Chapter 1013: The Impact

To face a god—and then kill that god.

For a long time, High Lord had been pondering how this war, sparked by the war god’s loss of control, might ultimately come to an end. The conflict between Typhon and Cecil was merely a surface manifestation; at its core, it was a “supernatural disaster” caused by a god gone rogue. To end such a calamity, one must strike at its source. Therefore, the key to resolving this divine catastrophe had to be found in the gods themselves. In High Lord’s earliest plans, the safest way to achieve this was to sever the “channel.”

In Veronica’s words, it meant cutting the “bridge between mortals and gods.”

Under normal circumstances, gods find it difficult to directly influence the human world. Their “divine realm” is a domain far more complex and impenetrable than any otherworldly space. According to Amon, unless conditions are extremely favorable or a tremendous price is paid, gods cannot leave their own “territory.” They can only project their power into the mortal realm through indirect means. So, in a way, if you cut off this “indirect connection,” you can choke off the gods’ influence on humanity.

This “bridge” is supported by the gods’ earthly representatives—the vast clergy and countless mortals who, through specific doctrines and rituals, maintain the “order of faith.”

That’s why High Lord had always believed Rosetta’s goal was precisely this: to purge the corrupted clergy, the baptized knights, and soldiers within the kingdom, gradually dismantling the “bridge” between the war god and the world. Once this connection weakened enough, the “divine disaster” spreading through the mortal realm would theoretically end naturally, having lost its source. The war god might even cease its escalating madness due to the severed link with humanity, slowly returning to normal in a kind of quarantine. Of course, it would also become significantly weakened without mortal faith to sustain it—perhaps reduced to a “former god” like Amon, powerful but stripped of divine status. But that was a problem beyond High Lord’s concern.

Yet now, it seemed Rosetta’s intentions were far from so “gentle.”

Hetty was startled by High Lord’s speculation, staring wide-eyed for a long moment before responding, “Regicide? You’re sure?”

“I can only guess—only Rosetta himself knows the truth,” High Lord said gravely. “Based on what we know, the Typhon faction is clearly trying to pull the war god’s power into this world. Since the war began, the forces clashing around Winterwolf Fortress have reached hundreds of thousands—and are still growing. This is the largest war on the continent in nearly a century. Its very existence acts as a powerful gravitational force, naturally drawing related authorities to the region. The Typhon side is creating large-scale ‘miracles’ under these conditions… It’s very likely a ‘warm-up’ for an even greater arrival.”

He paused, locking eyes with Hetty. “And given Rosetta’s character and Typhon’s current situation, there’s no way he’s trying to bring the war god here just to invite him for lunch, right?”

“But how does he plan to pull off such an impossible feat?” Hetty’s eyes widened. “That’s a god we’re talking about!”

“Gods can be killed, can’t they?” High Lord said slowly. “In this age, mortals have already stood against gods…”

Hetty caught on quickly. “You mean the false god’s corpse we hunted with the mermaids? Or the Overlords? But… those aren’t comparable, nor repeatable! The former involved the mermaids’ power, the latter your special methods. Neither proves mortals can regularly kill gods, nor that it’s a common occurrence… If Rosetta is inspired by those events, his plan is a gambler’s pipe dream. Even with the forces of Cecil and Typhon in Winterwolf, it’s…”

“He must have been planning this for a long time—if he’s really going through with it,” High Lord shook his head. “I don’t know the details of his plan yet, but if the Typhon faction is trying to pull the war god into our world… then I can’t just sit back and watch from the rear.”

Hetty sensed the weight behind his words, looking at her ancestor with surprise. “Are you saying you’ll go yourself…?”

“Yes. I’m going to the eastern front,” High Lord said calmly. “This situation could escalate at any moment. If we’re going to deal with gods, I at least have some experience. Besides…”

He paused, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. “Typhon is planning a big move, and we can never trust our enemies’ limits on the battlefield. We have to prepare for the worst. If they’re not only trying to pull the war god down but also eyeing Cecil’s territory… then we need to consider Aldern just as seriously.”

