Hearts of Iron 4 Player's Guide to Save the Isekai World

Event Probability

0900 hours. 23 October 1539. Vitrosart, Northern Bulwark

Today's the day. Facing a mirror, reflecting his likeness and manifestation of the mind wrapped in blood red from the dozen hands wiping off all imperfections on his coat, the days of waiting, the evenings of mourning, and the nights of terror has come to pass with the Hero's response.

With newfound merriment from the first steps out of the dressing room and to its demise as he stood face to face with the Belosean advisor in full Salaian officer regalia, General Ianuli never as much broke character when everything in his body's natural impulses wanting to.

"Color me surprised, General. I can never tell if you're mad or a genius."

Ianuli scoffed at the pointless pleasantries as both men walked to the reception room. Still, a question continued to gnaw his mind since the General initiated the hostage crisis: Where does Gawter find the composure in all this? The Beloseans were secretive for all their warmongering. And with how the situation stood, Ianuli wondered after all those meetings, proposals, discussions, revisions, reports, and so on.

"I'm curious to know what the Hero has to say," the advisor peered through the hallway embrasure overlooking the hostage camp at the castle bailey. "Their emissary and his attendants seem to be taking their time staking out for potential gaps."

"And they will waste time to find none."

A snicker escaped. "It is the Hero, after all; One we have no solid information of."

Ianuli noted the Belosean's concern. He, too, shares it. Maybe because the Hero's direct representative came, the mere presence of an extension emanated an inexplicable tension that made his legs shudder. The majestic aura of a Hero never became the same ever since the Conclave. The mana in the air still carried the Fallen Hero's hate, leaving only fear branded as grace.

The General traced the Belosean's sight. Through the small crevice that formed the embrasure, blue-cladded men roamed the camp, speaking to the women and children. A welfare check, they said. Ianuli felt his stomach churning.

A Hero's kindness masked untold violence. Dressed in gold epaulets, bright red collars, white belts, shiny pointed helmets, and ceremonial sabers equal to nobles and aristocrats, their audacity to display such grandeur while showing benevolence was almost a disgrace to the gentle Heroes — meek and mild — possessing power and responsibility that would often qualify them into the halls of the royal courts and history's mad emperors while possessing kindred spirits to the peasantry sent a chilling warning.

'Almost' because the Hero of today was not of God's design nor the dire survival of this world, but a human possessing the same level of emotion, greed, and desire as any. Ianuli's demands must have weight but cannot be bold enough to elicit an immediate continuation. He does not expect victory, for victory is already in his hands once he halted them.

"General, everyone has arrived in the reception room. Would you like to summon the emissary now?"

"Yes."

***

Regardless of whether the Hero cared for the townsfolk, it would become a stain on his reputation if he left innocent lives to their deaths, laying the seed of animosity. However, Gawter did not share his enthusiasm to the long term effects of Ianuli's grand sacrifice as he masked himself amongst the cadre of officers, studying the blue-cladded messenger and his ten entourage.

A simple exchange of dialogue, Ianuli thought. However, the entourages' sharp eyes hid beneath relaxed brows, hands clasped on the lower abdomen — leveled to their saber hilts — and rowed in two, abreast to complete their protective formation. The emissary stepped out from between the parallel rows, his face exuding no meaning but to one's subjective interpretation, a vessel to carry out the Hero's order; His voice; His authority; His will.