30 Years Have Passed Since the Prologue

In that time when the northern military dictatorship, in a state of perpetual martial law, fully armed at all times with its artillery power, was covertly shaking hands with the war-crazy tribes of the North.

Ivan finally arrived in the capital of Leonor, Ebron.

The royal palace loomed high in the center of the vast plain, surrounded by a deep moat. Villages stretched along the train tracks all the way to the horizon.

Unlike the big cities of Krasilov or Tylesse, the nations of the Southern Six Nations displayed a cityscape reminiscent of a feudal-era capital.

“This place feels much more primitive,” Ivan thought while managing his horse. The companions were half-slumped over on their mounts, dozing off.

“Something about the stares is a bit too blatant…”

Isabelle said, scanning the surroundings with a blank expression. Since their arrival in the Ebron region, soldiers clad in iron had been openly eyeing them.

However, at this point, none would dare attack a party that included a Saint in broad daylight. Ivan looked up at the sky.

“We have at least a day’s grace.”