Chapter 534: Drama Stems from Life

Before the carriage even came to a complete stop, Rowan Atkinson jumped down.

The hem of his mage robes billowed in the wind, and his leather boots struck the cobblestone street with a crisp snap.

His servant Henry called out "My Lord" from behind, but Rowan Atkinson was already striding toward the crowd.

After enduring the field mission in Vienna and dragging the Spell Jägers through the mud and trenches of the Balkan woodlands for so long, Rowan Atkinson's entire aura had undergone a massive transformation.

Before this, his demeanor wasn't much different from other mages of the Highland Mage Council—primarily an aloof, "ivory tower" academic air.

But things were different now.

He had personally eliminated multiple combat mages of the Kingdom of Bulgaria, fought skirmishes with the Saxons in the Serbian mountains, and survived that surprise attack during the retreat... All these experiences combined had plated him with something else entirely.

Even before he truly drew near, the group of women surrounding the wounded soldier sensed something was amiss. They suddenly felt a distinct, murderous intent materializing behind them.

The clamor cut off abruptly, like a pot of boiling water suddenly doused with cold water. Almost simultaneously, everyone ceased their movements and turned to look at the approaching Rowan Atkinson.

And when they clearly saw the deep blue mage robes embroidered with the insignia of the Highland Mage Council, a palpable stir rippled through the crowd.

Implicit authorization from high-level government officials allowed the members of the "WSPU" and the women they mobilized to unscrupulously humiliate men in public, coercing them to head to recruiting stations.

But this didn't mean they dared to act insolently before a spellcaster of the Highland Mage Council.

To the Holy Britannia Empire, the Highland Mage Council was a highly unique entity... The tight bond between the spellcasters and the Empire's high command, especially the "Eternal Queen" Victoria, exceeded everyone's imagination.

If an ordinary person, against infinitesimally small odds, awakened spellcasting abilities and was absorbed by the Highland Mage Council instead of becoming an ordinary "mana-attuned" individual... it meant they were henceforth elevated to the same social stratum as the Imperial nobility.

Nobles, spellcasters—these were precisely the existences the WSPU absolutely dared not provoke.

Perhaps certain extreme radicals within the organization might dare to set fire to a Member of Parliament's house or cause a scene on a racetrack, but they never dared to cause trouble at the estate of any Imperial noble.

Because an MP could, at most, have the police arrest them, but a noble had countless ways to make them disappear, let alone a spellcaster of the Highland Mage Council...

Therefore, at this moment, these women could only watch quietly as Rowan Atkinson strode through the crowd, instinctively parting to make way for him.

Rowan Atkinson didn't look at them, nor did he speak. He simply walked straight up to the wounded soldier in civilian clothes and looked down at the white feathers that had been forcefully shoved into the man's hands.

Then, he reached out, pulled the feathers free, and tossed them onto the ground.

A few sharp intakes of breath sounded from the surroundings, but no one dared voice a protest.

Rowan Atkinson looked up, speaking in a rather gentle tone that contrasted sharply with his cold demeanor.

"Which unit are you from?"

The wounded soldier clearly hadn't anticipated this situation—a spellcaster from the Highland Mage Council proactively coming to his rescue and speaking to him in such a tone.

He instinctively straightened his back, the bandage on his left arm pulling taut with the movement.

"Sir! 8th Battalion, London Regiment! (Post Office Rifles) Previously attached to the 12th Division of the Expeditionary Force, deployed in the Gallic theater!"

Gasps of surprise erupted from the crowd, but after a sweeping glare from Rowan Atkinson, they dutifully shut their mouths again.

Rowan Atkinson turned back to look the man up and down.

The bandaged left arm, the slight drag of his left leg when he walked, the fresh, unhealed scar on his cheek... No matter how you looked at him, he had clearly just returned from the front lines.

"Are you back home to recover from your wounds?"

"...Yes, sir, but not just to recover."

He paused, using his uninjured right hand to feel the inside pocket of his coat.

"Our battalion served as the rearguard during the Saxons' last counter-offensive... The enemy's attack was too fierce. The entire battalion was nearly wiped out; we almost didn't make it back... I also returned this time to fulfill the dying wishes of a few fallen comrades, to deliver some things for them."

