Reincarnated with the Country System-Chapter 209: The Crown’s Hounds of Indiana

Rain spat against the worn shingles of the old tavern just outside Ironwatch, a weather-beaten fortress town tucked along Britannia's western frontier. The place stank of boiled cabbage, wet wool, and secrets—a perfect breeding ground for lies, deals, and the kind of shadows the world dared not name. The locals called it The Cracked Pike, a low-slung, timber-laced den that had seen better centuries. Tonight, it played host to wolves.

Five men sat in the back corner, their cloaks heavy with the stench of the road. They didn't speak much—just exchanged glances and silent nods. They were spies, but not the kind that wrote in codes and hid daggers in their boots. These were the Crown's Hounds—operatives of the Indiana Empire, the most feared intelligence force on the continents.

"You feel that? Smell of rot. This place is bleeding beneath the surface. You don't bend to another crown overnight. Not without pus under the scab."

The youngest of the group, leaned in, voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. "They say the Bernard Empire took their enemies. Not with dragons. Not with spells. With guns—and something else. Something nobody's talking about."

A wiry man—spat into a chipped clay bowl. "Raman, Then we make 'em talk. That's why we're here, isn't it?"

Across the table, Lieutenant Commander Vyom, the man in charge, rolled his shoulder beneath a black doublet that hugged his lean frame like a second skin. He had the look of a corpse that hadn't quite figured out it was dead—pale, still, and damn near unreadable.

"Shiv, We don't know what Bernard is. That should scare the piss out of you."

A silence settled. Wet wood creaked in the wind. A dog barked outside. Distant thunder grumbled like a drunk god.

Vyom continued. "No diplomacy. No merchant records. No history—" he gestured vaguely toward the north, "—It seems like they suddenly appeared out of nowhere. However, I hear rumors that the Bernard Empire is located in the Monstrous Sea."

"Bullshit," Raman muttered.

"Maybe," Vyom replied, "But we don't argue the rumors. We dissect them."

Thakar grunted, wiping his lips with the back of a thick wrist. "So what's the play?"

Vyom's eyes were twin shards of obsidian.

"Phase one. Infiltrate Britannia. Learn how deep Bernard's fingers go. Who's loyal, who's pretending. What weapons they use. What magic they suppress. Find the cracks."

"Find the cracks," Shiv echoed, a crooked grin forming. "That's the part I like."

---

By midnight, the group had split, melting into the sodden streets like spilled ink.

Vyom and Shiv rode east, toward the capital of Britannia, now the gilded cage of Queen Maria. The others would scatter through the towns, taking up roles as peddlers, wandering monks, mercenaries. The Empire's method was simple: drown a nation in stories until the truth floats up gasping.

The road to Barta was long. As they passed the crumbling villages, it became clear: Britannia wore the Bernard brand like a collar. Banners of black and red flapped from watchtowers. Foreign soldiers patrolled crossroads. Imperial caravans rumbled with oil drums and metal crates, their guards bearing rifles that gleamed with a cruel confidence.

"This is no occupation," Shiv muttered, jaw tense. "It's a conversion."

Vyom nodded, silent.

---

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Three days later, they slipped into Barta beneath the guise of traders. The city was beautiful—but broken.

The Bernard presence was subtle—but absolute. Locals bowed their heads around soldiers. Shops sold imported Bernard tools and cloth. The Queen hadn't been seen in weeks. They said she was ill. Others said mad. One bold cobbler told them over wine that she spoke to ghosts.

"They took her daughter, you know," the man whispered. "Before the war. She lost her mind. That's why she agreed. To find the girl."

Vyom said nothing, but his mind tightened around the detail. Personal leverage. Emotional surrender. Classic playbook for long-term vassalage. Bernard was no warmonger—they were something colder.

At a quiet tavern near the west quarter, Vyom and Shiv made contact with a former Britannian knight, now a drunk with loose lips. Sir Malrick.

"They took our swords first," Malrick slurred. "Made us turn in our swords. Said they'd protect us." He chuckled darkly. "They just want our Resources. They want oils. That's where the real game is."

"Oil?" Shiv asked.

"Aye," Malrick leaned closer, breath reeking of mead. "The Elysian Islands. You'd think the gods themselves pissed black gold into the earth. The Empire planted their flag so deep, it's still bleeding. And you know who's running the show there?"

Vyom raised a brow.

"Governor Joseph. I thought he was a kind person — but he... he's starting to show his true colors. Cold bastard. Offered gold to the lords—most of 'em took it. The ones who didn't? Gone. Just... gone."

Shiv frowned. "And the Queen? What does she say?"

Malrick snorted. "She don't say shit. She's either grieving or drugged. Or both.."

--------------------------------

Meanwhile, in the border town of Velgroth, Raman and Thakar were sowing seeds of doubt among the locals. Disguised as a wandering seer and his gruff protector, they performed little tricks, offered protection charms, and told tales of resistance. Their job was to stir. To smoke out loyalists. To draw lines in the dirt and see who would cross them.

One night, a tavern maid whispered of a local militia leader—Lady Branna—who had been organizing silent protests against the Bernard governors. The very next evening, they met her.

Branna was tall, dark-haired, with a voice like crackling firewood. She didn't trust them, but she listened.

"We thought Maria would protect us," she said bitterly. "Instead she kneeled."

"You want your kingdom back?" Thakar asked.

"I want to breathe without fearing that some faceless bastard in black armor will take my son because he asked the wrong question."

"Then help us," Raman said. "We aren't your enemy. We're here to learn what the Bernard Empire is—what it really is. And we can't do that from the outside."

Branna hesitated. "I can help you. Supply routes. Schedules. But if you're caught—"

"We won't be."

She gave a sharp nod. "Then may the old gods watch your steps. You're walking into hell."