Chapter 1127: Beltira’s Hint

The mysterious, undeciphered signals rippled through an invisible realm, their origin and meaning unknown. No one knew how far they had traveled, nor what message they carried. The faintest of ripples stirred within the omnipresent magical field—so subtle that even the most powerful and perceptive mages could not detect any trace left in the atmosphere. Yet, through highly sensitive crystal arrays designed to receive and amplify, these imperceptible fluctuations gradually became clearer within the systems of the Thorin Nexus. After repeated filtering and enhancement, they finally transformed into a distinct, powerful “voice.”

Bard and his colleagues had been chasing this voice for a long time. Even before their specialized monitoring unit was established, the scholars who laid the foundations of the Arcane Network Nexus had been tracking it for even longer.

“The signal density seems to have increased compared to before…” a colleague muttered beside him—what Bard was monitoring was now shared with everyone in the room. “These oscillations look much denser…”

“This hasn’t happened before…” Bard frowned. “Weren’t these signals always the same?”

“Who knows?” the colleague shook his head, eyes fixed on the central holographic projection. “Wait, the image seems to be forming.”

Almost everyone’s attention focused on the large Arcane Network terminal hovering above the monitoring center. On the holographic display, lines began to emerge, quickly connecting into patterns. This decoding technique, pioneered by Lady Beltira, was now widely used across eighteen listening stations throughout the Empire—from the frigid Northport to the imperial capital in the south, from the Paramel Observatory to the main hub in Shilin City. No matter which station received the signal, it was decoded through this special “dot-matrix mapping” process, transforming the mysterious transmissions into seemingly meaningful flat patterns.

Despite the scale of this surveillance operation, Bard and his colleagues—along with their counterparts scattered across the Empire—had gained little so far. Yet they had managed to capture the signals several times, producing over a dozen simple “decoded images.”

Without exception, these were the most basic geometric shapes—squares, triangles, circles, hexagons—each transmission nearly identical to the last. The crude dots and lines revealed no profound secrets; even a child could easily replicate them on paper. No one understood why these enigmatic signals used such a complex method to convey simple geometric figures. Bard’s team had given them a fitting nickname: “Mischievous Doodles.”

“Today’s ‘Mischievous Doodles’ seem pretty stable…” a colleague whispered as several geometric patterns took clear shape on the hologram. “The signal strength hasn’t shown any obvious interruption or decay since transmission began… Could it be because we switched to the new main antenna crystal plates?”

“Very likely,” another monitor replied casually while checking the equipment’s parameters. “These antenna crystals come from the Ogure Tribal Nation. The crystal ore and raw crystal dust from Ancestor’s Peak are far superior in quality to those from the Grey Mountain mines.”

“Ancestor’s Peak crystals? No wonder—I remember before the trade routes opened, those crystals were top-tier spellcasting materials, practically impossible for ordinary mages to get their hands on…”

Nearby, colleagues quietly discussed international trade, crystal ore, spellcasters, and market fluctuations. Yet everyone’s focus remained on the ever-refreshing lines on the screen. Bard watched intently as the neat squares, triangles, circles, and hexagons appeared—already the upper limit of information recorded in previous monitoring sessions.

But the signal kept coming, more patterns continuously forming.

When a spiral curve began to expand outward on the display, the room fell silent. All meaningless chatter ceased as a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on the image.

Then, when a set of dot matrices arranged in a specific grouping appeared, Bard heard someone quietly break the silence: “We’d better… report this immediately.”

…

The pervasive scent of fresh wood drifted into Beltsethia’s nostrils, a soothing aroma that made the Silver Empress relax involuntarily.

After arranging for Ilian to rest elsewhere, she entered a hall nestled within the canopy of a giant tree, accompanied by Gawain and Beltira.

Here, elegant branches supported a dome woven from overlapping green leaves. Pale wooden pillars curved gently like bones, fitting snugly against the nearby walls. Flowering vines twisted around the pillars and roof beams, while softly glowing mycelia and tendrils hung down, casting a bright but gentle light that calmed every visitor who stepped inside.

“This is my living room,” Beltira’s figure moved forward amid a cluster of vines. “General Margarita suggested I create a proper reception area—somewhere to host guests without always dragging them down to the deep biochemical labs or biomass factories. Though I still think the splitting pools and biomass chambers I designed myself are quite charming.”

Beltsethia paid little attention to the latter comment, instead marveling at the place, which far exceeded her initial expectations. She approached a curved open space at the hall’s end, curiously eyeing the layers of overlapping leaves. “The leaves here look different from elsewhere?”

“This is my balcony,” Beltira said. As she spoke, the layered leaves suddenly rustled and lifted like a curtain, revealing a wide, arched opening. Bright sunlight poured into the hall, and through the clear view, half of the Thorin Plain and the elegant towers of Thorin Keep stretched before her.

“Sometimes I invite General Margarita or others here to enjoy the view,” Beltira continued, “but more often, I test the photosynthetic efficiency of different leaves here. This is one of the best-lit areas in the canopy.”

“Truly beautiful…” Beltsethia reached the edge of the open terrace and took a deep breath. Then she turned to Beltira and finally spoke the words she had long wanted to say. “You’ve changed so much… No, ‘changed’ hardly describes it anymore…”

“We’ve all changed a lot, for better or worse,” Beltira said quietly, gazing at the grown Silver Empress. After a few seconds of silence, she suddenly asked, “Is my portrait still in the Hall of Saints?”

