Chapter 1119: Welcome Home

The study fell into a sudden silence. Gawain sat behind his desk, lost in thought. The intelligence that had just been delivered to him weighed heavily on his mind—though it brought pressure, it didn’t entirely catch him off guard.

Ever since he learned that a remnant faction of the Cult of the End of All Things still operated in the wasteland, he knew he would eventually have to confront this problem. Yet, beyond the cultists’ sudden activity, the information Veronica had shared about the Deep Blue Well, the Iron Legion, and the surviving bases was far more unexpected.

All of this only strengthened his resolve to reclaim the wasteland—a goal he had quietly set for himself soon after awakening. Now, there was an additional reason to fight for it.

“Whatever those cultists are planning, it’s definitely not for world peace and harmony,” Gawain murmured, breaking the silence. “The more energy they siphon from the Deep Blue Well, the more dangerous their scheme must be… We can’t just stand by.”

“But they’re deep in the wasteland,” Veronica said quietly. “It’s a vast, polluted expanse, crawling with countless mutants. Compared to the wasteland outside the Grant Wall, any other desolate place is like a garden. The cultists hiding in the contaminated zone means they enjoy near-absolute safety.”

Gawain said nothing for a moment, leaning back in his chair as the wind outside seemed to grow louder in his ears.

Veronica had hit on the core problem—the vast wasteland. For the nations living in the clean zones, it was a deadly no-man’s-land. But for those cultists, who had adapted through biochemical modifications, the toxic magical pollution and roaming mutants were a natural shield. Even though Gawain and Veronica now knew exactly where the cultists were hiding, they were almost powerless against them. After all, seven centuries had passed, and the nations surrounding the Gondor Wasteland had barely managed to hold their borders—no one had yet raised the banner to reclaim the wasteland.

But just because it couldn’t be done before didn’t mean it couldn’t be done now—or in the future.

Gawain curled his fingers and tapped the armrest twice. His gaze settled on the wall nearby, where a map of the continent hung. A new flag had been added—a banner symbolizing the Commonwealth Alliance. Bathed in the afternoon sun, the silk fabric shimmered brilliantly.

“I hadn’t mentioned this before because I judged the timing wasn’t right,” Veronica’s voice came from beside him. “You had bigger, more urgent crises to face. Dividing your attention even slightly risked everything collapsing. And even if I had told you about the wasteland then, neither you nor your allies could have done anything. But now… I think we have some breathing room to consider the internal threats beyond the Grant Wall.”

Gawain glanced at her. What she said made sense on the surface, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized her judgments were based on rigid data, without accounting for humanity’s unpredictability. Was this the effect of the long years she had endured?

Veronica noticed his look. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” Gawain shook his head, his eyes returning to the alliance flag. “To this day, we’re still unprepared to reclaim the wasteland. Whether in terms of technology, manpower, or resources, the Cecile Empire alone can’t handle it. But on the other hand… we’ve formed an alliance. Through it, we have the chance to mobilize unprecedented power to accomplish great things. So…”

“So it’s no longer an impossible dream,” Veronica said calmly. “If all the nations on the continent realize the threat stirring in the wasteland, then even if we can’t reclaim it fully, we can at least do something—advance the Grant Wall by a kilometer, or build a few outposts along its border.”

Gawain pondered, then slowly said, “I think you’re being too conservative. If a few of the stronger nations truly commit, we could achieve far more than that.”

His mind raced through a mental list of potential allies willing to cooperate. As the names of the alliance countries surfaced one by one, he realized just how formidable this force could be—and suddenly understood that the idea of reclaiming the wasteland had, without anyone noticing, already taken root.

Reclaiming the wasteland was impossible for Cecile alone. But if Typhon and the Silver Empire were willing to contribute, and border nations like Ogure and the Gaoling Kingdom cooperated, then maybe… it wasn’t so far off.

Still, this wouldn’t be a quick endeavor. Even if all conditions were met now, planning a campaign to retake the wasteland would require careful, long-term preparation—after all, the mortal nations had long since turned their backs on that ancient, corrupted land.

