Chapter 114: The Dark Clouds over Typhon
As the White Oak sailed across the broad waters of the Dorgon River, as the first brick kiln in the Cecil territory billowed smoke, and as the powerful nobles and royal advisors of Saint Suniel city debated endlessly over the situation in the south, the border tensions, and the conflicts between the northern dragon wizards and sorcerers, the mightiest knight lord of the Typhon Empire—Grant Duke Pedinan Wendell—was sinking deep into worry.
Standing in his mansion’s lofty tower in the imperial capital, he gazed down upon the grand city sprawling beneath him, occasionally shifting his eyes toward the dark, imposing palace shrouded in solemnity.
This was Oldernan, the imperial capital of Typhon.
The city’s name came from the ancient giant tongue, meaning “Millennium City.” Though it had stood as the new capital for barely two centuries, the proud empire’s people firmly believed their magnificent city would endure for at least a thousand years—just like the legendary giant kingdoms of myth. Everything in the city seemed to embody that spirit of pride.
Countless soaring spires pierced the sky, and statues of heroes hewn from massive stones rose from the ground like defiant fingers challenging the heavens. Between the tightly packed Gothic buildings stretched the meticulously planned Imperial Avenue, wide enough for ten horse-drawn carriages to ride abreast, dividing Oldernan into eastern and western districts. From this grand boulevard, straight, broad stone-paved streets radiated outward, carving the city into neat, sharp-edged quarters.
The entire city resembled a complex geometric shape—solid, angular, and perfectly ordered—unlike the chaotic, decaying, and overcrowded old capitals of other kingdoms. Oldernan was new: the old capital had sunk beneath the earth in a great collapse two centuries ago. The emperor, forewarned, had built this new capital on the plains and named it Oldernan. Thanks to the empire’s strength and careful planning, from the day it was completed, Oldernan had been one of the continent’s most magnificent cities. Pedinan had always taken pride in living in such a great nation, in such a great city.
But today, a creeping sense of crisis gnawed at him, making it hard to enjoy the city’s splendor without unease.
The visionary Emperor Rosetta Augustus seemed determined to wage war against Ansu. He had dismissed all the anti-war ministers and even expelled the peace-advocating Count of Winterburg from the palace—an unprecedented show of resolve.
To be honest, Pedinan was not worried about the war’s outcome. He trusted the empire’s armies as much as he trusted his own skill with sword and blade. The Ansu Kingdom to the northwest was a decaying, feeble state, shackled by its ancient history just as old as Typhon’s but weighed down by it, a sluggish, gasping elder. Their centuries-stagnant armies and weapons were no match for Typhon’s soldiers. Meanwhile, Typhon had undergone multiple successful military and administrative reforms, bursting with unprecedented vitality. From soldiers to officials to common folk, Typhon was far stronger than its waning neighbor. Victory was assured.
What troubled Pedinan was the emperor himself—Rosetta Augustus’s state of mind.
The emperor had always been dignified and decisive, but not to the point of tyranny. He listened carefully to every minister’s advice, even if it didn’t sway his decisions, and never outright dismissed all opposition. He valued noble bloodlines and would never publicly humiliate a powerful, influential count by banishing him from the palace. Yet now… he had done both.
Pedinan recalled his last meeting with Emperor Rosetta. The majestic ruler sat on his black iron throne, his figure swallowed by the shadows cast by the throne’s high back and crown. Though he patiently heard out his most trusted duke, his replies were listless, as if he didn’t want to say a single word more.
As Pedinan left, he distinctly heard the emperor muttering to a basin of water before him, as if it contained a listener with whom he was conversing.
Pulling his gaze away from the distant palace, Pedinan sighed deeply.
He thought of the curse whispered about in the Augustus bloodline—an ancient curse known only to a few, which had surfaced two centuries ago.
