Chapter 1045: Awakening from a Great Dream

When Gawain stepped into the No. 1 office of the Administrative Hall, Hetty, who was reviewing documents, immediately noticed something off about him. The “Lord Steward Cecil” looked up and studied Gawain’s expression carefully. “Ancestor, did you not rest well last night?”

“…A bit of insomnia,” Gawain admitted, finding it hard to explain to Hetty how he had been abruptly woken in the middle of the night by an alarm transmitted from a satellite, only to watch helplessly as a strange, mechanical dragon-like figure streaked across space in a fiery trail, heading into the distance. So instead, he just waved a tired hand. “It’s nothing serious. I’ll adjust and be fine.”

For a powerful supernatural being like him, a little sleeplessness was hardly a big deal. Still, Hetty couldn’t help but worry. “Would you like some calming potions? Pittman should have some ready…”

“No need for that,” Gawain quickly declined, then glanced at the neatly arranged files on Hetty’s desk and swiftly changed the subject. “Any new updates?”

Truth be told, his mind was still filled with the images from last night’s space surveillance—the mysterious silhouette that had flashed across the stars, and the flood of thoughts that followed. But he knew he wasn’t in a position to investigate further, at least not yet. The Administrative Hall’s resources were useless for this, and the empire’s daily affairs still needed his attention.

Hetty studied Gawain’s face again, as if confirming his health. Once reassured, she flipped through the top few documents and began to organize her thoughts. “Yes, we’ve received feedback from several national and regional leaders—including the Ogure Tribal Nation, the northern city-states, the Silver Empire, and a reply from the Dwarven Kingdom. From their responses, it seems the leaders are quite interested in your call for a ‘Community Alliance’…”

“Expected,” Gawain smiled, relieved to hear some good news to counterbalance his sleepless mood. “These countries are either already part of the Cecil Settlement Zone, or will soon join the Northern Ring Continent trade route, or maintain close technical exchanges with us… The bridges are being built. Closer ties between nations are inevitable.”

“As you said,” Hetty nodded, then pulled out a separate document from the side. “Also, this is a remote letter just forwarded this morning through the Sentinel Tower. It’s a private message from Her Majesty Belsethia Morningstar of the Silver Empire—addressed specifically to you.”

“Belsethia…” Gawain paused, memories from seven centuries ago surfacing unbidden: a lively, mischievous figure who had trailed behind him during the Pioneers’ Covenant meetings, darting between camps. But he quickly shook his head, setting aside those long-past memories, and took the letter from Hetty.

Of course, this wasn’t the original but a “copy” transmitted via the Sentinel Tower’s communication network combined with the arcane web system. Though the image was slightly distorted, the handwriting on the letter was still clear and familiar. The Silver Empress’s script had changed little over seven centuries—only more refined and elegant now:

“To His Majesty the Emperor of Cecil, and to my long-unseen Uncle Gawain—”

At this unique opening, Gawain’s eyebrows twitched involuntarily. Then he lowered his eyes and read the letter carefully.

Minutes later, he set the letter down. Hetty’s curious gaze met his. “What did the Silver Empress say? Ah, of course, if it’s private, I won’t ask…”

Gawain gave her a strange look, sensing something odd in her words, then shook his head. “Nothing major. Just some routine pleasantries and a personal response regarding this upcoming meeting… She intends to attend in person.”

Hetty blinked, suddenly realizing what “in person” meant. Her eyes widened in surprise. “In person? You mean the Silver Empress herself will come to the No. 112 Sentinel Station for this meeting?”

Her astonishment was understandable. Although the meeting planned for this year’s Revival Month officially invited leaders from various nations, the political landscape of Loren was complex. Many regions had only recently opened their borders, so distant countries or those newly integrated into the Cecil Settlement Zone typically sent deputies or high-ranking ministers with authority, not the monarchs themselves. The Silver Empire, located at the southernmost tip of Loren and separated from the northern states by the entire Gondor Wasteland, had a revered empress who rarely left her realm in centuries. Everyone expected the ancient empire to send only an ambassador. Hetty had never imagined the empress herself would come.

Gawain, however, was less surprised. He appeared calm. “This meeting will reshape the world’s order. Its long-term impact will be no less significant than the Pioneers’ Covenant. For the Silver Empire, such an event warrants the Empress’s personal witness. Besides…”

Hetty’s curiosity was piqued. “Besides?”

Gawain glanced down at the letter again, his eyes resting on certain passages:

“…Many years ago, the elves lost the favor of the natural gods, and our scholars and theologians have debated this for a long time… I have been particularly attentive to the changes in the northern continent over the past two years. Through correspondence with Sonia, I have learned about the reformed Holy Light sect and the Cecil Empire’s restructuring of various churches…”

He looked up thoughtfully. “The elves may become the first non-human members of the Theocratic Council. That’s something I hadn’t anticipated.”

Listening to Gawain, Hetty quickly caught on. “The Silver Elves… Yes, their original mainstream faith was in the natural gods, but since the fall of the White Star three thousand years ago, their religious structure has changed drastically. The imperial state religion gradually transformed over centuries into a purely academic institution studying druidic techniques. Meanwhile, splintered clergy led small groups of believers in scattered sects based on primal nature worship. Sonia and Solderin told me these small jungle sects never caused any upheaval—no natural divine magic manifested, and no new gods answered their prayers…

“To this day, the Silver Empire lacks a unified, recognized mainstream faith. The elven royal family is nominally the highest authority over the druids, and the Empress herself is the chief priestess in name, but these are largely ceremonial and traditional symbols. Most elves no longer believe in Amon, while some have been influenced by human nations—some worship war gods, others are casual followers of magic goddesses, and a few believe in the Holy Light…”

Gawain’s face twitched slightly. “…It seems their current religious situation is not very optimistic…”

Hetty pondered and made a strange expression. “…Indeed.”

