Chapter 1517: The Eternal Tome

The door to the communications room swung open, and a tall, slender figure stepped out. Diana, who had been waiting in the corridor, immediately quickened her pace to meet her. She looked at Rosetta, who had just finished a virtual conference, and saw that his expression was as stern and serious as ever—but this time, beneath that coldness lay an indescribable weight.

Something must have happened during the meeting. Perhaps His Majesty Gawain Cecil had brought new intelligence, or maybe the elves or dragons had encountered fresh complications in their evacuation plans. Diana’s mind raced with possibilities, but she said nothing, only bowing her head slightly. “Would Your Highness like to rest first?”

“No need,” Rosetta replied, glancing at the head maid standing before him. His mind was still tangled in the discussions from the meeting—about the unified mental field and the ultimate rebellion, about the coming of age of mortal races and divine calamities, about Gawain’s so-called “final plan,” and the fate that might await them all. His face was grave. After standing silently in the corridor for two seconds, he suddenly spoke, “Is Mathilda in the Obsidian Palace?”

“The princess returned just half an hour ago,” Diana said, keeping her head lowered. “Shall I summon her?”

“Have her come to the study,” Rosetta said in a low voice. Then, as if recalling something else, he furrowed his brow slightly. “Any progress on the Violet Isle expedition?”

“Our team has ventured deep into the southeastern forest,” Diana reported the latest intelligence from the north. “No signs of any city have been found yet, only some stone relics resembling ‘monuments.’ The vanguard has established a secure camp near one of these monuments, complete with a mage tower and supply station. The main force is still landing on the island’s southeastern coast and is expected to rendezvous with the vanguard in two days.”

Rosetta pondered for a moment, then said abruptly, “You will go yourself.”

Diana looked at the emperor in surprise, clearly not expecting such an order. But it didn’t affect her response. “Yes, I will depart tomorrow.”

Rosetta nodded, then seemed to feel the need to explain. “What’s happening on Violet Isle is extremely important. I don’t trust others to handle it. Your primary mission there is to locate the City of a Thousand Towers deep within the island and provide whatever assistance you can to the Cecil exploration team.”

Only then did Diana bow deeply. “I will obey your command.”

A moment later, Mathilda Augustus walked through the shadowed corridors deep within the Obsidian Palace. She had been summoned by her father but had no idea why he was so urgent to see her.

She only knew that today he had once again attended the virtual conference convened by His Majesty Gawain Cecil, where the leaders of the three great empires and the dragon realms would finalize their plan to resist the magical tide. Perhaps it was related to what had been discussed there?

The sharp tap of her boots echoed rhythmically against the marble floor.

Upon entering the inner court, Mathilda dismissed all her attendants. She hurried down the corridor she had walked countless times before, her gown brushing past decorative suits of armor and statues of heroes.

She still remembered how, as a child, she would often climb those statues, much to the alarm of her maids and guards, and to the bemusement of her stern father. Eventually, she would leap from the highest statue into his arms, and in that moment of surprise and laughter, she would see a smile on his face—a rare joy in her childhood, the only “game” she could think of to share with him.

But as her father’s mental state deteriorated, the oppressive tension that filled the gloomy palace snuffed out those moments of happiness. Years had passed, and though the Augustus family had finally broken free from the two-century-long madness curse in her father’s generation, the lost childhood could never be reclaimed.

Now, as the shining jewel and esteemed heir of the Typhon Empire, she could only wear a solemn, dignified expression as she walked these halls, ready to assist her father with grave and serious matters.

Mathilda pushed open the last door at the corridor’s end. She saw the tall figure she remembered, though much thinner now, seated in a high-backed chair. Bathed in the fading light of dusk, he looked like a statue carved in silhouette. She gently closed the door behind her and bowed respectfully. “Father, you summoned me?”

