Chapter 1861: WAR HERO

At this time, France, Military Academy.

When the withered blades of grass dry up, and the scorched midwinter sheds its moisture and curls into a ball, the so-called tumbleweeds begin to run wild all over the streets.

The evening in Brienne is half desolate, desolate within the mottled and nostalgic silhouette of the city. As the sun, having shed its dazzling brilliance, sinks bit by bit into the west, the tumbleweeds chase after the gray horizon until they are crushed into fragments by the wheels of a jolting horse carriage.

Just like history, constantly repeating in a spiral.

On the other side of the wall, lamps flicker with phantom shadows, silver platters reflect the finery, and romantic young people change out of their woolen coats into formal wear that showcases their streamlined figures. Behind the decadent city Shadow, they let prosperity and song flow wantonly, whitewashing flowers, swords, and France.

In this ballroom belonging to the Noble night, the light waves of the crystal chandelier are luxuriously blinding.

With waiters in black and white tailcoats weaving through, the long table is gradually filled from one end to the other; expensive fruits, vegetables, meat, red wine, and fresh flowers are there to be picked and tasted according to one's desires.

No one is focused on the food on the table.

The social gathering was held for the purpose of making connections, centered around the future heroes of Brienne—in reality, the government-sponsored faction among them—and for this reason, some high-ranking celebrities hosted this grand feast.

In this banquet organized by the nobility, these second-generation Nobles chat in groups of three or five, or go to the central area to dance lightly with their partners; only Bonaparte sits alone in the corner of the hall, out of place among those mingling Military Academy cadets.

Bonaparte's family lineage can be traced back to the ancient Italy Folunlunsas Ghibellines Noble, so he naturally has the corresponding qualifications to attend this ball, but around him, a cold, empty isolation zone has formed.

He comes from Corsica. In the eyes of the arrogant French, it is a subject land in the remote countryside. Exit the transcoding page, please download the app to read the latest chapters.

He is short and stocky, wearing his military uniform in a way that looks entirely improper, and even less suited to the magnificent atmosphere here. And whenever someone looks over with a strange gaze, this person would reveal a savage expression and glare back—

What are you looking at?!

"Sparta savage!"

A cadet complained with a guilty conscience and quickly left under the guise of putting back his red wine.

This troublemaker of Brienne is famous; born into a fallen family, savage and rude, he even dares to fight with instructors. No one wants to cause a scene with him at this wonderful

banquet and lose the composure and decency of a Noble.

Bonaparte has long been used to it; he keeps his head down, minding his own business as he enjoys the cold cuts. Being hot-tempered, he doesn't dislike this nickname, but he does dislike the arrogant French.

He is left-handed, holding his knife and fork in a way opposite to ordinary people; even the way he cuts his steak becomes a topic of conversation for others in the corner.

"Why can an outsider from a fallen family sit here? I thought this was a banquet for the French Noble."

"Who knows? When the Empire pardoned Corsica back then, it recognized the status of so many surrenderists..."

The soft laughter is not prominent among the mingling crowd, yet it happens to drift into Bonaparte's ears, causing the silver knife handle in his hand to twist slightly.

Corsica is a colony after all; the reserved conservatives look down on this "foreign native" from the Mediterranean Sea. He has long been used to their sarcasm and mockery, but "surrenderist" truly struck a rather unpleasant scar.

Bonaparte casts a cold gaze over, takes a breath, and prepares to stand up, intending to feed those two idiots two baguettes, but a crisp greeting comes from his side.

"Sir, do you mind if I sit here?"

The pink, gorgeous long dress is like a blooming Peony, and the girl's fair, smooth skin refracts a soft yet dazzling radiance under the crystal chandelier.

Her smiling, azure eyes remind Bonaparte of the bay of Ajaccio; the sea breeze back then blew in his face just like that, stirring the tranquil and peaceful tide.

Bonaparte blinks, feeling slightly caught off guard.

He naturally does not believe he has the capital to be chatted up, regardless of his appearance or family background.

"Of course, please do as you wish."

Seeing the girl's polite smile, the anger in Bonaparte's heart diminishes by thirty percent.

The girl might not be stunning, but there is an elegance about her that makes one feel at peace, as fresh as a flower bud with dew in the early morning.

Bonaparte is certain he does not know her.

She had attracted many people's attention when she appeared at the banquet; although he doesn't know her name, he didn't expect her to cast aside the socializing at the ball and come over to him.

The girl is shy yet lively; she picks up a glass of red wine from the long table and raises it toward Bonaparte.

"Sorry, the things they are talking about are too boring. Political matters always make people sleepy. I can't offer any insights, so I had to find a quiet place to hide for a

while. Did I disturb you?"

No one would dislike a beautiful and polite girl, and Bonaparte is no exception; he even feels a bit ashamed in front of her, so he raises the wine glass at his side as well.

"No, um, there's nothing wrong with that. Please, go ahead."

After answering perfunctorily, Bonaparte suspects she happened to help him out of a tight spot. When he tilts his head to drink, he looks back at the place where the whispering was happening earlier, and sure enough, there is no one there anymore.

The girl wears a sweet smile and takes a light sip. She does not distance herself because of Bonaparte's appearance, but her proper demeanor indicates that she is indeed, as she just said, here only to steal a moment of leisure and chat a little.

"My name is Sabrina, very happy to meet you, sir."

"Bonaparte."

Simply telling her his name, Bonaparte recalls roughly; she seems to be the young daughter of some Count, and in this banquet, she counts as an upper-class person among the Noble.

"Bonaparte? Are you that one from Corsica?"

The girl is a bit surprised, as if she has discovered some rare species. But then again, in the entire banquet setting, he is the only one wearing the military uniform issued by the school, so it is no wonder he attracts attention.

"Perhaps the one with the notorious reputation."

Bonaparte responds coldly and absent-mindedly, which perhaps makes the girl feel a bit awkward: "Why don't you go to the ball? I've seen you sitting here gloomily for a long time."

Just how bored must she be to have been watching him here the whole time?

Bonaparte turns his face toward the center of the dance floor, where people are dancing lightly.

The young Noble who attended in formal wear are each holding their partners, swaying their waists and strolling to the music slowly flowing out of the record player.

A young man with chestnut hair is placing his hand behind a lady's waist and turning; he is absorbed in savoring the slenderness in his palm. Feeling Bonaparte's gaze, he raises his eyebrows at him quite ambiguously and pouts toward Sabrina's position.

"I am the same as you; I don't have much interest in those topics, and I'm not familiar with them."

Bonaparte glares at the chestnut-haired young man with dissatisfaction, then replies perfunctorily to the girl.

If it weren't for his few friends like Kaine dragging him here forcefully, he wouldn't have come to attend this banquet of the French Noble. Just thinking about it, he knows he has nothing to talk about with those French.

Should he talk about the post-war economy of Corsica? Or his nostalgia for Paoli?