaos on the streets, spreading corruption without anyone stopping them. When Fugen openly shot and killed a cultist, causing panic, the city showed no reaction. The guards responsible for Miraglenno's security were too busy fighting for power to care about what happened in the city's corners.

"So, where is the Golden Mage?" Ingrid, a barbarian warrior following the group, asked loudly. Angron's appearance naturally made her feel close. In the Norse imagination, a towering, strong figure wielding twin axes, with a rugged appearance that made space seem to collapse with every move, Angron was enough for the female barbarian to regard him as an elder, especially since Angron appeared kind and amiable (by barbarian standards).

"The Golden Mage resides in an estate within Miraglenno," Habi nodded repeatedly. Although small in stature, the halfling was not clumsy. On the contrary, he moved quickly and silently. He wore a typical ranger outfit, including a hat with a lark feather and a quiver, a short bow on his back, a pouch with a row of daggers across his chest, and a shortsword on his back. He seemed harmless, but anyone who underestimated him paid the price.

What caught Fugen's attention slightly was a golden ring Habi wore, inscribed with ancient spells and a mysterious language.

"This is a halfling heirloom, passed down from my uncle," Habi explained when he noticed Fugen's gaze. "That's all."

Fugen nodded slightly and said no more.

Despite his small size and seemingly youthful appearance, Habi was actually sixty years old. Halflings considered thirty-three the age of adulthood, and most lived around one hundred fifty years, making sixty relatively young.

Following a narrow garden path, the group headed towards the Golden Mage's residence in Miraglenno. The mage and his army were temporarily staying in this estate.

Upon entering the estate, everyone was taken aback by the scene.

A vast sea of flames greeted them, the crackling of fire and the stench of burning filling the air, making Angron frown.

The entire estate was ablaze. The three-story building was gradually being consumed by fire. Elemental spirits engulfed in flames danced in the air, emitting sharp screams and roars, laughing as if the fire brought them joy, as if the miserable fate of mortals delighted them.

"As usual, we're too late," Felix, the winged hussar general, said, his face as dark as iron. "All that awaits us is destruction. The Golden Mage has been defeated."

"Not necessarily," Fugen cautioned everyone to remain calm. The Ash Legion's leader noticed a group of Arabi emerging from the burning estate. They wore long robes and turbans, each armed with a scimitar. They dragged a bound Tyrellian out of the estate, pressed him onto a tree stump, and prepared to execute him. "By his will, we sentence you to death."

"No! No! Please! I beg you!" the Tyrellian screamed, struggling frantically. "No! I just wanted to make a wish!"

"But you lost. As a loser, you must die." An Arabi soldier drew his scimitar and raised it high.

"No! No!"

"Wait!" Fugen and his group approached from a distance. He glanced at the burning estate and questioned the Arabi. "Why are you killing him?"

"Kill him? What business is it of yours, you filthy..." The Arabi soldier began, but seeing Fugen's appearance and his magnificent armor, his disdain turned to fear. "Er... I mean, it doesn't concern you! Go away, we have an execution to carry out!"

"Tell me, Arabi, why are you killing him?" Fugen's expression didn't change as he stood before the Arabi soldiers. "Otherwise, I won't leave."

"Save me! Save me!" the Tyrellian screamed, now in tears and wetting himself in fear.

"Coward!" Angron snorted disdainfully.

"Speak! Be quick!" Fugen stepped forward.

That gaze, a look of bone-chilling fear, was like a sharp steel knife, precise and deadly, piercing through any disguise. It felt like being hypnotized, unable to move or escape, as if a bullet penetrated armor or a blade cut through glass.

The Arabi soldiers immediately sensed their lives were in danger. The leader swallowed hard, trying to act tough. "The Golden Mage ordered us to kill him. That's the reason. Are you satisfied? If not, then leave. This isn't a place for you, Imperial! We have an execution to carry out."

The golden double-headed eagle on Fugen's chest caused the Arabi to misunderstand.

"Not satisfied," Fugen said, lowering his head. "You only told me a reason

. I want to know the cause. Why are you killing this Tyrellian?"

"Why do you need to know the reason? Do your Empire's witch hunters explain to everyone why they execute the fallen?" the Arabi soldier retorted, though their scimitars trembled.

"No reason," Fugen pressed, his gaze growing sharper. "Tell me!"

The Arabi soldiers took a few steps back, exchanging hesitant glances.

"Because he didn't sincerely want to cooperate with me," a hoarse voice echoed from the burning estate's entrance. A tall figure in golden embroidered silk, wielding a golden flame scimitar, and wearing a pumpkin-shaped golden hat with a gold-painted face, descended the steps. Surrounded by elemental spirits, he spoke coldly with one blind eye. "He just wanted to get close to the Djinn and make a wish."

"His wish?" Fugen turned to face him.

"That's not important." The Golden Mage stepped down from the burning steps. "What about you? Are you here to cooperate or seek the Djinn's secrets like him?"

"Release him. You have no right to judge him," Fugen said, looking at the Tyrellian's head pressed against the tree stump. "This isn't your rightful power."

"Then we can't reach an agreement," the Golden Mage replied, stepping closer. "But it's simple. We always follow the principle of equivalent exchange. You can trade your life for his."

"Or you can ignore this and discuss your purpose with me. Are you seeking cooperation or coveting the Djinn's secrets?"

"Giggle~" The elemental spirits rolled in the air, laughing sharply and violently.

"Are you challenging me?" Fugen stepped closer to the Golden Mage. "What if I insist?"

"As I said, we follow equivalent exchange. If you insist, why not? Your soul is worth more than this trash's." The Golden Mage brandished his scimitar. "Do you want to wait until the fire stops or start now?"

Elemental spirits appeared from the burning estate behind the Golden Mage.

"What's the difference?" Fugen drew his golden power sword, Glory, signaling the group to spread out.

"Indeed, then... let's begin!"

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