Chapter 173: The Uneasy Wind

The rain began to fall harder.

A cold front had brought with it an even chillier downpour. According to the weather patterns of this region in past years, this was likely the last rain before the snow arrived. The Kant territory was known throughout the southern lands for its abundant rainfall, and tonight was no exception.

Raindrops had merged into sheets, slanting with the wind as they hung from the sky, drenching the open fields, the towns, and the ancient stone walls of the Kant family’s castle. Water gathered into rivulets, flowing down the weathered, uneven surfaces of the dark red spires and blackened walls, their surfaces gleaming like black oil in the dimming light.

Yet inside the castle’s thick walls, the sounds of wind and rain were muffled, as was the creeping cold. Within the grand hall, the magical crystal lamps illuminated every corner. The usual shadows that lingered even when all the lights were lit had somehow vanished. Now, the entire fortress was bathed in a bright, magical glow, complemented by roaring fireplaces and braziers scattered throughout, filling the ancient home with warmth and light.

Servants bustled about, polishing tables, lamp stands, and statues, making every artifact of history and family honor gleam under the lamps. They chatted about the dropping temperatures outside, the year’s harvest of crops and medicinal herbs, and the noble guests the viscount was to receive today. The entire castle had been cleaned and refreshed for two days straight—this visitor was no ordinary guest.

Suddenly, the old steward, Mr. Carter, despite his age, came bustling down the grand staircase, followed closely by the head housemaids and butlers. Like a gust of wind, they swept through the hall toward the main entrance. The head housemaid shouted orders to the clumsy maids: “Quick, put away the buckets!” “Don’t leave the cloths on the tables!” “You silly girl, back to the kitchen! The duke must never see a lowly maid standing here in a dirty dress, understand?!” “Everyone, to your posts! The guest has arrived!”

Viscount Victor Kant descended the stairs from the second floor. Just as the steward reached the door, Victor positioned himself in the center of the hall—a perfect spot to welcome the guest with open arms. It was a carefully measured distance: not so close as to seem servile, nor so far as to make the visitor wait awkwardly.

The steward reached the door, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his hands, and silently counted the seconds in his mind. Based on the timing relayed by the tower guards and his own movements, he estimated when the knock would come.

At the count of thirty, the door was knocked.

A guest of the duke’s stature must never be made to knock twice—whether the knocker was the duke’s coachman or a guard. But opening immediately would be improper, so Carter counted three more beats in his mind. Before the second knock sounded, he ordered the soldiers flanking the door to turn the heavy wheel.

The massive “family gate,” capable of withstanding eighty-two blows from a battering ram, creaked and groaned as it swung open, its sound carrying the weight of three centuries of Kant family pride.

And through that gate stepped a man whose own dignity spanned seven centuries. The cold wind and rain swept in behind him.

Servants hurried forward to take the visitor’s cloak and hat, while errand boys ran out to attend the waiting carriage. Highborn Gawain entered the Kant castle’s main hall with Amber and Sir Philip. He saw an elderly nobleman with nearly white hair, age spots on his face, dressed in a black-and-red long coat, arms wide open in welcome. Viscount Victor Kant was older than Gawain had imagined, but clearly still spry.

“Ah, today this castle welcomes its most honored guest ever—a living legend!” Victor announced loudly. “I apologize for your journey in such foul weather—if only I had the magic to control the skies.”

“Actually, I quite like rainy days,” Gawain replied with a smile, shaking the viscount’s hand but declining an embrace. This was not coldness, but protocol: when a lower-ranking noble meets a higher one, the former must show warmth and respect, but the latter should only respond with polite reserve unless there is a clear subordinate relationship. Gawain found these traditions tedious, but following them now cost him nothing. “Before the rain fell, I already saw the fertile lands of Kant. Now, with the rain, I’ve witnessed a fine scene. It’s been worth the trip.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Victor smiled, calm and sincere like a well-bred gentleman of his years. “I’ve prepared a welcome feast for you, just in the dining room behind this hall.”

Amber stood quietly behind Gawain, head bowed. Such a formal, aristocratic occasion was not her comfort zone, so she remained unusually silent. But when she heard the word “feast,” her elven ears twitched involuntarily, swiveling like radar as if searching for more information about food.

Gawain smiled and accepted the invitation, his eyes discreetly studying the old viscount.

