Chapter 1056: Thawing

For several minutes afterward, the collapsed, abandoned hall was engulfed in silence. Three pairs of eyes fixed on the strange metal plate with its peculiar texture. Slowly, the words inscribed on the plate began to fade away, until the entire surface dissolved bit by bit into the air—transforming into tiny specks of light dust that slipped from Hragor’s hand, leaving no trace behind.

Balogar finally broke the silence. “What does the third story mean?”

“…When Gawain Cecil visited Talrond, ‘It’ told him two stories—two tales about gods and mortals,” Hragor rubbed his fingers as if still feeling the solid texture of the metal plate. “‘It’ said there was a third story, but that one hasn’t happened yet…”

Balogar looked into Hragor’s eyes. “So you understand what ‘It’ meant?”

“No,” Hragor shook his head. “Not yet… Even after over a million years trying to decipher every metaphor ‘It’ spoke, I’ve only grasped part of it. Some things… are simply beyond our understanding.”

“Then what do you make of the earlier messages?” Balogar pressed. “Are you sure these really came from ‘It’? Why would ‘It’ leave these behind?”

Hragor said nothing at first. He fell into deep thought, the silence stretching on for a long while before he finally murmured to himself, “Perhaps… this is knowledge ‘It’ can only share with us once the shackles are broken.”

“Clearly, ‘It’ also wanted to tell this to that human named Gawain Cecil,” Andar broke the silence for the first time, glancing back at the dragon egg glowing faintly with golden light in the center of the hall. His tone was complicated. “Hragor, you decide what we should do.”

“…Do as you will,” Hragor finally spoke after a long pause. “Ultimately, Talrond’s fate is now inseparably linked to that human’s path. The turning points in history are tied to his actions. Perhaps this connection will continue for a long time. ‘It’ must have foreseen all this and prepared these things in advance.”

“Alright, if that’s your judgment,” Balogar spread his hands, “we’ve already decided to return to the mortal world. Using this as a way to establish contact with one of humanity’s strongest realms seems like a good start.”

Andar’s gaze remained fixed on the dragon egg. He couldn’t help but ask, “Hragor, do you think this egg is safe? Could it… be a sign of some dangerous return?”

“Remember the first and second messages we saw earlier?” Hragor didn’t answer directly but instead asked Andar. After a moment’s thought, Andar nodded. “Of course—I remember. The first: ‘Gods,’ as a natural phenomenon, never truly perish. The second: what mortals perceive as ‘gods’ are merely ripples created by the interaction between that natural phenomenon and the mortal observers.”

“I believe those two,” Hragor said slowly. “So there’s no need to fear this egg. For dragons, the gods we knew have already departed.”

“Then what do we do with it? By the way… do you think this egg can even hatch?” Balogar looked at the dragon egg with a strange expression. As a scholar, he wasn’t sure what theory to apply to this bizarre situation. “Oh, another question—The message said ‘entrust all of this to Gawain Cecil.’ Does ‘all of this’ include the egg?”

The vast, abandoned hall fell silent again. After a long pause, Hragor’s voice came, heavy and subdued: “…You’ve asked me.”

…

A wind from the plains swept across the vast land. Though the chill of winter had not yet fully retreated from the northern regions, the breeze already carried a hint of warmth. From Saint Suniel to the outskirts of Pompeii, from the Gorgon River to the Sorin region, fertile earth was beginning to show signs of green as the weather warmed. The pale wind orchids blooming gently brought good news to the people of this land:

The long, harsh winter was finally over. The month of renewal was approaching the northern lands.

In the Sorin region, beneath towering ancient trees, the Ever-Spring Meadows thrived as always.

The “miraculous” power of the giant trees blessed the entire area. Within the Sorin trees’ vast canopy, the changes between spring and winter were barely noticeable. Even when the plains’ wind blew into Sorin Fortress, its breath was purified and softened by the trees, blending seamlessly with the local environment. Yet, even so, the people living in Sorin could feel the shift brought by the month of renewal on the Holy Spirit Plains: at the edges of the treetops, the breeze carried drifting petals of pale wind orchids, and cotton-like grass seeds floated in from the south, settling on the windowsills of the outposts outside Sorin Fortress.

Andersa Windell, her long hair streaked with gray and white, stood in the fortress garden, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. She heard the flutter of wings overhead and looked up just in time to see a few beautiful little birds with emerald feathers flying past the castle’s rooftop, heading toward the Holy Spirit Plains.

These lovely birds were not permanent residents of the Sorin trees; they were merely seeking temporary refuge from the winter.

The adaptability of wild animals never ceased to amaze. Many creatures had now grown accustomed to the presence of the Sorin trees, treating this mild climate as a sanctuary for the cold months. During the heavy snows on the plains, countless beasts and birds gathered in the treetops above Sorin Fortress and the thickets below. When the plains warmed again, these animals hurriedly left their refuge to return to their homes on the plains.

Andersa’s gaze followed the birds until they vanished into the pale blue light at the treetops’ edge. She then exhaled deeply, stretched her limbs, and picked up a sturdy branch from the ground to use as a practice sword. As she had done for over a decade, she began her training. After a long period of rest and recovery, her movements were initially stiff, but after ten minutes, they gradually became fluid.

Halfway through her practice, footsteps approached nearby. Andersa instinctively stopped and looked toward the corridor beside the garden. Bard Windell, dressed in his researcher’s uniform, stood at the edge of the corridor. He smiled warmly and applauded, “Good, very spirited.”

