Chapter 1051: A Cold Night

As Bertram Franklin finished his report, High King Gawain’s thoughts had already begun to drift—

The intelligence from the Ogure tribe confirmed a suspicion he’d held for some time: those mysterious signals intercepted earlier at Winterhold and Thorinhold weren’t confined to the borders of Cecile alone.

On the other side, Bertram concluded his briefing and looked toward Gawain. “Your Majesty, in addition, we’ve received a letter from the Dwarven Kingdom, delivered through the Grey Elf leader, Wenna. King Morton Forgefire of Anvilstead sends his regards and has accepted the invitation to the meeting at Silver Outpost 112 during next month’s Reawakening Festival. Anvilstead will be sending Ambassador Paladin Brightstone to attend.”

“…So the Dwarves have finally issued an official response,” Gawain exhaled slightly, relief washing over him. “It seems reopening the sea routes has indeed encouraged them to reengage with continental affairs.”

The Dwarven Kingdom, a mysterious realm nestled at the far western edge of the Great Road, was geographically connected to the continent of Loren but entirely enclosed by a natural arc of towering mountains. For centuries, those sheer cliffs had blocked the curious eyes of neighboring nations—and likewise kept the mountain folk isolated.

Over the long ages, the Dwarves lived a self-sufficient existence beyond those peaks. Their kingdom was said to be rich in resources and blessed with a unique climate, thriving without much contact with the outside world. Rumors spoke of technologies and cultures utterly distinct from those of the continent, preserving ancient traditions dating back before the First Expansion. But all of this was mere speculation—few had ever crossed the mountains to see the Dwarven realm firsthand. Only a handful of Dwarves who ventured inland would occasionally speak of their homeland, describing Anvilstead as grand and magnificent, with iron and silver-strewn hills, vast fertile plains, and a picturesque western coastline.

After ending his communication with the Duke of the Western Marches, the air near Gawain’s desk shimmered faintly. Amber’s figure emerged, her face alight with curiosity. “It’s said that the mountains surrounding the Dwarven Kingdom are protected by ancient powers. Outsiders who enter the range become hopelessly lost, wandering back confused to the foothills. Only the Dwarves know the secret paths to safely cross the ridges, which is why only they ever come inland, and few ever penetrate their kingdom.”

“But in truth, the Dwarven Kingdom isn’t as mysterious as legend makes it out to be,” Gawain smiled. “Though it’s true they have little contact with the rest of the continent now, a few centuries ago, when humans still had the means to explore the seas, Ansu maintained maritime relations with the Dwarves. They do have many unique customs and specialized forging techniques, but it’s far from the ‘otherworldly’ place the stories describe.”

“You said that was centuries ago,” Amber spread her hands. “For humans with such short lifespans, a few hundred years of isolation is enough to turn a once-familiar land into an incomprehensible foreign realm.”

“…That’s a fair point,” Gawain admitted, then suddenly remembered something and looked up. “Any progress on the investigation I assigned you earlier?”

“You mean the one about the ‘Gondorian Ironman’?” Amber immediately understood. After a moment’s thought, the recent information she’d gathered surfaced in her mind. “There have been some developments, though nothing groundbreaking.

“First, regarding the identity of ‘Lady Diana’ in Typhon. We’ve confirmed she leads the Typhon special forces unit known as the ‘Wanderers’—an elite group directly loyal to the Typhon royal family. Within the unit, there are subdivisions based on function, similar to the Royal Shadows of the Ansu era or today’s Steel Rangers. Their primary roles include special operations and intelligence tasks, both domestic and foreign. The core combatants are battle mages, rigorously trained for real-world combat scenarios—raids, assassinations, close-quarters fighting. This closely resembles the ‘Mage Soldiers’ recorded in Gondor’s history. Clearly, these specialized troops are the product of the Gondorian Ironman’s personal training.

“Second, we’ve confirmed Diana’s long-standing loyalty to the Augustus family, but she seems devoted solely to the title of ‘Emperor.’ She doesn’t align with any political faction, nor does she support any un-crowned heir or partake in court intrigues. I suspect this is tied to a pact made centuries ago between her and the Typhon scholars who ‘restored’ her, and the royal family at that time.

“Those two points come from open sources. The third is more intriguing… it’s an ‘unexpected find’ from Agent Twenty-Five.”

As Amber spoke, she rummaged through her bag and produced a carefully folded sheet of paper, unfolding it before Gawain.

Gawain was surprised—Daniel had managed to obtain intelligence related to this ‘Diana’? His gaze was drawn to the paper Amber laid out on the desk.

It wasn’t some ancient Gondorian technical schematic or a secret Typhon deployment plan. Instead, it looked like a child’s crude doodle: a dozen or so ink blotches scattered seemingly at random, with a small, meaningless circle in the center. Radiating lines connected the blotches to the circle, forming an image that resembled a failed sun drawing, its rays wildly disproportionate and abstract.

“What is this?” Gawain frowned, puzzled. “Some kind of abstract art?”

“This is Lady Diana’s ‘work’—the only ‘art’ she ever creates,” Amber said, placing the paper on the desk with a strange expression. “It sounds odd, but even Agent Twenty-Five doesn’t fully understand it. He learned about this by chance from the head of the Typhon Royal Mage Association—

“Lady Diana, the ‘Mistress of the Obsidian Palace,’ ‘never erring, always vigilant,’ sometimes behaves strangely when alone. She takes up pen and paper to doodle, always producing this same image, again and again, endlessly. No one knows why, not even she seems to understand. Most of these doodles are destroyed immediately, but a few are forgotten and end up in the hands of a select few curious individuals allowed into the Obsidian Palace.”

