Chapter 1226: The Pages Have Yellowed

In the vast matrix hall, the ancient machinery emitted a low, humming resonance that echoed between towering silver-white metal pillars. These sounds overlapped and intertwined, sometimes resembling the delicate chime of wind bells. Ophelia vaguely remembered that long ago, before this underground facility was sealed, someone had visited her and likened the noises she made while thinking to the tinkling of wind chimes.

But that was ages ago—so distant that even the tireless machines had relegated the corresponding data to the deepest layers of their databases. Now, no living soul would knock on these ancient, dust-covered doors. Within this sprawling subterranean complex, only soulless iron automatons and cold magical mechanisms kept company with her—the sleepless, unyielding ghost of a bygone era.

The resonance between the pillars gradually softened, and the holographic projections displaying scenes from the wasteland outside flickered and died one by one. Ophelia’s matrix ended its brief rest and rerouted the active terminal named “Veronica” outside the wall to a backup thread. Then, the metal pillars in the hall swiftly adjusted their heights and angles. Each matrix node completed its self-check and came online, taking over the information networks of the base’s laboratories and factories.

As the matrix nodes shifted, a metal platform in the center of the hall hissed softly as it rose to the surface. The cover above it slid silently aside, revealing a precision-crafted container resting atop the platform. It was an elliptical protective chamber made of crystal, with countless tubes and cables connecting its base to the metal structure beneath. Yet, more than half of the runes etched on the base were currently darkened. Inside the chamber, a faintly golden, translucent liquid cradled a slender, delicate figure.

A young woman floated there, her long hair a pale gray with a metallic sheen cascading like a waterfall behind her. She wore a classical gown that no longer belonged to this era, its exquisite decorations and her own refined features marking her as a special “Sleeper.” Though her face remained beautiful, the woman drifting in the golden fluid showed no sign of life—she was like a finely crafted doll, suspended in a coffin sealed for centuries.

The matrix observed the figure silently, completing its daily monitoring report:

“Year XX, Month X, Day XX. Ophelia Norton has been brain-dead for 266,455 days. Matrix operating continuously. Base status normal. No higher-level commands received. Continuing initial system tasks…”

…

In a valley surrounded by a corrupted wasteland, a dense network of thorny vines woven from giant plant structures had grown into a sturdy wooden dome. This dome shielded the valley from the turbulent, polluted winds of the wasteland, blocking dry sand and ash fragments carried by the breeze. Inside the dome, the valley’s environment had stabilized completely.

Glowing plants embedded in the dome and surrounding cliffs provided ample illumination for the settlement. Vines extending deep into the rock layers and underground supplied filtered, clean water. The plants drew nutrients from the corrupted soil, rich with residual magical energy. Numerous dormant “treants” clung to the rugged cliffs and slopes, while twisted yet thriving vegetation lined the paths between them.

If one ignored the terrifying, warped thorns crowning the dome and the hidden truths behind this valley, the environment inside could almost be described as “vibrant.” Any outsider arriving here would hardly guess that such lush greenery existed deep within the ruins of Gondor’s wasteland.

A faint rustling came from the forest as a pair of elven sisters stepped onto the path. Their pale green priestly robes brushed against the low shrubs, and the light filtering through the dome illuminated their delicate faces. Filna paused, looking up at the fully sealed dome, then turned to her “sister” with a smile.

“Didn’t that just now remind you of the faint memories lingering in your mind? In the southern forests, beautiful elves bathed in sunlight, stepping from the woods, breathing in the moist, earthy morning air…”

Lerna immediately shook her head. “My memories are already shattered fragments. And I don’t think the scene you described fits a forest born from such twisted natural forces. Think about how those lush plants looked before they became what they are now—by mortal standards, it was truly repulsive.”

“By mortal standards…” Filna murmured softly, her usual faint smile lingering. Then she grew serious, scanning the surrounding trees. “But we have to admit, these cultists have achieved surprising success. They’ve recreated a suitable ecosystem on a small scale. In a way, they’ve ‘healed’ this wasteland…”

At that moment, a hoarse, low voice interrupted from nearby, cutting off Filna’s last words.

“Unfortunately, ‘healing’ the wasteland is only a byproduct of the plan. What we truly seek is to restore the world to its rightful path.”

The elven twins turned their gaze toward the source of the voice and simultaneously nodded in greeting to the treant leader slowly approaching, his roots writhing as he walked.

“Look who’s here—our High Priest, Lord Borken.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you two are one person or two,” Borken said, ignoring the sisters’ usual infuriating provocations. His yellow-brown eyes swept over the elves. “If it’s the former, playing two roles with one soul and talking to yourself… doesn’t that get tiring?”

“On the contrary, it’s endlessly entertaining,” the sisters replied in unison, both smiling faintly. Then Filna spoke alone. “High Priest, usually so busy, what brings you to concern yourself with how we sisters get along? Have you finally given up your unrealistic plans and decided to be a normal plant, finding a sunny spot to photosynthesize?”

Lerna added, “Or maybe the Deep Blue Network’s corruption has finally alerted the ghost at the heart of the wasteland, and an iron army has pinpointed this little hideout. The prelates are already preparing to pack up and flee…”

“Someday, I’ll teach your poisonous tongues how to treat your allies,” the High Priest growled, glaring fiercely at the two elves. For a moment, his yellow-brown eyes flashed with barely concealed malice and anger, but he quickly composed himself, his tone becoming relaxed and cheerful.

