The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1355: Chapter 192: The True and False Imperial Envoy

In the early morning of Druiysk, the air was filled with the damp smell of soil, and the tranquil small town was about to witness a grand spectacle it had never seen before.

From afar, dust rose on the road outside the town, horse hooves thundered, sweeping the snow-covered ground, and the cavalcade surged toward the town like a torrent.

The grinding sounds of wheels and the neighing of horses interwove, gradually approaching the city gates, causing the villagers by the roadside to stop their chores and curiously gaze at the spectacular formation.

With a deafening sound of hooves, the first thing to come into view was a squad of cavalry.

Their uniforms were mostly dark leather and coarse cloth, with breastplates, shoulder armor, and leg armor glinting coldly in the sunlight. The short bows, arrow bags, and handguns at their waists exuded a steady deterrence.

Each cavalryman wore a metal chain around their chest, and the decorations on their shoulders glittered with interwoven gold and silver, as if marking their identity and honor. Many had feathers pinned to their hats, gently swaying with the horses’ strides, emitting a wild and unruly aura.

A well-dressed cavalryman led the front, draped in a superior leather robe embroidered with golden patterns, symbolizing his high rank among the cavalry.

Citizens stood on street corners or leaned against their door frames, softly discussing the renowned cavalry squad.

“Look at their attire, truly majestic!”

An elderly merchant who traveled extensively grabbed his neighbor, pointing at the cavalrymen, and said in a low voice, “These are no ordinary cavalrymen. Look at their curved swords; these are Don Cossacks. I bet every one of them is a battle-hardened hero. Even their leather armor has been honed through years of combat, tough as iron!”

“I’ve heard, I’ve heard,” a young carpenter interjected, rubbing the wooden box in his hands, “Cossack Cavalry is no ordinary soldier. In battle, they ride swiftly, and with a swing of their curved swords, they can cut down enemies like straw!”

“Indeed, the curved swords…” the old merchant nodded, a slight smile on his lips as if recalling the past: “These Cossacks are not only fierce in battle. They’re fiercely tempered, quick to draw their blades when they don’t like someone. Look at their eyes, cold and unfriendly.”

A woman nearby tugged at her apron, interjecting with some concern: “Do you think with these Cossacks coming to Druiysk, we ordinary folks should be more careful? I heard the Cossack Cavalry comes from the borders, fearing nothing, perhaps capable of doing something outrageous.”

She shifted her gaze from the cavalrymen to her small shop on the street corner, feeling a bit hesitant.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” A young man, clad in grease-stained work clothes, shook his head, his tone laced with reassurance: “This place is quiet; nothing major will happen. The Cossacks are fighting for the Emperor. If they are truly here, it means they are about to head to the front lines and have no time for us commoners.”

“Are you saying we’re going to war again? With whom? The French? The Swedes? Or the Polish?”

As the citizens were still nervously discussing, the leading cavalryman halted his horse, dismounted, and loudly announced: “The Imperial Envoy, Pavel Andreievich Balakov, has arrived!”

Balakov stepped down from the carriage, and the air on the street seemed to freeze. People

looked up at his luxurious military uniform, with gold stars and thick gold tassels on the epaulets, signifying his noble status and undeniable authority.

Balakov’s demeanor was stern, severe, and his steps were firm as iron. He glanced around, as if the entire street scene was merely a backdrop, with only his presence occupying the entire view.

The Colonel’s gaze swept over the streets of Druiysk, with a stern expression on his face.

His arrival seemed to jolt the entire street.

In front of this imposing figure, the garrison commander Captain Potemkin appeared increasingly uneasy. He quickly stood at attention, taking a deep breath, stepped forward, and whispered: “Sir, Eighth Rank Army Captain Potemkin, respectfully at your service.” His voice trembled, his reverence evident in his words.

Balakov merely cast a cold glance at Potemkin, his eyes devoid of much emotion: “Potemkin? What a horrible name. Are you the garrison commander here?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Potemkin bowed his head, almost bending to the ground, his voice trembling almost inaudibly.

He had not uttered the word “sir” in an official capacity for years, because in Russia, the title was reserved only for officials of the Fifth Rank and above.

And Balakov’s gold stars on his shoulders and the golden tassels on his shoulder strap already indicated his identity—Army Commodore!

This was undoubtedly a Fifth Rank official who had stepped into the ranks of senior officials.

Balakov did not respond further but took out his pipe and turned towards the small inn by the road, leaving behind only one command sufficing to make Potemkin quake: “Summon all officials in the city before I finish this pipe.”

…

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtain cracks into the room, with Mayor Bakarjin and his wife sitting on the sofa in the living room.