“Do you remember,” Rosetta said, rousing from his reverie, “before the Battle of Winterfort, we launched a project to gather scholars and scribes from across the empire to compile all our history, natural sciences, technology, and art into a comprehensive collection?” His voice was calm as he looked at his daughter. “I recall that Hadrian and you were jointly responsible for it.”

Mathilda paused, then nodded. “Yes. The situation was unstable, and the future uncertain. We started the project to preserve the Typhon people’s history and cultural heritage in the worst-case scenario…”

“That work should still be ongoing, right?”

“Yes,” Mathilda hesitated, then nodded again. “Though the war ended, we realized the encyclopedia still held value, so the project continued and is now nearing completion. Why do you bring this up now?”

Rosetta didn’t answer immediately. He seemed lost in thought, breaking the silence only after a long moment. “Mathilda, when a civilization falls, how do you think the encyclopedia we compile can be preserved for the longest time and passed down to future generations?”

…

The anti-gravity elevator silently ascended through the shaft deep underground. Silver Empress Belsethia Morningstar stood within the elevator’s protective barrier, her expression thoughtful as layers of alloy frames and reinforced rock passed steadily before her eyes. A faint tremor suddenly shook the platform beneath her feet. The elevator was gripped by mechanical clamps on either side and began to slow. She blinked, then resumed her usual calm, composed demeanor.

The shaft’s gate slid open with a grinding sound, and Belsethia stepped out. The space before her opened wide, brightly lit within this heavily fortified underground facility.

This was the elven royal city’s subterranean depths. For over ten thousand years, this underground shelter had been directly controlled and overseen by the elven royal family. Similar facilities—warehouses, backup industrial bases, doomsday fortresses for all city residents, secret research centers, and storage vaults for dangerous magical artifacts—were scattered throughout the city and its surroundings. Every nation had such shelters, and the elves, with their millennia of heritage on this land, were no exception.

At this moment, the research facility was bustling with tension and activity. Belsethia had come personally to inspect a project that had been underway in secret for some time.

In the vast hexagonal hall, hundreds of seasoned scholars and veteran mages focused intently on a massive magical apparatus floating at the center. It was a perfect icosahedron several meters tall, its smooth, precise alloy shell punctuated by transparent crystal windows revealing intricate runic structures and mechanical modules inside.

The enormous icosahedron hovered silently, emitting a low, pleasant hum. Magical energy shimmered along the seams of its shell. It responded intermittently to commands from the surrounding mages or interfaced with other devices in the hall. Archmage Verania floated just above the device, carefully sensing the flow of magic within.

Only when the Silver Empress approached did Verania conclude her work. She descended slowly to the floor and saluted. “Your Majesty, the meeting has concluded.”

“Yes,” Belsethia nodded. “As we anticipated, the final decision is the Mother Star Barrier.” Her gaze then fell on the magical device behind the archmage. “How is the ‘Archivist Engine’ performing?”

Verania looked surprised that the empress mentioned the ultimate magical tide defense plan so casually, but quickly recovered and nodded. “It has been running steadily for over thirty-six hours, with all parameters normal. However, we still need further testing to confirm whether it can operate long-term and self-repair as designed. After all, it combines ancient elven blueprints with modern arcane technology, and the integration requires more data.”

Belsethia nodded slightly. Verania seemed to sense something in the empress’s demeanor. “Your Majesty, the Archivist Engine is just a machine. It can record and teach knowledge, but it can never truly represent the Silver Elves. After so many years, whether a machine buried deep underground can ever see the light of day again is uncertain…”

“It may not represent the Silver Elves,” Belsethia interrupted, “but it can represent the civilization that once was called the Silver Elves.” She looked up at the floating device. The massive apparatus seemed to acknowledge her gaze, its perception modules emitting a unique hum from within its cold, steel frame.

This project was not recent; its origins stretched back to the first communications between the Noyans and the Loren Alliance.