“Father,” Andersa lowered the branch in her hands. “Good morning.”

“You seem to be recovering well,” Bard said as he approached. “I thought you’d need a few more days to get this much energy back.”

“I was actually ready a few days ago,” Andersa smiled—now able to smile naturally in front of her father. “The air here feels infused with life itself.”

“You can drop the ‘feels.’ Every inch of air here truly is filled with life energy,” Bard chuckled. “Sorin Fortress is the best place in all of Cecil for convalescence. Just lying in bed here is like receiving a continuous blessing of rejuvenation. Compared to conventional healing spells and medicines, this slow, all-encompassing recovery leaves no hidden risks.”

“Yes, thanks to the life energy here, I feel fully healed,” Andersa said, glancing down at the branch in her hands with a wry shake of her head. “But given the circumstances, I can only practice with a branch… I doubt General Margarita would allow me to touch a real sword here.”

“Trust me, she forbids you from handling a sword mostly for your health’s sake. Someone who survived a missile bombardment shouldn’t be too confident in their body,” Bard said, stepping back and picking up a branch himself. “If you feel this practice isn’t enough, I can spar with you for a few minutes.”

Andersa blinked, surprised to see the branch in his hand. After a moment, she said, “Father, you really want to…”

“Do I need to think twice about this?” Bard flexed his wrist, adjusting to the branch’s weight and length. “Do you think just because I’m wearing robes, I’ve forgotten how to wield a sword?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Andersa shook her head. Her expression quickly grew serious as she adjusted her stance into a proper dueling posture and nodded slightly. “Then, it’s an honor.”

Bard stepped forward.

In that moment, a faded scene flickered before his eyes—his family estate, the courtyard blooming with pale yellow flowers, and his young daughter clumsily lunging at him, clutching a branch in her hand.

That was the only time Bard remembered sparring with his daughter as a father.

The courtyard echoed with the swish of air and the rhythmic tapping of footsteps. Their brief duel lasted less than ten minutes. With a crisp snap, the branch in Andersa’s hand was finally knocked to the ground. Without using any supernatural power, relying solely on swordsmanship, she had not been able to best the former Wolf General.

She vaguely recalled experiencing a similar scene many years ago.

“You win,” Andersa said, staring at the broken branch on the ground, then sighed and shook her head. “Looks like I wasted a lot of time during my recovery…”

“You did well,” Bard shook his head, snapping out of the memory and tossing aside his branch. “My experience and skill have always surpassed yours. In fact, years ago, I even sparred with His Majesty Gawain himself using just swordplay. Against a legend like him, I held my own for a long time and walked away unscathed. So losing to your father isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

His tone was calm, but a hint of pride slipped through—after all, despite many unspeakable details from those days, to have faced off briefly with a legendary hero like Gawain Cecil and come away unharmed was a remarkable feat. Few in the world could claim the same. Any person with a normal sense of honor could boast about it for a lifetime.

But Bard was a reserved and well-mannered man, so he decided to brag for only half a lifetime—showing the self-control of a former Wolf General.

Andersa was clearly surprised by her father’s words, even doubting, “Really? You… actually sparred with that pioneer? And walked away unharmed?”

Bard recalled the details—the time he was thrown out of a wall, his face hit by a grenade, running with a severed arm—and cleared his throat lightly. “Ahem, yes, really.”

After all, that grenade was thrown later by Byron. When Bard retreated from the castle, he was still intact. From a strict mathematical perspective, that counts as walking away unscathed.

“Let’s not talk about that anymore,” Bard said, shaking his head. His gaze settled on Andersa’s face, where strands of hair fell beside her cheek, partially hiding a grayish-white eye patch beneath the wisps at her temple. “More than your rusty swordsmanship, it’s really that eye that’s holding you back… I’ve already discussed a treatment plan with Lady Beltira. Using the new flesh-regeneration technology, there’s a chance we can restore your eye.”

Instinctively, Andersa reached up to touch the eye she’d lost in the fire of battle. There was no pain there now, but as her fingers brushed the patch, she almost felt that phantom heat and sting again.

After a brief silence, she smiled. “Alright, then. I’ll look forward to it.”

“I thought you’d refuse, like last time,” Bard said, glancing at her with some surprise. “You don’t mind the complications that come with the flesh-regeneration tech? The tangled ties it might create with Cecil?”

“Like you said, those are just minor details,” Andersa shook her head. “Times have changed, and so have many things. Stubbornness isn’t a virtue. I suppose I should learn to be more flexible.”

Bard studied his daughter’s eyes and finally exhaled, a genuine smile breaking across his face. “That’s a big step forward.”

“I’ve been an adult for a long time now, Father,” Andersa said with a hint of exasperation, “but you still speak as if I’m some child who hasn’t even had her coming-of-age ceremony.” Then, suddenly, she fell silent, as if a thought had struck her. After a few seconds, she spoke softly, “The peace talks are coming soon, aren’t they?”

Bard looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“…Father, there are newspapers and magical broadcasts everywhere,” Andersa replied, more exasperated. “Where do you think I live? In some isolated cave, cut off from the world?”

“Oh, right,” Bard said, scratching his nose awkwardly before clearing his throat. “Ahem. Yes, the talks are imminent. Though, strictly speaking, it’s more of a ‘conference’ to redraw the order. The ceasefire and initial peace negotiations were already completed last month by the generals at the border. What we’re preparing now is the international meeting at Outpost 112.”

“That doesn’t make much difference to me,” Andersa said. “Father, I won’t be staying here much longer, will I?”

(End of chapter)