Chapter 1100: The Final Stage

At the very top of the City of a Thousand Towers, the dimly lit chamber of the palace always seemed shrouded in a hazy veil. Even on the clearest, sunniest days, anyone standing within this towering spire and looking out would feel as if the sky itself was tinged with a subtle gloom. The buildings clustered around the tower appeared separated by some intangible barrier, an invisible divide that no one could quite explain. Those fortunate enough to visit this tower often found the phenomenon unforgettable—but no one could say where this “veil” came from.

No records described it, no royal mages publicly explained the phenomenon, and the rulers residing in the tower never revealed the secrets of their abode to the lower-tier sorcerers. This mysterious shroud was one of the oldest secrets of the Violet Kingdom—unobtrusive, yet always enough to pique the curiosity of any would-be intruder.

Prince Nash stood before a floor-to-ceiling window framed with bronze filigree, his gaze calm as it stretched toward the distant sky. Under the dim, muted light, the eyes of this Mage King reflected a scene slightly out of sync with the present moment. Suddenly, he raised his hand and waved it gently. Instantly, the view outside the tower flickered unnaturally. In the next instant, a vague shadow appeared beyond the veil, letting out a silent wail before dissolving swiftly, as if melting away under the bright sunlight.

“Some stubborn elemental beings or magical spirits always get drawn here,” Nash Nart muttered, frowning. “There’s been more than usual this year.”

“This place is a nexus of immense magical power and a focal point of temporal distortion,” the woman in the mirror smiled knowingly. “Like the bottom of a funnel, all extraordinary forces within its range naturally flow toward this ‘breach.’ It’s a law of nature. The Veil of the Dim Court attracts sensitive elementals and magical entities every year, and according to my monitoring, this year’s activity is nothing out of the ordinary.”

“…Maybe I’m just overly sensitive,” Prince Nash sighed, “especially with everything that’s been happening lately.”

The beautiful woman in the mirror studied his back for a moment before softly saying, “Honestly, have you considered responding to that ‘Alliance’ invitation? Or at least getting involved in the recent interesting developments on the Loren Continent? The mages living in the Outer District have been mingling closely with Loren’s merchants lately—they’re quite interested in the new ‘Continental Circumnavigation Route.’”

“I haven’t forbidden commercial exchanges at the civilian level,” Nash replied, turning to face the woman in the mirror with a serious expression. “I’ve already approved the route’s operation through the Southern Strait. For the Violet Kingdom, this level of ‘openness’ is sufficient—we shouldn’t establish too many ties with the nations on the Loren Continent. As for the mages living in the various cities of the Outer District… fundamentally, they’re different from us, aren’t they, Benadetto?”

“Ah, yes,” the woman in the mirror spread her hands with a half-joking sigh. “They’re freer, more relaxed than us—unlike us, burdened with endless, possibly meaningless duties, living lives forever cut off from the world.”

“Enough complaining. We’re not exactly ‘cut off’—at least every year some apprentices who pass the trials come from Loren to the City of a Thousand Towers, and we often send people to observe the world’s changes there. That’s better than a thousand years ago,” Nash smiled, trying to soothe Benadetto in the mirror before quickly changing the subject. “By the way, your outfit today is very pretty.”

“This is the one I wore yesterday.”

“…That one was pretty too.”

Benadetto in the mirror put her hands on her hips and sighed, “…Do you have no brain?”

Nash opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then awkwardly spread his hands and smiled before turning back to the window, gazing into the distance lost in thought.

…

The conference had been going on for days. Leaders and plenipotentiaries from dozens of nations across the Loren Continent strained their minds, marshaling every piece of information and every advisor at their disposal. Each day, they faced a flood of data capable of reshaping the known world, and the next day they had to respond and vote on it. The meeting had far exceeded most nations’ expectations, crashing in like a sudden tsunami that swept through the era’s highs and lows. Though caught off guard, the delegates keenly sensed the profound impact these changes would have on the world—and on their own homelands.

They were like captains caught in a towering wave, clutching the helm with growing unease. Regardless of the circumstances or their own abilities, they fought to steer their ships safely, seeking a course that would allow them to return home with something to show their people.

As time passed, the wave’s rhythm became clearer. The captains began to find their footing, and the once-scattered fleet started to form order. More consensus emerged through heated debate and exchange; shared interests were recognized; old conflicts were temporarily set aside or sacrificed for greater gains. Though the storm had not yet passed, the helmsmen accepted the fleet’s order, and a series of achievements took shape—

First, the Alliance was formed and the Charter of the Union enacted. Then the Continental Circumnavigation Route was launched, along with related agreements and the Maritime Trade Act. Next came the establishment of the Alliance Food Committee and the approval of aid to Talrond. The creation of a joint maritime and aerial patrol zone and its legal framework followed, along with a series of internal trade laws, conflict resolution mechanisms, international law frameworks, and security protocols for member states.

The conference was long and intense.

Throughout, the public information about the 112th Conference spread steadily through each nation’s intelligence channels—even the most remote and backward countries quickly relayed news home via leased long-distance communication networks from Cecil, Typhon, and the Silver Empire.

Days passed, and on the tenth day, the public agenda of the 112th Conference finally concluded. With the passing of the “Intercontinental Maritime Boundary Recognition (Provisional)” vote, the flags above the Oathstone Ring gradually returned to their subdued normal state.