“Let’s set aside their faith dilemma for now,” Gawain sighed, steering the conversation back. “I’ve always focused too much on the northern continent and on humanity itself… The Silver Empire has been in contact with us for so long, yet it remained a ‘blind spot’ in my view. Now it seems that warm jungle hides a vast ‘sample library’ of divine influence. The Silver Elves’ unique situation might advance our research significantly.”

His gaze swept over Belsethia’s elegant handwriting again, but his thoughts seemed to cross the vast wasteland and settle on the elven realms at the continent’s far end. He recalled Hetty’s description of their three-thousand-year “faith quest” and sensed many connections to the mysteries of the gods.

After a brief reflection, he tucked the elves’ matter away for the moment and turned his attention to another thread—Talrond.

Since last night’s “insomnia,” the silhouette that had streaked through space lingered in his mind. Though the shape was bizarre, altered beyond recognition, Gawain still discerned a hint of “dragon” in its outline. That tiny clue had kept him mulling over Talrond since morning.

Following this line of thought, he thought of the Holy Dragon Principality and instinctively asked, “The Holy Dragon Principality should have received our invitation long ago… Has the Dragonblood Prince responded?”

“I was just about to tell you,” Hetty said promptly. “Their reply has arrived, but… I find it strange.”

Gawain frowned. “Strange?”

“Prince Baloguer hasn’t responded personally. The letter came from the Dragonblood Council and Sir Gorosh Shikel,” Hetty pulled a document from the desk and handed it to Gawain. “They were polite but declined to attend the Revival Month meeting, citing ‘special domestic circumstances.’ Of course, no details were given.”

Gawain skimmed the letter quickly. It was a perfectly worded official refusal, courteous and apologetic, revealing nothing about internal affairs—nothing more to see.

“Amber,” Gawain said after a moment, addressing the air beside him.

At his words, a figure materialized—a half-elf intelligence director who landed swiftly and reported, “Our infiltration agents in the Holy Dragon Principality are few, but we have useful information: Prince Baloguer has not appeared publicly for several days. Dragonhold, the principality’s capital, is under martial law. Rumors say the prince’s health has suddenly deteriorated, preventing public appearances; others say he has left the principality. Regardless, the Dragonblood Council and court officials remain composed, controlling the situation. The principality is calm—except the prince is missing.

“Also, there’s another report: residents near Dragonhold claim to have seen a massive silver dragon circling the mountains and flying north. Local merchants dismiss it as rumor, but I suspect it’s connected to the prince’s sudden disappearance.”

The intelligence was fragmented, but the conclusion seemed clear.

Still, it wasn’t enough to deduce Talrond’s true situation.

Gawain frowned, pondering what might be unfolding in the distant north. Just then, a special arcane web terminal beside Hetty’s desk suddenly beeped.

Everyone’s attention snapped to the flashing, sounding device.

This was the Imperial High Chancellor’s special line—only activated for major border incidents or urgent communications from the other two High Chancellors to the capital.

“Connect,” Gawain said, moving toward the desk.

Hetty quickly answered the call. As the holographic projection flickered to life, the figure of Victoria Wilde appeared before Gawain and Hetty.

“Your Majesty, and Grant Seneschal Heddy,” the Duchess of Ice and Snow’s expression was unusually grave as soon as the communication connected, her tone urgent. “The Eternal Storm has vanished.”

For a moment, Heddy was at a loss for words. “…What did you say?”

“The Eternal Storm is gone,” Victoria repeated patiently. “That massive tempest over the northern seas—the last visual observation this morning confirmed that the storm’s towering cloud walls have completely dissipated. The monitoring stations near North Harbor have also detected shifts in the ocean currents and the flow of magical energy in the atmosphere.”

Her gaze then fixed on Gawain, her voice more serious than ever. “Your Majesty, beyond the borders we know, there may be other significant events unfolding in this world.”

But Gawain didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he instinctively lifted his head, his eyes snapping to the large map hanging on the wall nearby—focused on the northern reaches.

…

As the great sun of the polar day dipped once more to its lowest point on the horizon before slowly climbing back to a third of the sky, a sea breeze swept across the land of Argondor, carrying with it the scent of salt and smoke, drifting toward the distance.

Melita Penita awoke from a deep sleep, feeling as if she had just endured a long, strange, surreal, and terrifying dream.

In that dream, she was transformed into a bloodless, merciless war machine, steel-willed and unyielding against enemies far deadlier than any natural disaster. The gods she once revered and feared had become cataclysmic forces of destruction, sweeping across the land and devouring everything in their path. She saw the magnificent Argondor crumble—mountains shattered, the towering walls and spires of the Council’s palace tumbling from the peaks, collapsing alongside the ancient, crowded districts of lower Talrond into ruins. The dragon nests she had tended for thousands of years fell with the mountains, their contents consumed by roaring flames…

She was trapped in this dream, tossed and turned, unable to wake or think freely, as if her mind were frozen inside a murky amber, forced to watch everything unfold with cold detachment, her spirit numb and unresponsive.

Then, suddenly, she heard the howling wind and felt the chill sweeping across the land.

Among the ruins of Argondor, a battered blue dragon opened its eyes.

“…What the hell…?!”

The dream was real.jpg.

(End of chapter)