Chapter 449: Empress Ma's Concern

The night was thick, and on the sea outside Marseille Port only a few fishing lights remained.

Zhu Yong stood on the pier, the sea breeze blowing from the depths of the Mediterranean, carrying a salty, fishy scent and the lingering smell of gunpowder from distant artillery in his nostrils.

Footsteps came from behind; it was Zhu Di.

"Second Prince."

Zhu Yong didn't turn, his gaze still fixed on the faint glow on the southeastern horizon—not stars, but the lights of Genoese merchant ships sailing at night.

"Over in the Holy Roman Empire, the envoy has already passed Burgundy."

Zhu Di walked to his side, lowered his voice and said, "Sigismund convened an electors' council in Frankfurt; of the seven great electors, six attended.

The Pope's envoy also arrived, bringing a handwritten letter from Martin V, saying this is a war for the survival of the Christian world."

A slight curve lifted Zhu Yong's mouth.

"A war of survival—they call it that when only a few people die, but we have destroyed countless nations; what should we call it?"

When he spoke the sentence, he himself felt his tone was as flat as saying the weather was nice today.

In his previous life, when he studied European history, the accounts of the Crusades were filled with words like "holy war," "infidels," and "saving souls."

People centuries later looking at that period find it absurd.

Now he stands on this land, having personally toppled those cities and torn down those flags; the sense of absurdity is gone, leaving only a simple realization: you must make them fear you to the bone, then they will be obedient.

"How many have they gathered over there?" Zhu Yong asked.

"So far as we can verify, the Elector of Pforzheim contributed eight thousand, Brandenburg six thousand, Saxony five thousand, the Archbishop of Cologne three thousand, and the Archbishop of Mainz also three thousand.

All the other minor princes and the myriad Imperial knights together amount to just over thirty thousand."

Zhu Di paused, then added, "Over in the Low Countries, the remnants of Burgundy also sent men, but they haven't recovered from our last strike yet, so they can't muster many."

Zhu Yong listened to the numbers, feeling no particular stir.

Thirty thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand—all the same to him.

"What about the Pope?"

"The Pope summoned Naples, Florence, Milan and several other Italian city‑states, saying he would organize a twenty‑thousand‑strong crusade to march north from the south, coordinating with the German princes."

Zhu Yong turned around, looking at his younger brother.

Moonlight fell on his sharply angular face, showing a hint of fatigue, yet his eyes remained bright.

"Twenty thousand men, and the King of Naples himself has to come to surrender, yet fights on his behalf?"

Zhu Di also laughed, "They call it a crusade, but it's just shouting slogans; those Italian city‑states would rather devour each other than think of uniting."

"Whether they unite or not makes no difference." Zhu Yong walked toward the city, his steps neither fast nor slow, "You go rest; tomorrow morning head east."

"Second Prince, you really won't rest for two days? You haven't closed your eyes these past days."

"Can't sleep." Zhu Yong didn't turn, waved his hand.

Zhu Di stood where he was, watching Second Prince's silhouette disappear at the alley mouth, shook his head, and turned toward the camp.

He understood Second Prince.

With the battle at this stage, a different commander should have already breathed a sigh of relief, but Second Prince always has the next move on his mind.

The streets of Marseille city glowed gray‑white under the moonlight.

The lime‑washed walls hadn't fully dried, and a faint alkaline scent drifted in the air, finally masking the years‑old stench.

Several night‑patrol units of the Longxiang Army marched down the street, their iron boots striking the cobblestones with a heavy, rhythmic thud.

Seeing Zhu Yong, they all halted together and saluted with clasped fists.

Zhu Yong waved his hand, signaling them to continue.

He entered the Governor's Office and stopped in front of a second‑floor window.

On the table lay a Central European map drawn on parchment; its edges were worn and the ink somewhat faded.

The map had been retrieved from the Archbishop of Mainz's study, and was considered one of the most accurate maps of the German lands of this era.

The Rhine, Danube, and Elbe were clearly traced, with the territories of countless princes marked densely, resembling a spilled palette.

They also possessed copied maps, now held by the third brother Zhu Shuang.

His gaze fell on the locations of Mainz, Worms, and Speyer—imperial cities west of the Rhine.

That region formed the western shield of the Holy Roman Empire, and where Sigismund was gathering forces.

According to scout reports, the allied main force had not yet fully arrived.

The eight thousand under the Elector of Pforzheim were deployed around Mainz, while the other princes' troops were still en route.

That meant they still had time.

Not to wait until the enemy is ready, but to kick in while they are still unsteady.

Yingtian Prefecture.

April 18, the Grain Rain had just passed.

Willow catkins drifted over the city along both banks of the Qinhuai River, landing on the water and being carried by ripples toward the shore.

Spring was stronger inside the Imperial City than outside; the peonies in the Imperial Garden were in full bloom, red and white intermingling, attracting swarms of buzzing bees.

Empress Ma sat beneath the corridor of Kunning Palace, clutching a letter she had read several times.

The letter had been brought back by Zhu Biao; it was brief, the handwriting messy, penned by Zhu Yong himself.

"Mother, we've finished most of the fighting here in Europe; Portugal, Castile, Aragon, and France have all been taken. Qiong Jiong has grown taller, killed many enemies, just like me.

Is your grandson Qiong Wu obedient? After the war, I'll bring them back to see you."

The corners of the letter were creased, as if it had been squeezed.

The ink varied in darkness, as if written aboard a ship.

Empress Ma read it once more, then folded the paper carefully and slipped it into her sleeve.

"Your Majesty, it's time to dine," a palace maid said softly as she emerged from the hall.

Empress Ma waved her hand: "Not hungry, wait a little longer."

What she was waiting for, she herself didn't know.

Perhaps she was waiting for the next letter, perhaps she was waiting for that person to return.

Footsteps came from the palace gate.

Zhu Biao, dressed in moon‑white formal robes, strode in like a comet, with Chang Wan following behind him.

"Imperial Mother, why aren't you eating again?" Zhu Biao saw the daze in his mother's expression at a glance, halted his steps, then hurried forward.

Empress Ma shook her head and said, "I've already eaten."

"You can deceive others, but you can't deceive your son. Go fetch the meal; this palace will dine with the Imperial Mother." Zhu Biao sat beside her, turned his head and ordered the palace maid.

The palace maid responded and left.

Chang Wan also came over, sat on the other side of Empress Ma, and gently held her hand.

"Mother, has a letter arrived again from the second brother?" Chang Wan asked.

Empress Ma nodded, took the letter out of her sleeve, and handed it to Zhu Biao.

Zhu Biao took it, unfolded it, and read it from beginning to end.

The letter was indeed short, but it contained a lot of information.

Portugal, Castile, Aragon, and France were all taken.

He had seen these places on the map of Yingtian Fu; together they were not much smaller than Great Ming's own territory.

Qiong Jiong killed many enemies.

He recalled that skinny black teenager, twelve years old, brandishing a Wolf Fang Club at the front, like a young tiger just out of its cage.