Rowan Atkinson nodded. Just as he was about to say something more, a woman's voice suddenly came from behind him.

"Ex... Excuse me—"

He and the wounded soldier turned their heads simultaneously.

It was one of the women from the white feather group. She looked to be under thirty, wearing a gray suit, her fingers twisting nervously at her waist.

The expression on her face had become highly complex, lacking her previous self-righteousness.

"Do you... know a soldier named Miles Harrison?"

The woman's voice trembled.

"He is my husband. He's also in the 8th Battalion, London Regiment."

Rowan Atkinson said nothing. He merely stepped aside, leaving the question to the wounded soldier behind him.

And when he turned to gauge the soldier's reaction, he found the man visibly frozen.

The young man turned to face the woman, opened his mouth, and then, in a heavy tone that suggested he didn't know how to begin, asked, "Ma'am... are you Mrs. Harrison? Residing at 22 Baroness Road, Bethnal Green, East End?"

The instant that address left the wounded soldier's lips, the woman's entire body went rigid.

Her hand was still clutching a fistful of white feathers, her knuckles white.

"Yes..."

The lady finally nodded stiffly.

The wounded soldier fell silent for two seconds. Then, using his uninjured right hand, he reached into the inner pocket of his civilian coat and began rummaging.

He finally pulled out a silver necklace. His movements were incredibly light and slow, his carefulness completely contrasting his previous helplessness when facing the mob of women.

The necklace gleamed with a dull silver luster beneath London's overcast sky.

With somewhat clumsy fingers, the wounded soldier popped open the locket on the necklace, revealing a black-and-white photograph inside.

It was tiny, but the features of the woman in the photo were clearly identical to those of the Mrs. Harrison standing before him.

It was incredibly quiet all around. The white feather women, the passing pedestrians, even the sound of carriages in the distance—everything seemed very far away in that moment.

The wounded soldier placed the necklace into Mrs. Harrison's hand.

"Ma'am... I am very sorry to have to tell you this news."

His Adam's apple bobbed.

"Harrison and I were in the same platoon... He took two bullets during the final retreat, one in the left shoulder, one in the abdomen... The stretcher-bearers carried him to the aid station in the rear, but he didn't make it."

"I thought... you should have already received the casualty notification," the wounded soldier added, a hint of confusion in his tone.

The hand Mrs. Harrison used to take the necklace trembled. She stared down at her own photo inside the locket, her lips moving silently several times.

"Casualty notifications... there are too many."

Her voice was so soft that only the few people closest to her could hear.

"Some of my neighbors received notifications weeks after the fact... I thought he was fine, I thought..."

The newly widowed woman said no more.

Clutching the necklace, her shoulders began to shake violently. Then, she suddenly turned and stumbled away from the crowd... letting out suppressed sobs as she walked.

White feathers slipped from her loosened fingers, falling to the ground, trampled into the cracks between the cobblestones by passing pedestrians.

The surrounding women still holding white feathers were now quieter than ever.

Perhaps some subconsciously thought of their own husbands or sons currently on the front lines... Many instinctively hid the white feathers in their hands behind their backs.

Rowan Atkinson stood there, watching Mrs. Harrison's back disappear around the street corner.

He withdrew his gaze and patted the wounded soldier's shoulder.

"Go on ahead. Don't stay here any longer."

"Yes... Thank you, sir."

The wounded soldier saluted him, then limped away in the opposite direction.

Those white feather women didn't try to stop him from beginning to end, and no one spoke another word.

Rowan Atkinson stood in place for a few seconds, looked down at the scattered white feathers on the ground, then turned and walked back to his carriage.

"Let's go, Henry."

The servant asked no questions, merely flicked the reins, and the carriage was in motion again.

The carriage swayed gently. Rowan Atkinson leaned against the seat back and sighed.

"That scene just now... If adapted into a play, it would actually be quite dramatic."

"Drama stems from life, My Lord."

The carriage turned the corner, leaving those conscription posters and white feathers behind.

A while later, the imposing edifice of the Imperial War Office appeared before Rowan Atkinson.