Compared to the younger races on this continent, the Silver Elves faced the interruption of their civilization earlier and experienced rebirth from the ruins. When it came to “preserving heritage,” this ancient race was more vigilant and proactive than anyone else.

The recent meeting had only strengthened the Silver Empress’s conviction in the wisdom of such foresight.

“Archivist Engine, can you hear my voice?” Belsethia suddenly asked.

A deep, mechanical voice responded from within the great device: “Yes, please give your command.”

Belsethia took a slow breath. “Describe your mission.”

“Affirmative—the Secretariat’s mission is to continuously collect and record knowledge, awaiting the doomsday directive. Once that directive is activated, this shelter shall be sealed and enter standby mode. During the waiting period, all means must be employed to maintain the shelter and its systems until a suitable intelligent species reemerges on the surface, at which point contact will be initiated and the teaching protocols executed…”

…

The thick alloy walls blocked the biting cold wind sweeping in from the barren wasteland outside. The thermal field emitters maintained a comfortable indoor climate. Clad in a simple robe, Hragor entered the laboratory. Several dragon scholars busy at their consoles immediately approached and bowed respectfully to their leader.

Hragor returned the gesture with a calm nod, then his gaze swept across the spacious lab. Everywhere he looked, there were dazzling arrays of consoles, holographic projections floating midair, rows of incubation chambers lining the walls, and a variety of devices. To outsiders, these might seem like marvels of Talrond technology—advanced beyond belief. But a true dragon could tell at a glance that everything here was cobbled together from scraps.

Compared to the labs of Talrond’s heyday, when the tech companies flourished, this place was downright shabby.

“I’m sorry we can only offer you these conditions,” Hragor said to the scholars before him. “It’s no comparison to the corporate R&D centers of old.”

“Please don’t say that,” a black-haired dragon scholar hurriedly waved his hand. “This is already far better than we imagined. We never thought we’d be able to establish a gene-editing lab like this after the war…”

Hragor nodded and stepped over to one of the consoles. His eyes fixed on a set of holograms. At the center was nothing mysterious or arcane—it was a worm. A plain, tiny, even ugly worm.

Beside the worm’s holographic image were vast blocks of compiled genetic data.

“How far along are we?” Hragor asked the technician standing beside him.

“We’ve successfully compiled a brief history of Talrond and injected it into the redundant genetic segments of the Erbito worm,” the technician replied. “After sixteen generations of accelerated breeding, the data has remained stable. As we know, the Erbito worm’s redundant genetic material is extremely stable—an excellent medium for information.”

“Yes, extremely stable…” Hragor murmured to himself. “For 1.87 million years, these worms have lived in mud and volcanic ash, unchanged. These simple, lowly creatures have a history even longer than the dragons.”

“The more basic the life form, the older its lineage,” a red-haired gene editor remarked. “Older than dragons are worms; older than worms are bacteria; older than bacteria are primordial protein clusters. Those fragile, simple molecular structures have quietly thrived in oceanic mud for 1.6 billion years, while the brilliant civilizations of intelligent beings flicker by like a brief flash before these blind, crawling creatures…”

Another scholar shook his head with a sigh. “Actually, the Erim fungi are even more stable ‘carriers’ than the Erbito worms. Unfortunately, their genetic makeup isn’t suitable for this kind of compilation.”

“The Erbito worm, with its three million years of history, is sufficient for this mission,” Hragor said evenly. “Its genetic structure can hold all our history and most of our knowledge. Even if we perish, these worms will continue to thrive across this planet. The magical storms and divine calamities are but gentle breezes to them. And all that we are will be stably passed down within their genes.”

The dragon scholars exchanged glances. Finally, one couldn’t help but ask, “But… who will read these tombstones invisible to the naked eye?”

“The ones who come after,” Hragor answered. “The next civilization to reach a certain level, prepared and curious like us, capable of keen observation. It may take a very long time, maybe a bit of luck. But ‘waiting’ has never been a problem for life or the stars.”

(End of chapter)