Chapter 1036: A Deeper Awakening

On the 15th day of the cold, biting moon, the city of Cecil was already buzzing with the afterglow of victory.

For ordinary citizens, the tangled web of national interests was too complex to fully grasp, and the knowledge involving gods felt distant and abstract. Many couldn’t comprehend the deeper truths behind the war. Yet, a war ending in victory was always cause for celebration. Although no official ceasefire had been announced, and negotiations between Typhon and Cecil hadn’t even begun, good news was already spreading through the well-connected city. In this final month of winter, these tidings lifted people’s spirits like the coming month of renewal.

Near the Imperial Academy, a tall young man with short silver hair strode briskly down the street.

The snow that had blanketed the roads days before had been cleared away, leaving dirty piles pushed under the trees lining the sidewalks, ready to nourish the roots when the weather warmed. A few children, bundled in thick winter clothes, darted between the snowbanks, unconcerned about dirtying their clothes as they playfully threw clumps of grimy snow at each other. Some citizens, enjoying their days off, ambled lazily by, while others stood at doorways, chatting with neighbors about the latest news circulating through the city—mostly about the border war.

The common folk’s understanding of war was always limited. Even those who had endured hardship and displacement couldn’t accurately describe the great conflict between Typhon and Cecil. They discussed the empire’s victory, the enemy’s retreat, and rumors of divine chaos and church corruption through their own lens. These voices reached the silver-haired young man’s ears, prompting a wry smile. He quickened his pace and soon crossed the short street.

He arrived at a neat, tidy townhouse facing the street. Glancing at the door number, he climbed the steps, pulled out his key, and opened the door. A wave of warm air greeted him.

Stepping inside, the heat from the central heating quickly chased away the chill he’d gathered on his walk. He peeked toward the living room and casually hung his coat on a nearby hook. Footsteps soon echoed from the stairs, followed by a familiar voice: “Hey, Findel! I heard the door—figured it was you back!”

Findel Wilde, the silver-haired heir of the North, looked toward the voice and saw a weary-looking young man with tousled brown hair approaching. A faint smile crossed Findel’s face. “You look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

“I’ve been working on assignments from my mentor—some calculations on mana loss in crystals,” said the shorter, brown-haired Eleven Franklin as he came closer. He glanced at the officer’s coat Findel had just hung up, a hint of admiration in his eyes. “You’re already someone who’s been through the battlefield.”

“Don’t say that,” Findel waved his hand quickly. “I’m just an officer cadet who hasn’t graduated yet. His Majesty assigned us to second-line units. Most of the time, me and the other cadets and recruits were busy along the supply lines between Covenant Fort and Winter Wolf Fort. Except for the tense moments delivering supplies to the frontline artillery positions, I haven’t really been on the battlefield. No battle honors to speak of.”

Eleven gave him a once-over. “I didn’t expect you to be so humble.”

Findel chuckled as he headed toward the living room. “If you had a strict aunt like mine, you’d be humble too. When she found out I was going to the front as an intern officer, she sent me a message through the magic network with one clear warning: if I dared to take credit or brag about battlefield exploits, she’d freeze me and hang me from the highest tower in Winter Fortress.”

Eleven shuddered. “I think Victoria really would do that.”

“Of course she would. So let’s not talk about that terrifying topic anymore.” Findel sank into the soft sofa, the relaxation easing the tension in his muscles and nerves that had been taut since leaving the front. He glanced at his friend with a look reserved for when he needed a favor. “Eleven, I need your help with something.”

“Help me?” Eleven looked surprised, pointing at himself. “Is this about math or magic theory again? Do you still have coursework in the second officer cadet class?”

“Not at all,” Findel waved his hand. “I just need your grammar skills—you know I’m terrible at that.”

“Grammar?” Eleven frowned. “Findel, did you meet a girl in the army? Because I have to warn you, love letters are best written by yourself…”

“Stop, stop! It’s nothing like that!” Findel laughed, shaking his head at his friend’s wild imagination. “This is serious. My superiors asked me to do it, but I’m at a loss where to start, so I want your help. And don’t worry, it’s not classified.”

Eleven hesitated, but seeing Findel’s earnest expression, he nodded. “Depends on what exactly you need. I reserve the right to refuse.”

“It’s simple. His Majesty wants some of us who experienced the war to write something,” Findel carefully chose his words, thinking of the city’s celebratory mood and the citizens discussing the news on the streets. “About who we fought, why we fought, the consequences afterward, and how this war connects to all levels of society. I know what I want to say, but I need you to polish the wording.”

Eleven listened intently, curiosity flickering across his face. “I get what you want me to do, but… why do this?”

…

“To help people awaken further,” Gawain said as he returned to his familiar study in Cecil Palace. Amber stood by his side as usual, and his words were meant for the curious half-elf. “To free them from ignorance and blind confusion. Honestly, we should have done this before the war started, but events moved faster than we planned.”

He glanced at Amber, who was deep in thought, and explained seriously, “We need the military intellectuals to summarize the common knowledge about the war, outline its underlying causes, and have the propaganda department conduct a ‘war analysis’ for the citizens. From motives and meaning to long-term impact, we must tell them who we fought, why we fought, why we won, and why peace is possible. In a way, this is as important as the knowledge popularization we’ve always pursued.”

“I think I understand your idea,” Amber said thoughtfully, her ears drooping slightly from concentration, but she grasped Gawain’s point. “It’s like the concept you mentioned before… Nation, people, society—people must first understand the collective they belong to, to build a sense of identity and foster lasting cohesion. Is that right?”

