Chapter 1005: The Chessboard

When Gawain heard the news Heddy brought, there wasn’t a trace of surprise on his face. “A refusal as expected… Well, it makes sense. After all, this touches on Typhon’s very foundation.”

“Looks like that Wolf General won’t be cooperating,” Heddy said, standing by Gawain’s desk, a stack of documents clutched in her hand, her expression serious. “And… I think she was right: this isn’t a decision a commander can make. Only Rosetta Augustus has the authority to negotiate such a significant exchange of interests.”

“Of course, a straightforward technical exchange would be ideal,” Gawain smiled faintly. “But even in peacetime, exchanges of this magnitude are hard to pull off—let alone in the current tense situation. Still, I was only testing the waters. And Andersa’s refusal was expected.”

He couldn’t help but sigh inwardly. Choosing Bard as the intermediary to approach Andersa had been the right call. With such a sensitive issue, anyone else might have sent the Wolf General’s blood pressure soaring—maybe even sparked a fight. Entrusting Bard with this was a precaution. Theoretically, even if the Wolf General’s blood pressure hit the roof, she wouldn’t come to blows with her long-lost father, right?

His mind wandered into some wild imaginings. Heddy, unaware of what her ancestor was thinking, noticed his distraction and gently cleared her throat to draw his attention back. Then she continued, “The ‘mass production of supernaturals’ plan is currently on hold. The ongoing efforts focus on two main areas: one, optimizing the equipment and training methods for the psionic singers to reduce the neural load on users; and two, selecting suitable candidates from among the mages, converting some former combat mages into psionic singers…”

“Besides that, Beltira has proposed a third plan.”

“A third plan?” Gawain raised an eyebrow. “What’s the detail?”

“This came from Solinfort. Beltira has already drafted the proposal,” Heddy said, placing the documents on the desk. Her expression was somewhat strange. “I skimmed it… Well, no surprise coming from a former Dark Druid. The concept she came up with is… quite challenging to accept.”

Gawain’s curiosity deepened. He took the file and opened it. The first page bore a bold title: “Prospects and Technical Essentials of Giant Wetware Nodes in Assisted Spellcasting.” Beneath it, in smaller print, a note read: “To avoid moral and ethical risks, all wetware in the plan is to be self-grown and manufactured by the Solin Great Trees.”

Gawain’s eyes lingered on the words for several seconds before he flipped through the rest of the document with a strange feeling. The proposal was meticulously worded, data-rich, detailed, clear, and even seemed ready for practical implementation.

Before diving deeper, he couldn’t help but admire Beltira’s professionalism as a technician. The “Everything Blame” and “Everything Ends” cult—despite being a dark sect—undeniably held the most advanced biochemical technology humanity had ever seen. No one could deny that their upper echelons were truly top-tier technical experts.

Few in the Arcane Research Institute’s senior teams could produce such a technical document.

After this reflection, Gawain’s attention was drawn to the core idea in the proposal. He flipped through until a vivid concept illustration appeared—

A massive brain floating midair, an intricate, dizzying neural interface scheme, and a group of soldiers connected to the giant brain via artificial neural tendrils… The image, as Heddy said, challenged ordinary people’s tolerance for “bizarre things.” It looked like something summoned only in some sinister cult ritual. Just a glance made Gawain feel a bit unhinged—but this thing was meant to protect the mind.

Below the image, Beltira had added a small note: “A single psionic singer is just an ordinary soldier; only when grouped do they form a complete ‘psionic choir.’”

“That actually makes some sense… assuming this thing isn’t too creepy,” Gawain muttered after reading the note. “A dozen or so heads trailing neural cords, hovering low over the battlefield around a brain floating in midair—that’s a nightmare scene if I ever saw one.”

He quickly flipped past the illustration and continued reading the rest of the document. Just as he neared the end, Heddy spoke up, “Ancestor, what do you think of this plan?”

“To be honest, aside from being ugly, it doesn’t seem to have major flaws… Beltira’s been in the dark cult for over seven centuries; I’m starting to suspect her aesthetic sense is completely broken… No, that’s not important. The plan does have value, aside from the ugliness,” Gawain frowned, his expression conflicted. “More importantly, we don’t have much time to waste. Anything useful should be put to work quickly… but it’s still too ugly.”

“So…” Heddy hesitated, “Your approval?”

“Approve it,” Gawain said, glancing once more at the schematic and sighing. “Beltira says most of the process can be completed within the chambers of the Solin Great Trees. Since it won’t consume existing technical teams or facilities, there’s no harm in letting her try… Still ugly, though.”

Heddy noted his instructions with a blank expression, folding the documents away. She thought to herself that the old ancestor might never get over this hurdle.

At that moment, the arcane network terminal beside the desk suddenly beeped and flashed, finally breaking Gawain’s train of thought. He quickly composed himself from the shock of the technical proposal and connected to the terminal.

A faint hum sounded, and a clear holographic projection appeared overhead. Yuri’s figure materialized, bowing respectfully with a serious expression. “Your Majesty, during our analysis of Malm Dunit’s spiritual fragments, we discovered something that requires your attention.”

“You’re at Narithil’s location?” Gawain blinked, his expression turning grave. “What did you find?”

Yuri nodded and immediately began reporting the clues he, Magnan, Narithil, and others had just uncovered. Gawain listened intently behind his desk, growing increasingly serious as the report continued.

…

Northwest border of Typhon, Winterwolf Fortress frontline. The air still hung heavy with a biting stench—the residual energy from massive spellcasting lingering over the plains and valleys.