Gawain shared his thoughts openly with Veronica, concluding, “I’ll send messages to Typhon and the Silver Empire as soon as possible. We need to warn them. But no matter what, entering the Gondor Wasteland won’t be easy. It will take a long time to prepare.”

“I understand,” Veronica nodded. “But please hurry—I’ve already lost track of those cultists again. They’re plotting in a blind spot no one can see. Only by finding them early can I truly rest easy.”

Gawain said nothing, his expression as calm as still water. Slowly, he nodded.

…

When the last week of the Month of Awakening winds swept across the plains, the golden Daili flowers in the Longbranch Estate would bloom in full. These small, pale gold blossoms were unremarkable in the plains, but their tenacity had long made them a favorite of the Wendell family. They lined every path of the estate—from the high ground near the red windmill to the edge of the grove, stretching from the farmstead to the main house designed by Bard Wendell himself. When the warm breeze blew, a scent mingled with earth drifted from the flowers, filling every avenue and trail.

A mage-powered carriage bearing the Wendell family crest rolled down the broad, smooth National Avenue, then turned onto the cobblestone path leading to the estate’s front gate. The servants, long awaiting their mistress’s return, stood ready. The carriage stopped in the open courtyard, and the door opened. There stood Andesha Wendell, tall and graceful, her gray hair cascading over her shoulders.

The young wolf general had shed her uniform, now dressed in a simple yet elegant white spring dress. The high-quality fabric fluttered gently in the breeze, softening her usual cold, rigid military aura, though it couldn’t fully mask her sharp, commanding presence.

Andesha nodded to the servants who had come to greet her, then her gaze swept over the familiar sights—the winding main road leading to the manor, a mage’s tower perched on a nearby hill, the lush orchards, nurseries, and stables beyond. A small river meandered from the distant woods toward National Avenue.

This was her estate, a small part of her fief far from the imperial capital. Years ago, her father had owned this land, but after his “disappearance,” her grandfather had quickly transferred it to her. To Andesha, this place held nearly all her childhood and adolescent memories—both good and bad. Compared to the family mansion in the capital, this somewhat remote estate felt more like “home.”

She took a deep breath, letting her emotions settle. Perhaps after all she’d been through, returning to this familiar land stirred feelings even she couldn’t fully understand.

At that moment, the estate’s steward approached and bowed. “Miss, Duke Perdinan has arrived. He’s waiting for you in the main hall on the first floor.”

Her grandfather was already here?

Andesha blinked, showing little surprise. She nodded, dismissed the gathered servants, and walked steadily toward the manor.

Inside, the white-haired Duke Perdinan Wendell stood quietly before the north wall, gazing up at a large portrait. According to most Typhon noble estates’ customs, this spot should display the current owner’s portrait—Andesha’s formal adult portrait—but instead, the same painting from over a decade ago still hung there: a full-length portrait of Bard Wendell.

In the grand frame, a young Bard Wendell stood proudly in the armory, clad in full armor and a flowing cloak, his sword planted before him. His eyes were sharp as a wolf’s. Though the man himself was gone, the spirit of the former wolf general seemed deeply etched into the painting. The renowned master artist had captured an aura so powerful that anyone who looked upon it could feel the commanding presence. Yet the white-haired Perdinan, standing there now, looked at the portrait with nothing but softness and nostalgia—like any aging father.

The sound of the door opening and footsteps echoed. Perdinan turned to see Andesha standing in the doorway.

Sunlight poured in behind her, casting a golden glow around the young woman who had shed her uniform.

After a few seconds of quiet, the duke finally spoke softly, “Andesha, you’re home.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Andesha stepped into the hall, carrying a subtle mix of restraint and distance. “I’m home.”

She looked at Perdinan, the once formidable elder now visibly aged in just a few months. His hair was completely white—though the Wendell family’s natural gray-white hair had always been close to silver, now it was pure silver-white. His broad frame was slightly stooped; though still tall, she no longer had to look up to him.