He looked aged but healthy, his smile easy and genuine, his demeanor gentle with a hint of ease. There was no trace of anything cultish about him.

But that was no guarantee.

With a smile, Gawain led Amber and Sir Philip deeper into Kant Castle.

…

At the same time, in the Silver Fortress of Saint Suniel City, the aging King Francis II frowned as he read through a stack of secret letters.

These letters came from the kingdom’s “royalist nobles,” those directly appointed by the king himself. Even the three grand dukes on the border had such agents—spies, in other words. This system, inherited from the kingdom’s founding monarchs, had persisted for seven centuries and was a crucial pillar of the Ansu royal family’s control over the realm. Though the internal strife of the Misty Moon and the “illegitimate heir” weakness of the second dynasty had once crippled this network, a century of rebuilding and compromises by several dukes had restored it to near-first dynasty efficiency.

Most of these king-appointed nobles were in the south; a smaller number were scattered elsewhere. Their reports usually varied widely, with little in common. But recently, the letters had taken on a troubling pattern that made King Francis uneasy—

Reports of dark cult activity were increasing, spreading across the land.

Though these reports still accounted for less than ten percent nationwide, their wide distribution was enough to alarm the old king.

Ansu’s system was indeed decaying, but the king was no fool.

Now before him lay a letter from Viscount Andrew Lesley of the southern border. Its contents were graver than others:

“Cultists of the End of All Things have appeared in Tansan Town. The heretics once infiltrated the castle and used dark magic to control some personnel. Thanks to the support of Duke Gawain Cecil, the cultists entrenched in this land were eradicated.”

The king did not know that Viscount Andrew had concealed many truths in this letter—such as the Eternal Tablet already in Gawain’s hands, or the details of Andrew’s own possession by the cultists—and had deliberately downplayed the severity of the situation. Yet even so, the letter’s revelations were enough to shake the king.

These cultists, who once only operated in the shadows, had now brazenly invaded a noble’s estate!

They had never before dared to touch the aristocracy directly. Whether through live sacrifices or rituals with corpses, their atrocities had always been inflicted on commoners. The cultists seemed to respect an unspoken boundary, never reaching into noble society. But now… the winds had shifted.

And at a time when relations between Ansu and the Typhon Empire were at their tensest, this was especially troubling. King Francis had felt some relief upon learning that Typhon would not wage war this winter, believing he could use the respite to strengthen border defenses and prepare for future conflict. But now, he feared these cultists had no intention of letting him rest.

As the king brooded, a warm, gentle presence suddenly filled the room.

He looked up in surprise to see Veronica, dressed in her white priestess robes, entering with a smile and a hint of playful affection.

The “Saint Princess” approached her father. “Father, I asked Lord Aiden. He said you were still in the study.”

“Veronica, my daughter… what brings you here today?” Francis asked, surprised. Though still a princess, Veronica had formally converted to the Church of the Holy Light and spent most of her time at the cathedral, rarely returning to the Silver Fortress.

“Have you forgotten? Today is the day I leave the cathedral to visit you at the castle,” Veronica said with a smile, tracing the emblem of the Holy Light on her chest. “Serving the Lord does not mean neglecting one’s parents—that is the teaching of the Holy Light.”

“Ah, my forgetful mind,” the old king chuckled, tapping his forehead. “I got the date wrong!”

“That’s all right. The weight of the kingdom rests on your shoulders; you must prioritize your duties as king,” Veronica said gently, noticing the fatigue etched on her father’s face. She raised her hand and summoned a beam of holy light, using her divine magic to ease his mental burden. “Father, is something troubling you?”

The king sighed. “Cultists—the End of All Things, the Sleeper’s Sect, and smaller groups like the Black Stone Cult and Abyssal Followers. I don’t know what madness has gripped them, but in this early winter, they’re all stirring up trouble.”

At the mention of “cultists,” Veronica, a devout follower of the Holy Light, furrowed her brow. “May the Holy Light save those poor souls harmed by these villains… Cultists spread like weeds. Unfortunately, aside from the Holy Light and War God sects, other faiths’ divine magic is too weak against their dark sorcery.”

Francis sighed again. “Don’t worry—they dare not cause chaos in the royal city.”

Veronica glanced at the letters from across the kingdom, marked with special seals. Folding her hands over her chest, she said devoutly, “The Holy Light will protect Ansu.”

(End of chapter)