They would hear voices no one else could hear, see things invisible to others, and gain forbidden knowledge through incomprehensible means. This granted them extraordinary wisdom and foresight, even the ability to plan ahead beyond normal limits. But in the end…
Their minds would be dragged into that unseen, unheard world, leaving only a shell of madness behind in this one.
The last time Pedinan saw Emperor Rosetta, his thoughts were clear and speech normal. But now, Pedinan feared the signs of madness were already showing in the sovereign.
He turned and pulled a rope beside him, ringing the servant’s copper bell. The terrace door slid open, and a blue-clad attendant appeared.
“My lord,” the servant bowed, “your orders?”
“Bring me my cloak. Also, prepare the carriage—I’m going to see the Count of Winterburg.”
…
At the northern foot of the Dark Mountains, in the New Cecil territory.
Gawain was inspecting the newly built brick kiln factory. Alongside him was Nicholas Orb, who had recently been busy “absorbing local knowledge” in the domain.
Rows of brick kilns, fitted with magical catalysts and rune triggers, stood arranged on the open ground. Powered by the underground “Magic Network No. 2,” they were undergoing their first “test firing.”
Since precise temperature control and reliable transport devices were still beyond reach, and the territory’s construction capacity was limited, Gawain had not yet introduced his envisioned “magical tunnel kiln.” Instead, he opted for a simpler, more traditional kiln modified with magic as a transitional solution.
Though the kilns were primitive in form, the underground magic network was built to high standards, even more powerful than the one beneath the steelworks. However, without a way to quantify magical power, Gawain couldn’t yet determine the exact output of either network.
Feeling the orderly flow of magical energy in the air, the gleaming Nicholas Orb wobbled slightly in midair. From within the sphere came a metallic, vibrating voice: “I must admit… though everything is primitive, this world is truly fascinating. The flowing energies, the way you craft and use tools—none of this fits within my worldview.”
“That’s just physics being different,” Gawain agreed. “You should consider yourself lucky—a ‘traveler’ from a world with different rules, yet you’ve survived intact without self-destruction. That’s a great fortune.”
“Traveler? That’s a good word,” the orb buzzed. “You really get me—not only understanding and accepting my experience but always thinking along the same lines. Honestly, when I realized the rules here differed from my home, I worried the most about that. I feared my body would suddenly ‘pop’ and disintegrate, since even the material structures differ. But then I thought—if that were going to happen, it would have happened the moment I arrived. Since it didn’t, I guess I’m just lucky. No use worrying.”
“Have you figured out why you survived?” Gawain asked with a smile.
“Who knows?” the metal sphere swayed. “I’ve even forgotten my own name. Got time to think about that?”
“Honestly, how bad is your amnesia?” Gawain frowned, finally asking a question he’d long been curious about. “You remember some basics from your home—environment, physics, history—but everything else is gone?”
The orb pondered for a long moment before replying, “Yeah, that’s the truth. What can I do? The worst part of amnesia is you don’t even know what you’ve forgotten. I only remember some everyday knowledge, but it’s all from another world. I remember a language, but it’s useless here…”
As he spoke, a deep sadness seemed to settle over him, and he fell silent. Half a minute later, he sighed in a surprisingly human way: “Sigh… I’m trying, really trying to figure out who I am, what I do, what I’m good at. But the difficulty is beyond imagining—if I were in a familiar world, things around me would give clues. But here, everything is alien. I can’t find anything to help me recall my past. I’ve been wandering the camp, watching your production and daily life, hoping to find something I can do. But the result? Nothing—I seem incapable of any task… and I don’t even have hands!”
Gawain stroked his chin. “So, what do you think you did in your past life?”
“How should I know?” The orb seemed to want to shrug, but without hands, it could only wobble. “I have no impression of any job or skill. Maybe I didn’t work, didn’t study, didn’t even leave the house?”
Gawain couldn’t help but give the orb a once-over, a chill running through him. Judging by this description, the orb’s previous life might have been that of a total couch potato. (Just a guess.)
Why a couch potato? Look at the shape!
(End of chapter)