Her gaze drifted past her grandfather to the portrait behind him—the image of her father in full military regalia stirred something deep within her. Suddenly, new memories surfaced, and another figure seemed to appear before her eyes, gradually overlapping with the image of her father…

Slightly stout, dressed in the institute’s uniform, his beard and hair unkempt from being lost in research, clutching a clipboard—always ready to quiz himself with a hundred questions at a moment’s notice. He was a master at snatching chicken legs from colleagues in the cafeteria, and the moment he got back, he’d be nagging himself to take his medicine.

He’d been pacing back and forth for a long time, but still hadn’t come up with anything.

Andersa managed to control the flicker of emotion on her face at the last moment—after all, this was a solemn occasion, and in front of her grandfather no less; she had to keep her composure.

Peddinan, however, had no idea what was running through Andersa’s mind at that moment. His attention was caught immediately by the one eye barely visible beneath her bangs—bloodshot and clearly different from a normal eye. “Andersa, your eye…”

“It was injured during the Cecilian bombing,” Andersa said instinctively, brushing the corner of her eye with a hint of shame in her expression. “They treated it afterward, and my vision recovered, but the eyeball changed somewhat. I chose to keep this mark as a reminder to myself.”

Peddinan studied her quietly, then sighed softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”

That was probably the kindest, most tender thing the so-called “Iron Duke” could say.

Andersa thought to herself, shaking her head gently. “Physical wounds don’t matter. What about my performance at Winterwolf Fortress… did I disappoint you?”

Peddinan said nothing, simply gazing at his granddaughter until his look almost felt like a tangible weight. Then he spoke: “Why would I be disappointed? Because you chose to surrender? Or because you couldn’t hold the fortress?”

Andersa remained silent.

“You didn’t hold Winterwolf Fortress, and yes, you were the first Wolf General to surrender on the battlefield. But for all of Typhon, you held on to more than just a fortress,” Peddinan said gravely. “Making the right decision at the right time, with the mission to protect the homeland’s interests—did you accomplish those?”

Without hesitation, Andersa answered, “I did.”

“Good,” Peddinan finally allowed a faint smile. “That’s all I ever asked of you.”

The old man opened his arms, broad as she remembered them.

“Welcome home, Andersa.”

…

A cold sea breeze blew in from the coastline, carrying a faintly briny scent. Melita Pernia landed on the large coastal landing platform, jolted by the rough descent. Seeing the nearby camp still operating in orderly fashion, with her comrades bustling about, she let out a quiet breath.

She shifted into human form and stepped down from the platform—though calling it a landing platform was generous. Unlike the sophisticated industrial products of old, with precise navigation systems, smart lighting, and self-cleaning functions, this was simply a flat, open highland outside the camp. The ground was marked with glowing lines etched deeply into magic-conductive material to aid landings. At the end of a nearby slope stood a figure in a white dress, who immediately hurried over upon seeing Melita.

“Welcome back!” Noretta greeted her friend cheerfully, scanning her from head to toe. “Not bad—you look like the long trip didn’t aggravate your injury.”

“It was just a quick round trip to the Loren Continent,” Melita waved off the concern casually. “Not like I went to the Elemental World to pick a fight.”

As she spoke, she glanced toward the camp and asked casually, “Everything going well here?”

“As you can see, everything’s progressing smoothly, and the camp has grown quite a bit since you left,” Noretta said. “We’ve got more help now—Agondor successfully restarted two factories, and our logistics are stabilizing. At least the supply and storage of basic materials are no longer so precarious.”

“That’s a relief,” Melita breathed out sincerely. “Any other good news?”

“As our ‘ambassador,’ you should be the one telling me about the outside world first,” Noretta teased with a smile. “But it doesn’t matter—you can report after you meet with Chairman Andal. For now, come home with me—I’ve got a surprise waiting for you.”

(End of chapter)