A recent heavy snowfall had briefly blanketed the scorched battlefield, covering the land ravaged and burned by artillery and magical explosions. But before nature’s gentle touch could soothe the wounds, the fires of war tore it apart again—steel war machines and fanatical soldiers paid no heed to the winter’s snow. After a fierce battle, yet another patch of earth was reduced to ash.

The Cecilian forces had temporarily withdrawn, and Typhon’s reinforcements began clearing the charred ground.

A Typhon officer clad in black light armor, draped in a heavy cloak, walked across the still-scorching battlefield. The ground beneath was muddy and cold. Explosions had stripped away nearly all the soil from this small hill, revealing ugly black earth and shattered stones. The soil was stained with dark red, still fresh blood, mixed with fragmented human remains. Only a few patches of snow remained, stark white against the black and red backdrop—so glaring it almost hurt the eyes.

The air was nauseatingly pungent. The officer was battle-hardened, but this smell was unlike anything he’d encountered before. It wasn’t just blood—it was something far more acrid.

Nearby, soldiers busied themselves—some salvaging usable supplies, others preparing the dead for burial. Some pulled out prayer books, murmuring blessings to their gods, seeking peace for the fallen. The officer frowned and stepped past them, pressing forward.

Finally, he stopped beside a massive blackened boulder—perhaps not a boulder at all, but the ruins of a fortification. There, a dying man lay curled like a writhing lump of sludge, half in snow, half in blood.

The officer crouched down, studying the struggling Typhon soldier. Judging by the insignia on his tattered uniform, he was a low-ranking knight of the 11th National Order. The soldier lay in the mud, his wounds too numerous to count, his body and the earth around him matted with filthy blood. His fatal injury was a gaping tear across his chest and abdomen—likely from a flying shell fragment or a sharp stone. Whatever the cause, it had clearly ended his life.

In fact, any normal human would have died long ago.

The officer lowered his gaze, scanning the wound. Amid the filthy blood, he saw writhing flesh buds and tendrils—disgusting growths futilely stretching as if trying to close the wound, to gather the lost blood back. But their movements were growing weaker; this “divine power” was clearly fading.

Perhaps sensing someone nearby, or caught in a final flicker of life, the soldier suddenly opened his eyes. They were cloudy and wild, glowing a terrifying blood-red, but he managed to focus on the officer. A weak voice rasped out: “Commander… commander…”

The officer looked at him and quietly repeated the phrase he’d said many times these past days: “Hold on, the medics are on their way.”

“No… no need…” The soldier whispered, his head barely shaking. “The Lord is calling me… already calling me…”

The officer’s face remained impassive as he listened to the dying man’s incoherent murmurs. He offered no comfort, no encouragement.

The soldier’s voice grew fainter and more indistinct, but suddenly, a spark lit in those blood-red eyes. His last strength seemed to gather, and he fixed his gaze on the officer, madness in his stare, repeating over and over: “Did you witness it? Did you witness it? Did you witness it?”

The officer looked at him steadily and said slowly, “Yes, I witnessed it.”

The soldier suddenly exhaled deeply, as if his final wish had been fulfilled. The light in his eyes—whether it was a twisted madness or a flicker of humanity—faded quickly. His sunken chest pushed out one last breath, accompanied by a soft sigh: “I feel… a little cold…”

After a moment of silence, the officer stood up. An accompanying support mage stepped forward, performed a quick examination, and reported, “The soul has dissipated. Heart, lungs, and brain activity have ceased.”

“Burn him,” the officer nodded. “And remember to retrieve the ID tag.”

He lifted his gaze toward other parts of the front line. More support mages were entering the position, and not far off, a large magical array for mass incineration had already been activated.

…

Winterfort stood nestled between towering mountains, just as its name suggested—a fortress as pure and cold as ice.

On clear days, from the highest tower of Winterfort, one could see the distant stronghold of Winterwolf Keep.

The fortress was ruled by the formidable battle mage, Count Parin Winterfort. For centuries, he and his family had been rooted in these northern mountains, serving as a crucial rear guard and support for the Winterwolf defensive line. But after Winterwolf Keep fell and the battlefield pushed into Typhon territory, Winterfort—once the second line of defense—had now become the frontline’s vital stronghold.

Inside a room on the third floor of the white castle, Count Winterfort stood before a pristine wall embedded with precious magical crystals. The surface was coated with a shimmering, mercury-like layer of arcane energy that seemed to flow and ripple on its own. As the surrounding crystals lit up one by one, distant scenes gradually appeared on the mercurial surface.

These were images transmitted by the Eyes of the Mages stationed at various points along the Winterfort line. Though slightly distorted, the distinctive mountains, rivers, and forests were still clearly recognizable. Parin Winterfort waved his hand, cycling through the images to check on each node along the defense line.

Suddenly, he paused. Tilting his head slightly, he listened to a report from a subordinate mage relayed through the communication spell. Then, with a simple gesture, he summoned a new image onto the magical wall.

It showed a scene from somewhere within Winterfort—a brand-new platform where a black arcane-powered train bearing the Typhon emblem was gradually slowing to a stop.

Despite many of Cecil’s technicians being absent, the Empire’s own engineers and scholars had managed to keep several key industrial and military railways operational. This train from the interior to Winterfort was one of them.

Parin Winterfort stood silently, watching the image on the wall—the train coming to a halt, soldiers and officers stepping down onto the platform.

He let out a faint sigh.

Another batch of fervent, capable corpses disembarked from the troop transport.

(End of chapter)