Chapter 186: After the Onset of Winter

The troubles in the Kant territory had finally settled down for the time being, and it seemed to be the last ripple in an otherwise tumultuous year. With the arrival of the Fog Moon, everything in the southern lands began to hibernate as temperatures dropped. This disaster-ridden region was finally at peace.

But in the Cecil domain, the fervent construction efforts were just beginning. As various foundational machines and factories rapidly took shape, the influx of newcomers to this land found themselves with plenty of work—even in the cold winter months. And it wasn’t just the work that welcomed them: there were hot meals served in factory canteens, winter clothes specially made for workers, and household subsidies for firewood.

For the poor, who in past years had only been able to huddle at home, rationing their meager food stores and counting down the days until winter’s end, this was an unimaginable luxury. Compared to that, the extra workload was a trivial matter.

According to Gawain, it was only when the winter construction plan was successfully underway that the territory’s development could truly be said to be on track.

Wide, sturdy four-wheeled wagons rolled over the gravel roads, their wheels creaking and groaning. Yellowed leaves scattered along the roadside, and all around were leafless maples and towering giants of the forest. The bleak scenery might have dampened a traveler’s spirits, but in Joan’s heart burned a warm, steady flame.

Before the harshest frosts arrived, she and her younger brother had found the last refugee settlement deep in the woods.

Standing atop the lead wagon, Joan looked back at the entire caravan. Seven wagons carried forty-six gaunt, homeless refugees. The drivers were all clad in strange enchanted armor and equipped with magical weapons—formidable soldiers of the Cecil domain. These warriors strictly followed their lord’s orders: to protect Joan and her brother, and to safeguard the refugees in the caravan at all costs. Whether facing wild beasts or bandits, not a single civilian had been harmed. And in daily life, there had never been a case of soldiers bullying the common folk.

At first, Joan had been utterly astonished by this, but now it had become normal.

This was truly an extraordinary force, and the place they were heading to was even more incredible.

She had never believed any noble would sincerely shelter commoners, let alone that the homeless could receive free aid in a strange land. But what she had never imagined was that she herself would act as a “messenger” and “representative” to make this happen. Over the past several weeks, she and her brother had traveled through the northern Whitewater region and the forests south of Kant, moving alongside several other groups. Under the protection of the powerful Cecil soldiers, they found one refugee settlement after another on the brink of extinction, and brought those struggling on the edge of life and death to safety. The whole process felt like a dream.

Joan glanced at the last wagon. Tom stood up inside, waving his arms vigorously and brandishing a flag in a strange gesture that meant “all is well”—a signal he had invented himself. He had even created a whole system of “remote commands” using flags and lights to communicate within the caravan. He clearly enjoyed it immensely and took great pride in it.

The phrase “working for the lord” seemed to have greatly inspired her usually timid brother. Even without any official title or appointment, Tom’s spirit was now ten times stronger than before. Joan had once worried that his reckless antics might annoy the soldiers, but now Tom’s flag and light signals had reached the lord’s ears, who praised him highly and even formalized those commands to teach the domain’s soldiers.

Joan smiled in response to Tom’s signal, then turned back to look ahead.

The curling smoke and the domain’s watchtower were already in sight.

The refugees on the wagons noticed the change ahead. Some grew nervous, climbing up from their straw and tattered blankets to peer toward the soldier standing guard on the distant tower. Others looked anxiously at Joan. “Miss Joan, do you think… we can really settle there?”

A hunter’s daughter being respectfully—and nervously—called “Miss” by commoners felt strange to Joan. She quickly smiled and shook her head. “Don’t call me that. I’m just like you—a commoner. Don’t worry, the hard times are over. Ahead lies the domain of Duke Cecil. We will settle there, and everyone will find a home.”

The wagons crossed the ferry bridge, and a huge bronze bell rang out sharply. The sentry atop the tower shouted the familiar call that had echoed these days: “New arrivals—entering the domain!”

The homeless, huddled in straw and rags, stirred awake. One by one, they leaned over the wagon rails, watching as the tall gates swung open before them. The wagons rolled onto a wide road paved with bricks and strange “rocks.” Rows of brand-new houses stretched out at the road’s end, smoke rising gently into the sky. The wagons turned east at the first intersection, heading toward a riverside square.

“New arrivals—entering the domain!”

A soldier’s booming voice rang out again. The refugees’ wagons entered the square, where rows of wooden stalls lined the edges. Record keepers were ready to register the newcomers, and soldiers maintained order. A massive cooking pot was set up in the center, flames roaring beneath it, and the rich aroma of stew wafted through the air.

A broad-shouldered woman stood by the pot, stirring a hearty stew with a long-handled ladle. This nutritious, easy-to-digest soup was perfect for the starving refugees—it would quickly restore their strength and protect their fragile stomachs, weakened by long hunger.