The main entrance to the War Office looked exactly as he remembered it—always under renovation, but never quite finished.

Scaffolding covered half a wall, though the stone steps beneath were spotless. The sentries on duty at the door saw the mage robes and let him pass without a word.

The reception process after entering was also smooth.

The Highland Mage Council enjoyed a certain "skip-the-line privilege" at all Imperial government agencies, so a civilian officer in a fitted uniform immediately stepped forward to greet him.

After verifying Rowan Atkinson's identity, the officer led him straight across the lobby, up two flights of stairs, and down a corridor.

The style of this corridor was completely different from the rest of the Imperial War Office.

Hanging on the walls were not paintings of the Empire's various campaigns or maps, but tapestries bearing the runic marks of the Highland Mage Council.

At the end of the corridor was a dark oak door, the Council's insignia carved above the doorframe.

"My Lord, please head inside."

The civilian officer stopped at the door, bowed, and retreated.

Rowan Atkinson pushed the door open.

The office wasn't large, but its decor clearly didn't fit the original aesthetic of the War Office.

A small runic crystal ball sat in the corner, the bookshelves were crammed with various scrolls and meticulously bound hardcovers, and the air even carried the faint scent of calming incense.

This was the dedicated office for the Highland Mage Council's resident liaison personnel.

Because the Highland Mage Council and the Army needed to maintain close, long-term cooperation after the war broke out, dedicated personnel were stationed here at the Imperial War Office to handle liaison work.

Sitting behind the desk in the center of the room was a man who looked about Rowan Atkinson's age.

Short brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and also wearing the robes of the Highland Mage Council, but in a significantly lighter shade than Rowan Atkinson's... indicating a lower circle ranking.

Rowan Atkinson knew this man well; you could call him an old friend.

A 4th-circle Evocation mage; they had joined the Highland Mage Council around the same time.

Only, years later, Rowan Atkinson had stepped into the 6th circle, while his friend remained stuck at the 4th.

Not everyone could climb to the very top in magical cultivation; talent wasn't something you could force.

Looking at it now, the other party had evidently chosen a different path. Instead of continuing to pursue higher circle rankings, he leaned toward a career in "politics."

This was also the path preferred by those mages in the Highland Mage Council whose talents fell short of others. And the Council's high command truly needed such people to maintain close ties with other departments of the Empire...

"Rowan..."

The 4th-circle mage, named Wentworth, closed the file in his hand, looking somewhat exasperated.

"Can't you ever give advance notice before you visit?"

Rowan Atkinson unceremoniously slumped into the chair opposite him, speaking bluntly, "Drop the pleasantries, Wentworth... You know why I'm here today."

Wentworth's smile lasted less than two seconds before collapsing.

"Sigh, I knew it..."

Wentworth rubbed his temples, continuing, "Still about the survivor benefits?"

"Exactly. Nothing is more important than this."

Rowan Atkinson's tone turned serious.

"When the Spell Jäger unit retreated from the Balkans, we were ambushed by the Saxons. A significant number of men didn't make it back through the teleportation circle... You should know this."

Wentworth nodded.

"But it's been over a month!"

Rowan Atkinson extended a hand, rapping his knuckles hard on the desk.

"My brothers haven't even been officially classified as 'Killed in Action' yet! There isn't even a shadow of those survivor benefits being issued!"

"Especially those heavy armor warriors from the 'Ironman Squads'... They weren't official members of the Mage Council; they were specially seconded from the Army."

"Many of them come from very modest backgrounds. With elderly parents and young children to feed, they've now lost their primary breadwinner. They're entirely dependent on that money to survive... You sit here in the home islands every day; you definitely know how high market prices have skyrocketed!"

Hearing Rowan Atkinson's increasingly loud roaring, Wentworth hurriedly raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Rowan, don't panic... According to the War Office's official procedures, without recovered remains, it takes two months to officially classify someone as Killed in Action—"

"Two months?"

Rowan Atkinson cut him off.

"They went missing during a Saxon ambush! I submitted complete combat logs ages ago! It's crystal clear who made it back and who didn't! Why the hell do we need two months?!"