“Say what you will, my subordinates have made great strides within the Deep Blue Network. Control runestones have been planted, and several planetary ley lines are gradually falling under our control. I came to tell you that my plan has taken another step toward success.”

“Ah, we truly appreciate your kindness and honesty, High Priest. You remember to inform us, your insignificant allies, of every development…” The sisters spoke in exaggerated unison, then Lerna looked Borken in the eye. “But I guess you didn’t come just to share good news, did you?”

“Of course not. Don’t play dumb,” Borken said immediately, his twisted treant crown rustling. “Remember your promise—we must place the node runestones into several rifts outside the wasteland to gain sufficient ‘control.’ To do that, the ‘Wasteland Wall’ is an obstacle that must be overcome.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” the sisters drawled, Filna tilting her head toward the direction blocked by cliffs and the dome, as if trying to see through the barriers to the grand towers standing at the edge of the Gondor wasteland. “The Sentinel Towers… We do seem to have a lot on our plate—sharing Deep Blue Network knowledge, infiltrating the iron soldiers and Ophelia’s external power systems, and now dealing with those ‘sentinels’ at the wasteland’s edge. High Priest, working with you is certainly no easy task.”

“That’s part of the contract, ladies,” Borken said gravely, his tone shedding all anger and irritation, becoming solemn and earnest. “I know you have your own schemes, things you want to do in secret, but I’ve never pressed you—because, in the grand scheme, our goals align. This world needs true, lasting security, not mere survival through compromise. We must end the threat of the magical tides and gods once and for all. For that, some sacrifices are inevitable.

“Now, after all this time, our efforts have reached a critical point. The Deep Blue Network spanning the planet is about to fall into our hands. So, at least until the plan is complete, let us both show some sincerity… Even if one day we must part ways, I hope it will be after success.”

“An inspiring speech, High Priest. It almost moved me,” Filna said slowly after Borken finished, her inscrutable gaze hiding all true feeling. She pinched her fingers together in front of him, indicating a very small amount. “Of course, just a very, very small amount.”

“Even so, we will honor the contract,” Lerna added. “We’ll find a way to deal with the Sentinel Towers—you can trust us. After all, years ago, we successfully infiltrated them…”

Borken’s yellow-brown eyes flicked back and forth between the twins several times. Then the ancient, twisted treant leader gave his crown a slight shake, the rustling leaves accompanying his hoarse, aged voice.

“Very well. I look forward to your results.”

“You can look forward to it—though don’t expect it too soon,” Lerna said lightly. “Cracking the Sentinel Towers isn’t easy, even for us. It will take a long time.”

“Of course, I can wait,” Borken said in a low voice. “After all, I’ve already waited many years…”

With the rustling and creaking of wood, the ancient, twisted treant slowly withdrew along the forest path, his figure fading from the twins’ sight. Filna and Lerna watched him go, their deep eyes concealing intentions no one could fathom.

Then they lifted their heads, quietly gazing toward the direction blocked by the wooden dome and rocky layers—their eyes seeming to pierce through these impenetrable barriers and the distant wasteland, fixed on the sentinel towers standing at the edge of the ruins, holding up a grand, imposing shield.

Filna’s lips moved softly, and suddenly she began to sing a folk ballad that had been passed down through the Silver Empire since ancient times—

“In the deep forest, the wind blows, hollow and empty…
A lonely watchtower stands in the wind,
The sentinel cannot see the familiar bird flying across the sky…”

Laelna’s voice gently joined in—

“How long has the hollow wind blown?
Even the ancient trees in the forest can’t remember…
That bird never flew across the sky again…
One sentinel went mad…

That bird never flew across the sky again,
One sentinel went mad…

One sentinel went mad…”

…

“That bird never flew across the sky again,
One sentinel went mad…”

Bersethia sat on a bench beside the garden path, her gaze distant as she looked up at the star-studded night sky. The Silver Queen’s soft humming lingered in the quiet courtyard before fading away into the chilly night breeze.

“I’ve heard that tune before, and I think it was you singing it,” Gawain said with some curiosity, glancing at the Silver Queen sitting beside him, though a hint of confusion crossed his face. “But I remember the lyrics being different back then—something like, ‘The bird never flew across the sky again, because the sentinel cooked a bowl of pigeon porridge’…”

“That… was my own silly version when I was little, Uncle Gawain,” Bersethia said, a little embarrassed as she tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I was just a kid back then… You can forget that one. What I just sang is the ‘official’ version.”

“Alright, I knew you made that up,” Gawain sighed helplessly, then thoughtfully stroked his chin. “But even this official version sounds kind of strange… Or rather, the whole song feels odd. What’s the story behind it? Some kind of ritual chant?”

“A ritual chant? Of course not,” Bersethia said, surprised, quickly waving her hand. “It’s just a folk ballad sung among the Silver Elves, mostly by children. When I was little, I used to sneak out of the Elven Court and wander around, learning to sing it from the kids in the countryside outside the city…”

“Children sing it…” Gawain paused, his expression turning a bit odd. “Well, I have to say, that’s truly fitting for the Silver Elves. The world’s praise for your artistic nature isn’t just empty talk— even a simple country children’s song has been made so deep, complex, and mysterious by you all.”

(End of chapter)