Chapter 1130: A Discussion About the Starry Sky

Dusk was settling in. In the distance, the last streaks of sunset had faded behind the mountains, leaving only a faint crimson glow lingering where the giant sun had just dipped below the horizon. From the opposite direction, a vast expanse of deep indigo night was creeping in. Within that profound darkness, stars began to emerge—those countless points of light that mortals had gazed upon for millennia, growing ever clearer against the ink-blue canvas.

How many splendid dreams and pastoral fairy tales had those twinkling stars inspired in mortal hearts? Perhaps not even the most learned scholars of the Silver Empire could recount them all. The stars hung high above, beyond mortal reach, their distant, eternal radiance carrying an almost divine aura for those bound by gravity to the earth. Since ancient times, countless godlike legends had blossomed around the stars, taking root deep within mortal imaginations.

Yet, all those stories about the starry sky bore no real connection to the vast, boundless cosmos.

Both Amon and Enya had confirmed this themselves—there was no divine realm beyond the stars. The so-called “Gods’ Kingdom” was merely an alien space constructed by mortal thought. The countless tales pointing to the stars were nothing but a dazzling shell. Beyond that shell lay the true universe, which mortals had never truly touched, nor were they ready to.

Still, the vast cosmic stars would not cease to shine simply because mortals ignored them. They were there, endlessly moving in the depths of the star sea. And now, a voice had crossed the immense distance between the stars. Whether the races of this world were ready or not, that voice had arrived.

Of course, none of this could be confirmed yet. But at least for Gawain himself… he believed that voice was very likely coming from the stars.

After all, this planet had already seen visitors from the starry sky, like the sea sirens. The dragon chronicles even recorded ancient fleets of voyagers and alien allied forces embarking on expeditions together. So he was willing to believe that other intelligent beings existed among the distant stars—perhaps they had only just opened their eyes to the sky and were now sharing this world with the mortals of Loren.

The evening breeze rustled through the treetops of the towering oaks, whistling past the listening antennas. The distant colossal arcane network hub and the nearby antennas hummed with a low drone. Suddenly, Belsethia seemed to snap out of her reverie and spoke up.

“Regarding the stars, astrologers have always possessed vision beyond ordinary mortals. Since the days of Gondor, human mages successfully measured the distances between our planet, the sun, and ‘Ao.’ They confirmed that the twinkling stars in the cosmos were all high-energy celestial bodies similar to ‘Ao.’ Around the same time, scholars of the Silver Elves speculated that our sun was also a high-energy star like ‘Ao,’ but gentler, without violent combustion…”

“I remember that,” Gawain nodded. “When I was a knight apprentice, my mentor brought a book from the city. It recorded a conference between human and elven mages, where they debated the nature of stars. The scholars believed that it was precisely because the sun was gentle that life could survive on this planet. The intense energy radiation from ‘Ao’ would destroy any nearby ecosystem. Building on that, a Gondorian mage hypothesized that if there were stars in the universe like our sun—stars that didn’t burn violently but emitted suitable energy—and if solid satellites like ours orbited them, then such environments might nurture alien life.”

“Back then, no one knew the origins of the sea sirens, or that those mysterious deep-sea creatures came from the cosmos. Even today, very few people worldwide know this, thanks in part to some popular science efforts by Cecil’s side,” Belsethia said with a hint of awe. “But even in those times, the top scholars of mortal nations had already turned their gaze to the stars and begun to wonder what those distant worlds might be like.”

“Before they could make further discoveries, the Magestorm destroyed the mighty Gondor Empire. And to heal the deep wounds left by the Magestorm, even the Silver Empire was dragged into a centuries-long vortex. All progress stalled or even regressed for hundreds of years,” Belsethia whispered, as the sound of leaves rustling in the wind drifted from afar. “Looking back, it was a brilliant yet ignorant era. Our elites had already ventured far in exploring the world’s deeper truths, but society at large remained stagnant. When the Magestorm struck, Gondor’s entire population—from the highest mages to the lowest commoners—was wiped out in an instant. We knew nothing of the dangers lurking in this world.”

“I recall you once described this situation precisely,” Belsethia suddenly looked at Gawain. “The severe disconnect between the elite and the masses in knowledge, the inability to translate advanced technology into societal productivity… How did you put it?”

“The knowledge structures of the upper and lower classes completely lost continuity. Cutting-edge technology couldn’t be converted into productive forces for society as a whole, leading to severe developmental imbalances. Civilization’s resilience and recoverability were greatly weakened. When a global catastrophe struck, the few surviving elites couldn’t protect the broader population, nor even themselves. The occasional survivors, due to the knowledge gap, couldn’t rebuild society. This ultimately led to the rapid collapse of the entire civilization—the fate of the Gondor Empire,” Gawain recited the theory he had once summarized, then glanced at Belsethia in surprise. “You’ve read my writings on this?”

“…I read them occasionally,” Belsethia said somewhat awkwardly. “At least it helps me understand how all things might eventually perish.”

“Well, reading more books is always good,” Gawain said, rubbing his nose and sighing. “It’s a pity that even now, many nations are still following that old path.”

“After all, for the order built by transcendent beings, concentrating all knowledge and wealth in one place is the simplest and safest choice,” Belsethia chuckled and shook her head. “Fortunately, Ansu has risen from the ashes, Typhon reformed earlier, and the Silver Empire… its councilors have become much more clear-headed in recent years.”

Gawain didn’t respond immediately. He stared thoughtfully into the distance, watching the edges of the oak canopy gradually silvered by starlight. After a moment, he suddenly said, “In a way, the Magestorm that struck Gondor back then… might have actually saved the lives of all mortals on this world.”

Belsethia blinked, instinctively asking, “Why do you say that?”