“I understand,” Hetty nodded without further questions. “I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”

“Good,” High Lord nodded slightly, then added after a moment’s thought, “Also, contact Solinfort—tell Beltira we don’t have time to wait for the final version of the wetware servers. Her temporary setup will have to do for now. We need psionic choirs ready for battle as soon as possible—the sooner and the more, the better.”

…

Deep within the shadow of war, the gears had already begun to turn. Both the visible conflict and the hidden truths beneath it were propelled forward by these turning wheels. And the whirlpool’s influence extended far beyond the Winterwolf front, beyond even the two warring factions.

Under the new order forged by the age of magitechnology, information spread faster and wider than ever before. The war raging in the continent’s northeast had already captured nearly the entire continent’s attention.

In the Ogure tribal lands, the Talrond forest was entering its coldest days of the year. Several snowfalls had blanketed the ancestral home of the gray elves in pure white. Yet deep within the snow-covered woods, the largest city—Windsong—remained bustling and lively, a stark contrast to the harsh winter outside.

Thanks to thriving commerce and magitechnology making city operations cheaper and more efficient, the gray elves and their trading partners were spared the usual winter gloom. Even amid heavy snowfall, the city’s citizens maintained their normal routines: markets stayed open, trade continued, and visitors came and went. News from all corners of the world flowed swiftly through the city as always.

The city’s captain of the guard strode steadily through the streets between the market and the longhouses, her proud battle-axe resting on her shoulder. This “feline lady” scanned her patrol area with sharp eyes, her furry ears twitching to catch every sound from the market district. Winter was a season that lulled many into complacency—especially feline creatures, who found the cold soporific and longed for the warmth of home fires. But as a trained warrior, maintaining vigilance during such times was a skill she took pride in.

A newsboy dashed past, shouting excitedly, “Extra! Extra! Big news! Massive aerial battle breaks out on the Winterwolf front! Unprecedented! Never before seen!”

The newsboy’s unusual choice of words caught the captain’s attention. People nearby turned to listen, and she couldn’t help but glance over. That glance caught the newsboy’s eye, and the young, energetic gray elf hurried over, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Lady Morilina! Get your paper! You can’t miss this!”

“I’m on patrol,” Morilina said, looking down at the small gray elf with a serious expression. She carefully controlled the flick of her tail, not wanting to betray her mood.

But a sharp gray elf could read a warrior’s thoughts from countless subtle signs. “Don’t be like that, Lady Morilina. Captains don’t have to patrol as long as regular soldiers. And this is news from the Typhon-Cecil front—you’re a soldier, you shouldn’t miss it!”

Morilina narrowed her eyes. She didn’t agree with the first half of that statement, but the second half gave her a good reason—or an excuse. She glanced at the mechanical clock hanging outside the chieftain’s longhouse nearby and realized her patrol was almost over. She reached out her hand. “Alright, give me one.”

“This paper will make your whole day! I promise, Lady Morilina—here’s your paper and change~~”

The quick-witted gray elf grinned. Morilina took the paper, shaking her head with a smile. The newsboy ran off in the next moment, shouting joyfully, “Big news! Massive aerial battle on the Winterwolf front! Even the Windsong captain can’t miss it!”

Morilina glanced that way, letting out a short purr but saying nothing. Then she unfolded the paper and saw the “big news” right on the front page—

A large “photo” took up a third of the page. At first glance, Morilina felt her breath catch.

It was a view of the sky, taken from a flying vantage point.

Morilina had seen aerial views before—the Cecilians had produced some maginet shorts from the sky, using flying machines to carry people and equipment aloft, capturing sweeping landscapes, cloudscapes, even storms. As maginet networks spread to the Ogure lands, these incredible clips became part of Cecil’s external propaganda, reaching all races. But…

What the paper showed was something entirely different.

Beneath dark clouds and howling snow, armed forces clashed in the air.

Only then did Morilina understand what the newsboy meant by “massive aerial battle.”

Hundreds of sorties of war machines engaged in combat… Typhon’s air force outnumbering them several times over… massive weather “miracles”… dragon squadrons… armored trains…

Air raids and counterattacks amid the blizzard.

Morilina gripped the paper tightly. At some point, she had set her battle-axe down beside her leg. Her feline tail curled slowly, and before she realized it, she was biting the tip of it.