"I know you think the procedure is redundant, but those are the rules..."

"Setting aside their status as spellcasters, doesn't the Spell Jäger unit have an expedited channel?"

Rowan Atkinson's voice rose a pitch.

"Some of our own colleagues from the Highland Mage Council died there too! The families of those mages—"

"Calm down! Calm down!"

Wentworth hurriedly leaned over his desk, making a downward pressing motion with his hands.

"I will go communicate with them, try to push the process forward as fast as possible... But you have to understand the current situation."

"The number of casualties on the front lines recently... is simply too high! The Army Survivor Benefits Department is completely overwhelmed. They are severely short-handed, and the claims are piling up mountain high."

He let out a long breath before continuing, "I even heard rumors a few days ago that the Imperial War Office plans to spin the Army Survivor Benefits Department off into an independent entity, adding personnel to improve efficiency."

Rowan Atkinson sneered.

"Given the efficiency the Imperial War Office has demonstrated... by the time they complete that separation, there will probably be tens of thousands more families waiting for benefits on the front lines."

The room fell quiet. Rowan Atkinson knew that continuing to pressure his colleague was useless. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out.

"Alright... I know it's difficult for you, but those families truly cannot wait, Wentworth."

"I understand."

Wentworth nodded seriously.

"Give me a week. I'll figure something out... But I can't guarantee anything..."

"Mhm."

The two sat in silence for a while before Rowan Atkinson changed the subject.

"By the way... I encountered something on my way here..."

He briefly recounted the WSPU handing out white feathers on the street, including the wounded soldier being surrounded and the subsequent dramatic twist.

Rowan Atkinson concluded with a complaint: "Even London has turned into this hellscape now?"

Wentworth wasn't very surprised after hearing the story, instead offering a patient explanation.

"This kind of thing has been going on for quite a while now... It's normal that you don't know the domestic situation, having been fighting abroad."

As he spoke, the liaison officer used 【Mage Hand】 to pull a document from a distant bookshelf and handed it over.

"Look at this—last month's recruitment data and frontline casualty reports."

Rowan Atkinson took it, scanned it, and frowned.

"In the troops previously deployed to the Gallic theater, the proportion of Imperial military nobility and their sons was very high."

Wentworth explained, "Fighting up to this point... those lords realized that if this continues, the Imperial nobility might be wiped out before the war even ends~"

"According to the latest calculations by the War Office high command, just to prevent falling into a disadvantageous position on the Gallic front, we must maintain a force of at least sixty divisions, and that's just for defensive operations... To achieve this goal, we need to inject eighty-two thousand new recruits every month."

Rowan Atkinson put the document down and leaned back.

"So they use these women to force commoners to go to their deaths?"

"The Imperial Diet is still debating the final few clauses of the bill to transition from a volunteer to a conscript system."

Wentworth spread his hands, an expression of 'you know their efficiency' on his face.

"Before it officially passes, they have to find a way to maintain the troop supply. For now, while this method is a bit ugly, the results are actually quite good."

"And after compulsory conscription is officially implemented?"

"The WSPU organization will highly likely be banned."

Wentworth's tone was flat: "After all, by then, they'll have lost their utility..."

Rowan Atkinson didn't reply.

He thought of the image of Mrs. Harrison turning and running away on the street, clutching that silver necklace, and the white feathers trampled into the cobblestones.

"Hmph... After this war ends, who knows what kind of mess will be left behind..."

Hearing his words, Wentworth smiled bitterly.

"Well, we have to finish fighting it first... By the way, I heard you 'Spell Jägers' are expanding and participating in a secret project?"

"Wait, how do you know that?" Rowan Atkinson sat straight up upon hearing the latter half of the sentence.

"My circle ranking might not be as high as yours, but when it comes to information-gathering capabilities within the Mage Council, you really can't compare to me... Don't underestimate the position of 'War Office Liaison Officer'!"

Wentworth looked earnestly at his old friend across the desk, a hint of envy revealing itself in his eyes for the first time.

"It must be nice... Your exploits in the Balkans have spread. We finally have our own 'Mage Killers'~"

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