“On the eve of the Magestorm, Gondor and the Silver Empire were already on the verge of exploring the stars. Mages had theoretically unraveled much knowledge about the cosmos—they just hadn’t taken that crucial next step,” Gawain frowned, his voice steady and contemplative beneath the night sky. “Once that step was taken, the greatest ‘veil’ in mortal understanding of the world would be lifted. That would trigger a ritualistic ‘final rebellion’ prematurely. And at that time, mortals…”

Gawain trailed off. Belsethia shivered despite the still night air. The leaves deep within the oak canopy rustled softly. She was the first to break the silence.

“So if the Magestorm hadn’t happened, scholars from Gondor or the Silver Empire might have tried to explore the stars… and what happened to the dragons over a million years ago could have happened to us!”

Gawain nodded slowly, his voice dropping even lower. “And we might not have been as lucky as the dragons—surviving the brink of extinction, enduring the gods’ fusion, and finding a chance to bow our heads and live.”

“So the Magestorm was, in a way, a macro-level salvation for all mortal civilization?” Belsethia’s eyes widened. “It sacrificed Gondor but saved every other mortal nation. Is that what you mean?”

“Thinking that way makes the Magestorm seem like a carefully orchestrated act. Without evidence, it’s best not to make such assumptions,” Gawain immediately shook his head. “Besides, even if it was the work of some entity, we’re destined never to know. Only a god could have made such a move—and we have no way to ask the gods.”

He paused, then added in an odd tone, “At least, not for now…”

As he spoke, he was already calculating inwardly. Though it seemed impossible to find proof, maybe once back he could try asking Enya. The retired dragon goddess couldn’t just say whatever she wanted anymore, but compared to when she was active, she now had much more freedom in speech. Some things could be asked directly.

Belsethia didn’t know what Gawain had been thinking during those silent seconds. She only asked curiously, “So, are we ‘ready’ now?”

“No one knows. Not even I do,” Gawain said. He could have sounded mysterious as an “extradimensional wanderer,” but looking at Belsethia’s already altered form, he chose honesty. “I’ve said before, when it comes to divine disasters, there’s no precise ‘variable’ to measure. We can’t predict the gods’ breaking point of madness, nor calculate exactly when mortals will be ready for the ‘final rebellion.’ All we can do is try to patch every hole during our development, so that when ‘that day’ comes, our chances of survival are a little better.”

“That’s not what a terrifying ‘extradimensional wanderer’ would say,” Belsethia suddenly remarked. “But hearing you say that actually makes me feel a bit more at ease.”

Gawain smiled but didn’t reply. After a moment’s thought, Belsethia steered the conversation back to the “signal.”

“What do you think… if that signal really came from the constellation Frostsky, what kind of civilization would its sender be? I mean… how threatening would they be?”

“That’s hard to say,” Gawain frowned. “Logically, if they can send a signal across such a vast distance to our planet, they must have technology more advanced than ours—at least in communications and detection. But until we figure out how those signals are transmitted and gain a better understanding of the cosmos, no one can be sure whether the senders relied purely on powerful technology or if environmental factors played a role. Besides, communication and detection tech is just one aspect; it doesn’t tell us about their capabilities in other fields.

“To give an extreme example, maybe this interstellar communication method is so simple it’s almost unbelievable—primitive beings with sticks could project their thoughts to distant stars, and we just haven’t discovered the principle yet…”

Belsethia thought for a moment and couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s a bit too extreme an example.”

“An example is just an example,” Gawain waved his hand. “I just don’t want you to be too nervous. Also, one thing I should clarify—or at least point out—is that although the signal appeared after the main antenna was pointed at Frostsky, that doesn’t necessarily mean it came from ‘Frostsky’ itself.”

“Frostsky is just a constellation,” Gawain explained. “The celestial bodies that make it up are likely scattered across a vast stretch of space, arranged in three dimensions. The signal we received can only be said to come from the ‘direction of Frostsky,’ but pinpointing the exact source requires painstaking calculations by astrologers. To claim the signal definitively originates from Frostsky is scientifically inaccurate.”

Listening to Gawain, Berthila couldn’t help but press a hand to her forehead. Beside her, Belsethia muttered softly, “It’s been years since I last heard Uncle Gawain’s lectures…”

Gawain was at a loss for whether to laugh or sigh. Then, as a cool night breeze rustled through the treetops, his mood gradually eased.

“Maybe we’re just too tense,” he said. “This is simply a sudden voice reaching out to our world. Judging by the abundance of mathematical concepts at the start, it feels more like a ‘greeting’—an introduction from another intelligent species in this vast, dark universe, signaling that they too are beings capable of communication. I know that sounds overly optimistic, but until we fully understand the symbols at the end of the message, I think it’s okay to hold onto some hope.”

“Alright, I do appreciate an optimistic outlook,” Belsethia exhaled, thoughtful. “I’ll bring those symbols back to the scholars at the Star Sanctuary. Elves have no less talent than humans when it comes to cryptography and linguistics, and perhaps our ancient records might hold clues to help… I hope you don’t mind the Silver Elves getting involved?”

“Of course not,” Gawain replied immediately. “Like I said from the start—this is a matter for all mortals. I intend to make this project public throughout the entire Alliance.”

His tone was sincere, but he didn’t reveal everything on his mind.

Right now, the entire monitoring system’s technology was in Cecil’s hands. The core secrets of the main antenna array would never be shared. Even if other nations got their hands on the technical data for this cutting-edge magitech device, replicating it would be nearly impossible. With Cecil’s monopoly over the sole listening channel, making the project public worldwide was essentially a way to have each country contribute their cryptographers, linguists, and astrologers—trading a massive investment of expertise for the privilege of ‘participation.’

But even if everyone saw through this unspoken truth, no one would say it out loud.

(End of chapter)