Chapter 1018: The Day of Arrival
The military mobilization of the Typhon forces continued unabated. One extraordinary legion after another was summoned from across the country to the vicinity of Winterhold—a vast defensive belt that, until recently, had seemed almost endless in depth, now felt “crowded.” Every castle, city, and fortress within the defense line was already packed with Typhon troops. Between these strongholds, countless camps and temporary supply stations had been established. Correspondingly, the forces of Cessil were also streaming steadily toward the front.
Of course, in sheer numbers, Cessil’s army still paled in comparison to the Typhon forces, who had poured in their considerable resources.
The atmosphere across the entire war zone was taut to the breaking point, suffocating and heavy. Amid this charged environment and the massive gathering of troops, a peculiar “aura” began to thicken day by day.
Reports of strange phenomena from ordinary civilians started to surge exponentially. The number of refugees fleeing from the borderlands into the interior reached new heights in recent days. Even those who had previously been too attached to their homes or too poor to move were now desperately seeking ways to escape this land of turmoil.
Inside the intelligence office at Winterwolf Castle, Amber sat behind an unusually large desk—piled high with intelligence reports from every channel imaginable. These included dispatches from the military intelligence headquarters, reconnaissance units at the front, archival departments, and more. Though the agents and their assistants had done their best to condense and process the files, the stack before her still towered like a mountain.
The petite half-elf seemed almost swallowed by the mountain of documents.
Amber shifted slightly in her wide chair, settling into a more relaxed posture. Her legs swung gently as her amber eyes flicked rapidly over the notes and clue maps spread before her.
She was searching for a critical time point—some sign of unusual activity among the Typhon forces.
A scarred, bald man with an imposing presence stood across from her, carefully placing a neatly organized file on the desk as he asked cautiously, “Boss, judging by your expression… did you find something?”
“I told you before—call me ‘Director’ or ‘Chief’ in formal settings. Sounds more impressive that way,” Amber lifted her eyelids to glance at her old subordinate, then shook her head slightly. “It’s not exactly a decisive discovery… just a summary of some obvious conclusions.”
As she spoke, her fingers traced over several clue maps. “The Typhon have concentrated so many troops in such a narrow area. Common sense tells us that so many soldiers can’t all be deployed across such a vast battlefield. So whether they intend to fight the War God or launch an offensive against us, at least two-thirds of their forces probably won’t see action. In other words, Rosetta Augustus didn’t gather all these troops here just for battle. A significant portion of them… must have other roles.”
“Other roles?” Scarface Anton looked puzzled. “What kind of roles?”
“If I knew, I would have reported it already. Why waste time chatting with you here?” Amber rolled her eyes. “Besides, when it comes to military deployments, Philip and his staff of strategists are far more professional than I am. I just pass on the doubts I find. How they analyze and investigate is their business. Our real priority now… is to pinpoint the timing, so we can prepare in advance.”
“The timing of the Typhon’s move…” Anton mused, then shook his head irritably. “No one knows what that emperor is thinking. If he really intends to confront the gods with us, he should have sent some kind of signal by now…”
“He won’t,” Amber shook her head, her expression surprisingly calm. “According to our sovereign, everything between Typhon and Cessil can be communicated—except this. Turning the war into a mockery or trap aimed at ‘war’ itself would render all efforts so far meaningless.”
Her attention returned to the mountain of files before her. Anyone else present would be surprised to see Amber so focused and serious about her work, but Anton knew this “big sister” had maintained this state for days.
When truly critical events approach, even the usually carefree Amber becomes serious.
She paid no mind to her subordinate’s thoughts, instead pondering the clues she had gathered recently, trying to analyze the Typhon’s plans. As she compiled the information, she broadened her perspective, seeking breakthroughs beyond the obvious leads.
Often, it’s not those lost in the fog who clear it, but forces from beyond.
She found no direct clue revealing the Typhon’s key timing in the piles of paper. Weary, she yawned and glanced up—her eyes drifting to a calendar hanging on the wall nearby.
After a brief pause, she blinked and muttered as if recalling something, “Just a few days left… it’s the New Year Festival, right?”
Anton was momentarily taken aback—he hadn’t expected his boss’s mind to leap so oddly—but knowing her usual habits, he found it natural she’d focus on a holiday that meant time off, extra pay, and a legitimate excuse to mooch meals. He nodded, “Yeah, the New Year Festival is in a couple of days—the first day of the year. But honestly, with the current situation, don’t even think about taking a break or drinking…”
Amber ignored the teasing last remark (in the past, she might have kicked him into the shadow realm for that). She seemed lost in thought, quietly repeating the words “New Year Festival,” then glanced down at her hastily scribbled notes. A spark lit her eyes. “I’ve got it!”
…
“Three days from now? The New Year Festival?” In the frontline command hall, Gawain looked surprised as Amber came rushing in, excitedly reporting. “Are you sure?”
Having lived in this world for many years, he was familiar with the traditional festival. It was akin to a New Year’s Day—the first day of the Cold Month and the year itself. On this day, the constellation Frostsky descends while the constellation Flowfire rises. Though the entire month is called the Cold Month, the coldest days would soon pass. As the month of Revival approached, people celebrated this special day in various ways—not just humans, but also southern elves and many races from the western continent.
As he recalled these facts, a sudden thought struck Gawain like lightning.
He seemed to understand what Amber had discovered.
“On the New Year Festival, the gods rest and rearrange their governance of the world,” Amber said calmly. “For this reason, all religious activities pause for a day—no matter which god’s followers, even the charlatans, observe a ‘silence.’ People don’t pray, don’t go to churches, don’t worship at home, and even avoid mentioning the gods’ names, because… the gods rest on this day.”
The key to unraveling the mystery wasn’t in any intelligence report, but in a traditional custom—how wondrous the world is.