The Silver Empress nodded. “It’s still hanging there.”

“Take it down,” Beltira said softly. “A follower of darkness shouldn’t continue to occupy that place.”

Beltsethia met Beltira’s eyes. She wasn’t surprised but shook her head. “I expected you’d say that, but the Hall of Saints has never removed a sage’s portrait before. Maybe you think you no longer deserve to be among them, but your past deeds haven’t been completely invalidated. For Silver Elves, seven hundred years is but a brief moment.”

“How long must time pass before it’s not brief?”

“Until this great tree withers,” the Silver Empress replied calmly. “Only then can we truly know where the life of Saint Beltira led.”

Beltira stared at her for a while before turning her gaze to the distance. “You elves really are a stubborn bunch.”

“We’re just used to thinking on a much larger timescale. If you live long enough, you’ll come to understand our way of thinking,” Beltsethia suddenly smiled, then shifted the topic. “Speaking of the inevitable end of all things, we have some questions for you.”

Beltira turned back, her eyes briefly resting on Gawain and Beltsethia. “About those cultists in the wasteland?”

Gawain looked surprised. “How did you guess?”

Beltira spread her hands. “It’s related to the End of All Things cult, and since it’s still causing you this much trouble, I can’t think of any other topic.”

“It is indeed about them,” Gawain nodded immediately, then detailed the intelligence he had received from Veronica. “We recently confirmed that those cultists are still active in the wasteland, and they seem to be after the residual energy in the Deep Blue Well. In fact…”

As Gawain spoke, Beltira’s expression remained calm, but the aura around her grew heavier. She motioned behind her, and the layered leaves on the balcony closed again, blocking the overly bright sunlight. Nearby, the floor suddenly split open, and a peculiar arcane device rose from within.

It looked like an Arcane Network terminal, but its base was entwined with numerous vines, and fine fibrous strands extended from the gaps between the projection crystal and the rune frame. These unique structures gave the terminal a bizarre, almost symbiotic appearance—not a parasite, but Beltira’s own modification to the standard device. This allowed her to directly control the machine, even linking her thoughts to it.

The terminal activated, and the holographic projection clearly displayed the image forming in Beltira’s mind.

A towering, gnarled, and twisted ancient tree-like creature appeared. Upon closer inspection, distorted and eerie human faces surfaced on its bark. Tumor-like growths and vascular proliferations covered its branches and withered leaves. The roots writhed on the ground, resembling the structure of Beltira’s lower body but far more twisted and unsettling.

At the sight, Gawain instinctively furrowed his brow. “This is…”

“These are the End of All Things cultists operating inside the Grant Wall—our former brethren, in theory.”

“Incredible mutated limbs…” Beltsethia gasped. “This has completely transcended humanity! How… how are they still alive?”

“Precisely because of this form, they can survive in the harsh environment of the Gondor Wasteland,” Beltira said calmly. “This form evolved to adapt to the wasteland’s terrible conditions. It began as limb mutations caused by arcane radiation. Then, the mutated dark cultists actively underwent adaptive mutations—a process they call ‘Ascendant Evolution’—until this form stabilized.”

“You just mentioned ‘theoretically, our former brethren,’” Gawain noted the phrase Beltira had used earlier. “It seems the Cult of the End of All Things isn’t as united as it appears—there’s a significant rift between those cultists inside the Gondor Wastelands and you ‘outside’ followers?”

“Until just before the False God’s vessel was completed, those of us living beyond the walls believed the cult was united,” Beltira said, tugging at the corner of her mouth in what might have been a bitter smile. “But looking back, that was wishful thinking on our part.” She met Gawain’s gaze. “Brother Gawain, I remember telling you about the cultists inside the walls—those who have survived for centuries in the horrific environment of the Gondor Wastelands, a place beyond our comprehension. They’ve been our source of firsthand data on chaotic magic, sentinel towers, aberrations, divine factors, and more. Our cooperation with them has lasted so long, and we’ve maintained what we thought was ‘perfect harmony.’ That very assumption blinded us.”

“If there’s a group of ‘people’ who no longer possess human anatomy or social structures, who live in an environment inhospitable and incomprehensible to humans, and who interact with their surroundings in non-human ways—for seven whole centuries—how likely is it that they still retain the essence of being ‘human’?”

“And under those circumstances, how likely is it that they still identify as human, or consider us—those of us who have always lived safely outside the walls—as their kin and comrades?”

Beltira glanced down at her own body, now far from human, and shook her head gently. “After becoming like this, I’m even more certain: if I need artificial cognitive aids just to maintain my sense of self, then those cultists who have lived in the Gondor Wastelands for so long… they probably ceased to be ‘human’ long ago.”

“So, just as I suspected, you don’t really know what those ‘brethren’ in the wasteland are plotting,” Gawain shook his head. “You believe the cult is carrying out a grand salvation plan, but in reality, for those cultists in the wasteland, your plan probably means very little…”

“But if it truly means nothing to them, why have they played along with us for seven centuries?” Beltira looked at Gawain, her doll-like, exquisitely crafted yet lifeless face fixed in a stiff smile. “They live in the wasteland and have adapted perfectly to its environment—that’s an invincible state of security. No one outside can threaten them. So why do they obediently follow the orders of the Dark High Priest, pretending to be eternally loyal to the cult, pretending to still dedicate themselves to the great cause? Are they afraid of being exposed? Obviously not—they should be indifferent to us.”

(End of chapter)