Chapter 400: The Latecomers Are No Longer Welcome at the Table

The Brittany family’s burial ground, located in the Temple of the Serpent of Fate in the Lukavaro District, was constructed during the Sherlock dynasty and has stood for six epochs.

Charlot Mecklenburg had visited this place once before, accompanying Annie Mecklenburg. This time, he was here with her again.

However, their purpose had changed. The last visit had been to see Annie's aunt. Now, they came to bid farewell to Lady Nannie Bretagne Axel—the future Empress of the Fars Empire. If her husband, Maclaine Bretagne, ascended to the throne, she would surely be crowned Empress.

Charlot had rarely dressed in formal attire, but for this occasion, he wore a suit borrowed from the Earl of Bretagne. Annie had selected it from her father’s wardrobe due to the lack of time to tailor a new one. As a result, Charlot’s attire bore the Bretagne family crest.

The funeral was simple and private, attended by no more than fifty people. Only those close to the Bretagne family, or at least of the rank of Earl, were invited. For Charlot, this event was a first, where he encountered notable figures such as Duke Felix Robin, whose son married Princess Axo Axel and whose grandson was Grand Duke Zimourman Axel Robin of the empire. He also met Count Gallanord, who had just returned from the Ferranden battlefield.

Those present at the funeral likely represented the new aristocracy of the upcoming regime. Charlot’s presence among them was, in itself, remarkable.

Annie, overwhelmed with grief, could hardly stand without Charlot’s support. Witnessing her sorrow, Charlot felt an ache in his heart and silently prayed:

“Lord of the River of Fate, Knower of All Mysteries, Master of Extraordinary Rites, Arbiter of the Court of Fate, how much joy of fate do I still possess? Can I offer all of it to Annie Mecklenburg?”

A youthful voice responded, “Twenty-eight portions. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely!” Charlot declared. “I wish for Annie to be forever blessed by fate, her life peaceful and free of hardship.”

The boyish voice chuckled softly. “Very well! Now you owe me thirty-two portions of fate’s joy.”

Startled, Charlot exclaimed, “What did I just wish for?”

This time, no answer came, only the sound of the Serpent of Fate's laughter echoing faintly through his mind. It felt as if something amusing had occurred to the deity.

Charlot had only wanted Annie to feel a bit better. He never expected that twenty-eight portions of joy were insufficient, leaving him indebted to the Serpent of Fate for an additional thirty-two portions. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what this "fate’s joy" entailed, he had a growing suspicion that it was immensely valuable.

Charlot muttered to himself, “Sixty portions of fate’s joy? That must be enough to ascend to the divine rank, right? At the very least, it should guarantee reaching the saint rank.”

“Still,” he thought, “it’s for Annie. No amount would be wasted.”

It wasn’t until twelve years later that Charlot learned the magnitude of the wish he had made at that moment and what the Serpent of Fate had promised in return. By then, Charlot deeply regretted not borrowing another sixty portions of fate’s joy to make a wish for himself.

Such is the nature of fate—unpredictable.

Such is the whim of the Serpent of Fate—lying in wait for twelve years, just to revel in his embarrassment.

...

The funeral was solemn yet straightforward. After the service, Maclaine Bretagne dismissed everyone, including his children, to spend more time alone with his wife.

Charlot and Annie bid farewell to High Priest Tromso at the temple before returning directly to 221B Baker Street in the Val-de-Vas District. The location was close to the Central Government Office, and both Annie and Charlot preferred to meet there. Since acquiring this residence, their visits to 58 Elysée Avenue had become rare; the time spent traveling between locations shortened the hours they could be together.

Annie was still grieving. She cried for a while before falling asleep in Charlot’s arms on the long sofa. Charlot, holding the girl he loved, gazed through the alchemical crystal glass at the bustling crowd on Baker Street. His heart was calm, filled with a rare sense of tranquility.

Life since his transmigration had been thrilling and eventful, but moments of peace like this were rare.

All that remained now was to wait patiently. In three months, Maclaine Bretagne would ascend as the Emperor of the Fars Empire, bringing stability to the realm. Though wars might persist, true crises should be a thing of the past.

...

Outside Strasbourg, a peculiar army had gathered. Its commander, Sophia Gallanord, was in a particularly foul mood.

Her dining table lay in ruins, with every piece of cutlery destroyed. When Sophia learned that Charlot Mecklenburg had issued a nationwide proclamation declaring Redmir a usurper and mobilized his forces to capture Strasbourg, she immediately led her troops, even abandoning the Queen Bee, to join the fray.

But she had received the news too late. By the time she reached Strasbourg, it was over.

Even her father, Count Gallanord, had pledged support for Maclaine Bretagne as the empire’s new ruler.

Enraged, Sophia clenched her teeth and spat, “So you can smash dishes too, huh? Annie Mecklenburg!”

“The Serpent of Fate is far too partial. How am I any less than her? I was just a step behind…”

“I didn’t lose. I refuse to admit defeat.”

Sophia kicked over the remnants of the table and bellowed, “We’re leaving! Back to the sea. That’s where we belong.”

As Sophia led her forces in retreat, Leopardman Tumisan, hovering above in the sky, couldn’t help but ask, “Are we still heading to Strasbourg?”

Menielman Soumet replied flatly, “Let’s head back as well. Latecomers have no place at the table.”

Menielman, surrounded by her saint-ranked subordinates, had received the news earlier than Sophia. However, she had been delayed at sea after encountering a Black Phoenix Dynasty fleet. Although she emerged victorious, the skirmish caused her to arrive even later than the Rose of Strasbourg.

Before leaving, Menielman cast one last glance at Strasbourg, her mind drifting to Charlot Mecklenburg. His image seemed to overlap with that of another—one who had once been an audacious saint but now lived as a reckless libertine. Charlot, on the other hand, had transformed from a carefree rogue into a figure of romantic legend.

If given the chance, Menielman thought, she wouldn’t mind trading places with Annie Mecklenburg.

Even an imperial rose occasionally yearned to be plucked and held in someone’s hand.

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