“This is… unexpected,” Gawain murmured, staring at the doodle. He couldn’t decipher its meaning. His mind wandered to images that felt out of place in this world: unconscious ‘creations’ born from AI breakthroughs, cryptic graffiti from rogue automatons, corrupted data echoes from ancient machine servants…

“Is this an exact reproduction of the doodle, or a conceptual sketch based on memory?” he asked.

“Agent Twenty-Five says it’s over ninety percent accurate,” Amber nodded. “Only some line proportions are slightly off.”

“Have Kamail and Veronica seen this? They’re from the Gondorian era; maybe they can shed light on it.”

“They have, but they’re just as baffled,” Amber shook her head. “Kamail thinks it might be an abstract representation of some ancient runic array. Veronica suspects it relates to Diana’s deepest memories from her time at the Vipland Observatory. But those are just guesses.”

“…Diana is a Gondorian Ironman who lost part of her memory, and those memories tie to her departure from Vipland Observatory. These images might reveal impressions stored deep within her memory banks. But to outsiders lacking context, they’re meaningless scribbles,” Gawain mused. “I’m very interested in the Ironman’s secrets. Upload this image to the neural network and, under strict confidentiality, assign it to the analysis teams under Megor III and Selina Gelfin. Let’s see if anything known resembles this doodle.”

Amber nodded. “Understood. I’ll handle it as soon as we return.”

She folded the paper away, then noticed Gawain’s gaze had drifted elsewhere. His fingers absentmindedly toyed with a small silver-white ring. She quickly recognized it. “Still thinking about Talrond?”

“Still no contact with the Mythril Vault,” Gawain said, tossing the ring onto the desk. It bounced once, ringing sharply. “With the dragons’ level of technology, it’s impossible for a communications system to be broken this long. And with the Vault’s centuries-old reputation, it’s unthinkable they’d remain silent after losing contact with their clients for so long. Now that the Eternal Storm has vanished, all the intelligence we have points to something seriously wrong in Talrond… and it’s no small matter.”

“You’re worried about the dragons?” Amber blinked. “Honestly, I don’t see why. They’re dragons—invincible in both legend and reality. They can walk into a volcano and sip the heat. Such overwhelmingly powerful beings—why should we worry?”

“Precisely because they’re so powerful, I’m worried,” Gawain shook his head. “I fear some unpredictable disaster is brewing in the Arctic, one that could spill over into the human world. Imagine the worst-case scenario: the entire Talrond destroyed by an irresistible force. What kind of power would that be?”

Amber’s eyes widened in alarm. “That… can’t be, right?”

“Just a hypothesis,” Gawain exhaled. “It’s like seeing a giant standing far away—you know he’s there, you know how strong he is, you saw him moments ago, but suddenly he’s gone. You don’t see how he disappeared or if he was attacked. You might worry about the giant’s safety, but more importantly, you should worry about the force that made him vanish—whether it’s spreading toward you.”

Amber shivered, rubbing her arms. “Ugh, I’m getting goosebumps!”

“In the end, it’s just unclear intelligence that makes me overthink,” Gawain sighed, admitting his own anxieties. “I just hope those diligent sea witches and naga in the Northern Harbor can uncover some clues—at least figure out what really happened to the Eternal Storm.”

…

The biting wind howled, slamming against the twisted, mangled steel framework and the makeshift windbreak walls. From the rubble, a salvaged heat generator cast a warm, orange-red glow under the dim sky, radiating steady warmth over a wide area. In a corner of the camp, a faulty projector sat, its base connected to several power packs. The holographic image flickered and blurred, barely recognizable, but faint, intermittent music still drifted from the device.

A few weak young dragons lay sprawled on the ground near the projector. Their implanted devices were malfunctioning, and withdrawal from the enhancers was tormenting their minds. The broken music from the projector was the only thing keeping their spirits from completely collapsing—though such a fragile support was almost meaningless. In the end, they had to rely on sheer willpower to endure this cold, bleak dusk.

It was no easy feat. For most dragons who had once lived in the lower tiers of Tal’Rond, breaking free from the hallucinogens and enhancers meant more than just mental anguish. The burning, searing pain coursing through their nervous systems—unable to adjust—was a brutal, physical torment.

Melita, having returned to her human form, stood beside a large boulder near the windbreak. Her pale violet eyes fixed on her shivering kin in the cold. Her gaze settled on one young red dragon in particular, and she didn’t look away for a long time.

He was the young mechanic who had undergone an implant surgery from her just that very noon. She had spent the entire day working tirelessly, saving a dozen or so comrades from fatal damage caused by implant failures and easing their suffering. But as dusk fell, he was now wracked by severe enhancer withdrawal—and no one in the camp could help him.

The camp’s last reserves of enhancers had already been used to treat the wounded.

Noticing Melita’s gaze, the red dragon on the ground turned his head, managing a bitter, self-mocking smile through his spasms. “I shouldn’t have gotten so hooked on ‘Soul’ and ‘Ash’… but back then, the sense of achievement and fulfillment they gave me meant everything…”

He was referring to two types of enhancers—both directly affecting the mind—that had run rampant in the lower tiers of Tal’Rond.

Melita sighed, unsure how to respond to this former lower-tier mechanic who had dealt in illegal implant modifications. She did the only thing she could—casting a broad mental soothing spell once more. Though such magic barely eased the symptoms of enhancer addiction, the young mechanic still gave her a grateful smile.

Without another word, Melita turned and fled from the place.

(End of chapter)