At the sight of food, the forty-six pale, gaunt refugees on the seven wagons seemed to relax instantly.

Joan could feel the sudden wave of relief—because not long ago, she had been one of those who suddenly felt safe on this very wagon.

The day the last group of refugees safely arrived in the domain was also the day Gawain’s family finally left their tents and moved into their new “castle.”

Thanks to the “otherworldly cement” Rebecca had developed, combined with Hetty’s magical assistance and Nicholas’s control over metal materials, the new residence was completed far faster than Gawain had expected. A brand-new three-story mansion now stood on the open ground near the old camp—no lord’s castle had ever been built so quickly before. This was naturally due to Rebecca’s innovative building materials, but Gawain believed the more important reason was that he hadn’t stubbornly insisted on using natural giant stones or building the castle on a mountaintop, as traditional nobles did.

Building a large brick-and-tile house on flat land was far easier than constructing a stone fortress on a mountain.

Gawain knew that traditional castles were designed to withstand enemies. They were less homes and more military fortresses. But he had no intention of building such a castle in the Cecil domain. First, it would be a waste of manpower and resources. Second, he couldn’t stand living in cold, hard stone houses. Third, he simply didn’t need one.

If an emergency ever arose, the ancient facility in the mountains was far sturdier and more reliable than any modern castle.

This three-story house was probably the most luxurious large building in the domain, but compared to the mansions of contemporary nobles, it would be considered “too plain.” Gawain’s personal design avoided the usual noble excesses that sacrificed comfort for show. Every part of the structure was arranged with practicality and usefulness in mind. When Gawain finally moved into the spacious, bright study with real walls, he felt all his painstaking design efforts had been worth it.

There were no ornate marble windowsills, no sparkling crystal sculptures, no vaulted frescoes or delicate columns in the northern style—but he had two magical laboratories, a mechanical workshop, and this beautiful study. And this study had walls!

Amber wandered around the study. The half-elf seemed even more pleased with the house than Gawain himself. She checked every door lock, inspected all the cabinets and drawers, then opened the window facing the “central square” and looked down at the courtyard below. She exclaimed sincerely, “Finally, I can sneak in through the window…”

“Go crazy next door,” Gawain looked up from his book and shot her a glance. “Remember to use the door.”

“Tch, I was just joking. Why so serious?” Amber swayed over to Gawain’s desk. “But really, you’re a strange one. I thought after living in tents so long, you’d build some grand fortress or palace. Instead, you built this place?”

“Build a palace in a domain with only a few thousand people?” Gawain smiled. “I’m not that extravagant.”

“I just heard the noise from the riverside square. The last batch of refugees must have arrived,” Amber’s ears twitched. “You can finally relax, huh? By the way, what have you been staring at all this time?”

Gawain raised the book he’d been reading—a hardcover with a gilded title. “A popular book in the central and southern regions. Apparently, seventy percent of its readers are noble ladies and young misses.”

Amber’s expression instantly twisted into something strange. “A book for ladies and misses? And you actually like reading this… Oh my god!”

She didn’t finish her sentence before bursting out in surprise. The book’s title was eye-catching: Gawain Cecil’s Romantic Affairs—Stories of Heroes and Princesses.

The half-elf’s face grew even stranger. “Your… your tastes…”

“Tastes? I’m just studying my own biography,” Gawain sighed. “Of course, finding this kind of thing was a real surprise…”

He sighed even deeper in his heart: to rise from the grave seven hundred years later and see your own story written down—this achievement was truly one of a kind.

Amber immediately leaned in with a mischievous grin. “Hey, let me see, let me see… So you actually have stories like this? Those writers really are something… tsk tsk…”

“People generally think that piling a bunch of romantic escapades onto ancient heroes is a form of praise, a way to gild their reputations. After all, those guys are long dead—they won’t jump out to correct mistakes or cause trouble. And the heroes themselves usually don’t mind the embellishments. When they were alive, they probably never imagined someone like me would come crawling out,” Gawain said with a smirk. “I have to admit, I kind of admire them. I’ve only lived thirty-five years and married just one wife, but somehow, in my tightly packed life, they managed to squeeze in over eighty mistresses for me. How the hell did they fit that many names on the list?”

“Damn it, damn it, heh heh!”

“Heh heh, your grandpa! Go get Pittman over here!”

Amber was startled. “This book is his? That old scoundrel…”

“No, it’s not his,” Gawain shot Amber a sideways glance. “I just want to ask him about the ‘Siren’ species mentioned in this book. It’s the only biography among several that talks about me going out to sea, but it also mentions a species I’ve never heard of before during that trip!”

(End of chapter)