Amber smiled faintly. “Rosetta Augustus can’t simply order everyone to stop praying to the War God at once. Though he uses the army to control the War God’s churches and ban public sermons, he can’t stop people from praying secretly at home, can’t ensure that among nearly a hundred million people there aren’t a few underground churches operating in secret, and certainly can’t control War God churches outside Typhon. But the power of tradition can do this—at least better than he can.
“On the New Year Festival, everyone stops praying—no matter which god they believe in, no matter if they obey Rosetta’s orders or not. And according to our studies of divine operations, in such circumstances, the gods lose their ‘replenishment’ of power…”
Gawain’s expression grew grave. He rubbed his knuckles thoughtfully and said in a low voice, “So if he wants to strike at the gods, the New Year Festival is the perfect day… There’s not much time left, but we can still prepare.”
…
Days passed in the blink of an eye.
Near Winterhold, inside a large gathering hall, a massive brazier blazed. Candlesticks and iron sacred artifacts were neatly arranged around the altar, and the scent of incense wafted from the fire and candles, filling the hall.
A large number of priests clad in black or gray robes were led inside, moving like a swarm of staggering corpses before the altar. They stood there dazed, seemingly stripped of normal human thought, yet low murmurs and mutterings came from beneath their heavy hoods, as if each was conversing with an unseen presence—sometimes even with a strange warmth.
Obsidian Guards clad in black armor stood watch at the hall’s edges. Behind their alloy masks, their eyes revealed cold indifference, devoid of emotion.
A guard commander checked his mechanical watch, then glanced out the wide window at the sky.
Cold wind blew through the open window, swirling in snowflakes accumulated over recent days.
The new year had begun today… with a dark and bloody dawn. No one yet knew if this beginning would lead to a future with hope—the commander certainly did not. His sole task was to carry out orders from above.
“This might be the worst New Year Festival I’ve ever had—freezing cold…” he muttered softly, stepping toward a priest by the altar.
As time passed, the incense’s influence began to affect the dazed priests and pastors. Some started whispering prayers, though it was far from a true “ceremony.” The commander approached the priest and spoke slowly to the face hidden beneath the hood, “The sacred hour has come. No prayers to offer?”
“The sacred hour… the sacred hour…” the priest mumbled, sounding dazed but still clinging to a shred of reason. “But today, no prayers… today…”
“The New Year Festival was yesterday, Bishop. You’re mistaken,” the commander said quietly. “Look at the brazier and candlesticks before you… these are offerings to the gods. There’s no such thing on the New Year Festival, right?”
“Oh… oh… you’re right, the New Year’s Festival passed yesterday…”
The voice beneath the hood grew increasingly muddled, slipping into an indistinct murmur. Eventually, it degraded into a hoarse, torn whisper, interspersed with strange syllables no human could utter. At that moment, the commander swiftly retreated to the edge of the gathering hall.
A low, solemn prayer began to rise around the fire basin—
“…May the War God protect us, my heart forged of steel, enduring countless battles…”
An indescribable spiritual pressure spread through the air. Even the well-trained Obsidian Guard soldiers couldn’t help but feel their skin tighten and lips dry. They gripped their longswords tightly, eyes fixed on their commander. The commander, in turn, stared intently at the altar’s central flame, now gradually turning an iron-gray hue, occasionally casting quick glances at the priests surrounding the altar. Slowly, his hand moved toward the longsword at his waist.
Inside the gathering hall, the prayers blended into a single chorus, layered with other indistinct sounds. The flame at the altar roared higher and higher. Outside this hall, amid the howling cold wind across the vast Winter Fortress region, dozens of similar gathering halls were experiencing the same phenomenon simultaneously.
Suddenly, the sky darkened with an unnatural cluster of clouds—vast swaths of iron-gray shadows seemingly materializing out of thin air. At the center of the cloud mass, a faintly glowing, door-like shape began to take form. It hovered high above the land like the legendary gates of the divine realm, visible clearly to anyone who looked up within the Winter Fortress.
The few remaining residents of the area felt an overwhelming pressure. Terrified, they hurried indoors, retreating to cellars and bolting doors and windows. Soldiers waited tensely for further orders, while countless commanders and messengers cast anxious glances toward the Winter Fortress.
Rosetta Augustus stood in the highest chamber of the Winter Fortress’s arcane hall. His gaze pierced through the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, fixed on the sky and the divine projection that had become unmistakably clear in his sight.
Today was the New Year’s Festival, a day when the gods were meant to “rest,” and all prayers across the world had ceased. Yet here, tens of thousands of the most deeply corrupted War God priests were still praying… This was a powerful “signal,” strong enough to precisely channel the connection to the divine realm down to the mortal world.
But it still wasn’t enough. The deity had yet to truly descend—ordinary prayers alone could not transform quantity into quality. One crucial step remained to push the process forward.
Rosetta withdrew his gaze and turned toward the blazing fire basin at the center of the hall. Everyone else had long since left—even Parin Winter Fortress was absent. Now, in this vast space, only Rosetta Augustus remained. Only he could carry out what needed to be done here.
He stood before the fire basin, pausing briefly as if in thought, then glanced once toward the direction of the Cecil Empire.
“So far away… not even eye contact is possible.”
The Typhon Emperor muttered the only joke he’d made in over a decade, then waved his hand through the empty air.
A phantom, hollow eye surrounded by a starry backdrop suddenly appeared behind him. In his hand, he grasped a vague, twisted shadowy figure.
It was the projection of Malm Dunit’s avatar.
Without even looking, Rosetta tossed the figure straight into the fire basin. Then, reaching out again, he pulled forth a second “Malm Dunit” and casually threw it into the flames.
Next came a third… a fourth…
Like adding fuel to the fire.
(End of chapter)