She couldn’t remember how many years it had been since she’d done something so childish—an unthinkable image for a powerful beast warrior.

But she didn’t care about appearances now, because a huge question was spinning in her mind:

When… did war come to look like this?

Far away, in the human world to the east of the continent, were they already fighting like this?

…

“A massive aerial battle, huh…” In a spacious, well-lit room, the gray-haired leader Wenna Whitebloom read the freshly delivered newspaper. The front-page report opened her eyes wide, and she couldn’t help but sigh, “Is this another change brought by magitechnology…”

“It’s a combination of magitechnology and traditional magic,” said a tall human with black hair and blue eyes standing beside Wenna. “The Typhon don’t have flying machines; they still rely on conventional magic in battle.”

“The Typhon, lacking flying machines, suffered heavier losses in this aerial battle—though Cecil’s propaganda might have exaggerated it, the casualty figures speak for themselves,” Wenna shook her head slightly. “Not to mention, the Dragonborn appeared on the battlefield as mercenaries… Cecil even equipped those already formidable Dragonborn with magitechnical gear.”

“The alchemists talk about ‘catalysts,’ and war is the ultimate catalyst for technological advancement. Magitechnology is great for mining and city infrastructure, but it’s clearly well-suited for warfare too,” the tall human said earnestly.

“…Gray Elves aren’t known for their military prowess, but we do need to deepen our understanding in this area,” Wenna sighed. “Schwack, we must keep pushing the agenda to purchase arms from the Cecilians. Not just us—the other four great tribes need to recognize the importance of these developments. We may not plan to use those weapons offensively, but at least we have to start keeping pace with the changing world.”

“Rest assured, I’ve been monitoring this closely,” Schwack replied.

“Good,” Wenna nodded slightly. “Speaking of magitechnology… what’s the feedback on Wickliffe’s proposal to establish a central magic network hub at the Peak of Ancestors?”

Wickliffe, leader of the human tribe within the Ogure Confederation, was one of the “Five Kings,” holding a status equal to Wenna Whitebloom.

“Building a magic network hub at the Peak of Ancestors is definitely a challenge to tradition… So far, the orcs and the spirit folk haven’t reached consensus. Their main concerns are potential negative impacts on the sacred site and cultural traditions,” Schwack, acting as advisor, reported promptly. “Surprisingly, the fairies have already agreed. Lady Stella even sent a letter asking if we intend to move forward with it.”

“The fairies are so enthusiastic?” Wenna looked up in surprise. “The Peak of Ancestors has been their ancestral home for generations—I thought they’d be the most cautious about this.”

“Everyone thought so, but the fairies seem to find it… intriguing,” Schwack said with a strange expression. “At least, that’s Lady Stella’s attitude.”

Wenna paused, then pressed her forehead with a troubled look. “Do they really understand what a magic network hub entails…”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. The fairies’ grasp of magitechnology is surprisingly strong. Recently, they’ve become the tribe most familiar with magitechnology after the Gray Elves,” Schwack said seriously, apparently missing the teasing tone in Wenna’s voice. “Perhaps it’s precisely because of this talent that they’re so interested in erecting a giant signal tower in their ancestral lands.”

“…Well, that’s a good thing. At least that gives us three votes in favor,” Wenna rubbed her temples. “That leaves only the spirit folk and the orcs… I know Camilla and Stur—they’re not stubborn. They’ll probably come around in the end.”

Putting aside the headache-inducing topic, the Gray Elf matriarch waved her hand. “Let’s discuss this again after I correspond with Lady Stella. By the way, did the letter from Meri arrive today?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Schwack nodded, pointing to a small table nearby. “Right there.”

Wenna blinked, her gaze settling on the wrapped item. After a long moment, she murmured, “I thought it was just a letter…”

“It is a package—the Cecil postal service registers it as such, and cross-border deliveries are handled as packages,” Schwack said seriously. “Obviously, the young lady’s letter couldn’t go through normal mail channels…”

Wenna: “…”

“Well then, please read your family letter. I’ll get back to the official documents and won’t disturb you further.”

With that, Schwack bowed slightly and politely exited the room.

(End of chapter)