Beneath the blue banner embroidered with gold, Gawain exhaled softly. The heaviest issues weighing on his mind were finally resolved, though he hadn’t fully relaxed yet. The public portion was over, but some sensitive matters still required careful handling behind closed doors. Gathering his resolve, he looked over the tired faces of the delegates beneath their flags and spoke in a low voice, breaking the silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just passed the final bill. With this, the public agenda of this conference is complete. Let us first celebrate this achievement.”

Applause erupted throughout the hall, growing quickly from sparse to enthusiastic. When the brief but warm applause died down, Gawain continued, “Next, according to the conference manual, we will move into a closed session. Only one representative per nation will remain; all assistants, clerks, and media personnel are to leave in an orderly fashion. Those remaining may rest for thirty minutes. Please do not leave the vicinity—the Oathstone Ring will be temporarily sealed until the meeting concludes.”

This final closed session had been noted in the manuals sent to all parties, so no one was surprised or suspicious. In fact, some of the more well-informed or perceptive delegates had already guessed the topic of discussion. Their faces briefly showed thoughtful expressions, but no one spoke.

The delegates and their teams began to leave or head to rest areas as instructed. Gawain left his seat but didn’t go far. Instead, he walked directly to the Silver Empire’s banner, where Belsethia stood discussing something with Rosetta Augustus.

Noticing Gawain’s approach, Belsethia turned with a faint smile. Rosetta looked up and raised his right hand in greeting—holding a crystal glass of low-alcohol sweet wine, the reddish liquid sparkling brilliantly in the sunlight.

“Uncle Gawain,” Belsethia greeted warmly. The regal aura she’d carried during the conference had softened. “You performed exceptionally well today.”

“I don’t need flattery,” Gawain smiled. “Besides—aren’t you supposed to call me ‘Uncle Gawain’ only in private?”

Belsethia replied casually, “This moment feels private enough for me—the conference has been exhausting, and a little relaxation during breaks is good for one’s health.”

Gawain glanced at Rosetta’s glass and asked, “Drinking during the meeting?”

Rosetta swirled the crystal cup and smiled lightly. “Long meetings dry out the throat. A little alcohol helps me stay alert better than water.”

Gawain thought for a moment and added, “…That wine is actually made from Sorin tree fruit.”

Rosetta’s expression flickered briefly, then he looked at his glass with a wry smile. After a moment, he muttered, “Are you saying even this drink has seniority over me?”

“Just joking,” Gawain laughed. “I doubt Belsethia treats the fruit on the tree as some kind of ancestral bloodline.” Though in his heart, he thought if a clever Paradox Interactive player were here, they might claim the Sorin fruit as a pretext to stake a claim on Typhon. Then he shifted to the main topic. “We’re about to enter the final stage. Is Typhon ready?”

“As we agreed, on the matter of the Theocracy Council, Typhon will firmly stand with Cecil,” Rosetta Augustus’s expression turned serious. “You can rest assured—there is no resistance.”

So the remaining war god faction in Typhon that hadn’t bowed to Alden was finally wiped out… and it sounded like the Augustus family had regained control over the entire country, filling the power vacuum left by the collapse of the War God Church…

Gawain said nothing more, simply nodding gently.

“The Silver Empire is already prepared—along with the Kingdom of Gaoling and the various smaller southern states,” Belsethia added from the side. “On this matter, the high-ranking members of the Druidic Orthodoxy are united in their stance. However, we can’t rule out small-scale resistance from certain secret cults hidden deep within the forests, as well as from some stubborn folk who cling to the old primal faith. The Elven Court can handle these troubles, but our progress will likely be slower. I hope you understand that in advance.”

“I understand. After all, the influence of the theocracy runs deep in the Silver Empire, and your race’s long lifespans mean many elves who lived through the ancient eras find it hard to accept… change.” Gawain nodded gently, though a quiet melancholy stirred within him. Often, the march of progress requires not only the rise of new things but also the fading away of the old—sometimes even the passing of an entire generation. Those who cling to outdated memories and refuse to accept the world’s changes must gradually recede from the center of society. It sounds cold and unfeeling, but such is the way the world turns.

This is the tragedy of the long-lived races in this world—compared to the short-lived races that renew quickly, members of the long-lived simply… don’t die easily. They live too long, their memories tangling around their people like an endless rope. Even when that rope has rotted and frayed, the younger generation remains trapped, unable to break free.

Rosetta, standing nearby, looked somewhat surprised. “Are there really still elves who firmly adhere to the original Druidic doctrines and refuse to acknowledge the current Druidic factions?”

“There are,” Belsethia said with a complicated expression. “Not only followers, but even a few elderly elves who personally lived through the ‘Primal Era’ still walk the world. Among them is a high-ranking Druidic priest from over three thousand years ago, along with a small group of priests. Though these elves have long since distanced themselves from the church’s power center and tacitly accepted the order established by the Elven Court and the symbolic role of the royal high priest, their influence within certain primalist groups remains significant. It’s even possible they have maintained secret ties with some cults over the past three millennia…”

Gawain couldn’t help but frown. Belsethia hadn’t mentioned this last time. He glanced at the Silver Empress. “They won’t be happy if the Elven Court tries to push through another ‘reform’ regarding the nature gods… How do you plan to deal with this faction?”

“We can’t take a hardline approach, nor can we simply ignore them,” Belsethia sighed. “I’ll engage with them patiently—don’t worry, I’ve been dealing with them for centuries. It’s a headache, but not unsolvable.”

At that, the Silver Empress gave a helpless smile, tinged with a hint of teasing. “Perhaps only their gods themselves could persuade these elders who refuse to forget the past.”

Gawain: “…”

(End of chapter)