“That’s a big part of it,” Gawain smiled, pleased Amber had truly absorbed what he’d taught her (even if she also remembered a lot of irrelevant stuff). “We need to build a more progressive and enlightened society, which requires more progressive and enlightened members. Right now, neither Typhon nor Cecil is doing nearly enough. People need to know more, think more, and discern right from wrong—not face social changes blindly and attribute everything to heroes, emperors, or ‘divine blessings.’ If that happens, much of our effort will be wasted.”

“I get what you mean, but it won’t be easy,” Amber frowned, sounding pessimistic. “The rational thinkers will always be a minority. Even if tens of thousands of scholars tirelessly explain how the world works, millions will remain blind. Worse, some will misinterpret, distort, or deliberately twist what you teach—after all, you’re no longer teaching simple spelling or arithmetic, but the subtle structures deep within nations and societies.”

“True, the rational minority will always be small… but even if we change just one percent, that’s a huge push for society,” Gawain leaned back, fingers interlaced, relaxed. “More importantly, these talks give ordinary people a chance to think—whether their thoughts are deep or shallow, right or wrong, the act of thinking itself is what matters.

“We need everyone to know that everything in this world follows patterns—from their daily lives to wars between empires. These things can be explained. And further, natural phenomena and social changes should be understandable. Once this idea takes root, we can finally breathe easier.”

Amber blinked. “So even if a bunch of fools read the papers and then argue nonsense with muddled brains, it’s better than them just shouting ‘God bless’ when they don’t understand something?”

“That’s actually a pretty good summary,” Gawain said, surprised. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“I do study seriously, you know!” Amber puffed up proudly, hands on hips. “You always talk about complicated concepts, and I don’t want Hetty and Rebecca to keep teasing me.”

Gawain smiled faintly at the half-elf. He knew her well enough to expect her to get carried away with praise, but since she truly understood his ideas this time, letting her bask in it was no harm.

While Amber reveled in her triumph, Gawain’s thoughts drifted back to the present.

He had returned to Cecil, but the war between Typhon and Cecil was far from settled. The two empires had agreed to a ceasefire, and the Typhon side accepted holding peace talks in the Elven Neutral Zone. Rosetta Augustus had sent a personal letter endorsing the “Commonwealth Alliance” proposal. Yet both the ceasefire negotiations and the alliance formation would take time.

Rosetta Augustus had already returned to Aldern. In this disaster that had drained the entire nation’s strength, Typhon had paid a heavy price. Now, Rosetta had to find a way to stabilize the fragile domestic situation. Fortunately, he had prepared in advance—he crushed nearly all internal opposition with ruthless force and secured absolute military control over all key power centers. The military aristocracy, including Pedinan Wendell, stood firmly with the royal family. In theory, as long as these military elites remained steadfast, the internal situation in Typhon wouldn’t deteriorate further. With trade between the two countries resuming and the economy warming up, things were bound to improve.

Meanwhile, Gawain and Rosetta had each sent out “invitations” to the nations they had diplomatic ties with, calling on them to send representatives to collectively face the shifting global landscape.

The war on the Typhon-Cecil border had devastated the entire plain and shaken the world. Although no additional countries had been drawn into the conflict, countless eyes were watching the war—and the shocking “mad god” revealed in the final battle. Gawain believed that every nation observing the war had their own means of gathering information. Their rulers had likely uncovered some of the secrets behind this divine catastrophe. Most of them were probably caught in a complex mix of fear and confusion. And now… Typhon and Cecil were about to officially disclose the truth of this divine disaster.

But the specifics of what to reveal required careful thought and cautious handling.

Gawain had to consider the gods who remained sane and their churches. He needed to prevent an overly provocative public announcement that might destabilize these deities’ states through their followers, while still ensuring the information released was substantial enough to shock the world. The goal was to alert global leaders—to make them realize that gods were not flawless protectors, that they too carried the risk of losing control.

As he wrestled with these issues, another thought kept nagging at Gawain:

To eliminate one mad war god, Typhon and Cecil had already paid a tremendous price. But there was far more than one god in this world.

How many times could all mortals combined afford such a cost?

Not to mention the huge hidden dangers behind this direct confrontation—if, after a god’s fall, the subsequent spiritual education and ideological guidance failed to keep pace, if ordinary people continued to habitually revere the fallen deity and attribute events to the gods… then sooner or later, the fallen god would return to their divine seat, rendering the enormous sacrifices made to destroy the mad god utterly meaningless.

It was precisely this worry that led Gawain to consider further public education campaigns—analyzing the war, explaining political and economic principles—but he knew that alone wouldn’t be enough.

In summary, his concerns boiled down to two things: first, the sheer number of gods in the world meant that even if mortals could slay one god, sweeping away all of them was beyond reach; second, the risk that spiritual development would lag behind, and people’s habitual prayers and blind reverence for the unknown would restore the gods to their thrones.

Lost in thought, Gawain absentmindedly dragged his pen across a blank sheet of paper, first scribbling a few messy letters, then hastily writing down a few words.

Amber, just coming out of her triumphant daze, noticed his movements and leaned over curiously to take a look.

A strange phrase caught her eye:

The Divine Authority Council.

(The special episode of “Chronicles of the Abnormal” needs your support—viewership isn’t looking good. Remember, only plays longer than ten minutes count toward the total.)

(End of chapter)