Chapter 19: Debt

Gawain had no idea about the bold—and somewhat irritating—thought running through Rebecca’s mind, but he understood one thing clearly: Viscount Andrew’s protection of the people of the Cecil domain was not without cost. The days when a lord would swear to defend his subjects to the death, and the entire community would stand united, selflessly rebuilding civilization, were long gone. Seven centuries after the fall of Gondor, the Kingdom of Ansu had yet to regain its former glory, but the nobility had certainly mastered the art of selfishness to a frightening degree. Without a doubt, from the very day the refugees from the Cecil lands arrived in Tansang town, Rebecca had taken on a debt she never asked for.

But carrying this debt was far better than everyone dying.

“The Cecil family will be grateful for your help,” Gawain broke the silence, “but right now, the disaster itself is the more pressing matter.”

Viscount Andrew had noticed Gawain sitting between Rebecca and Hetty from the start. The man’s ancient noble attire, the greatsword resting beside him, and his solemn, imposing demeanor piqued Andrew’s curiosity. There was no one like him in the noble circles Andrew knew. Yet, judging by the respectful way Hetty and Rebecca treated him, this was no ordinary man.

So, after Gawain spoke, Andrew took the opportunity to ask, “Pardon my boldness, but may I ask—who might you be, sir?”

“I am Gawain Cecil, ancestor of the Cecil family, pioneer among pioneers, one of the seven founding generals of Ansu, Grant Duke of the Southern Marches,” Hetty had been waiting for this question and immediately stood, her face serious as she introduced him. “You must have grown up hearing that name—he is the Dawn’s First Light.”

Gawain kept a stern face, trying to look dignified without anger, nodding slightly as Hetty enthusiastically praised him. But when he heard the last title, he couldn’t help but blink in surprise and quietly ask Rebecca, “What on earth is that last title supposed to mean?”

Rebecca hurriedly explained, “It’s the posthumous title given to you by the founding monarch after your death…”

Gawain gasped, “Couldn’t that old romantic have come up with something less cheesy?!”

Meanwhile, Viscount Andrew, a man of strict noble decorum, was left dumbfounded by Hetty’s words.

Had this lady lost her mind from the trauma of her family’s disaster and the terror of monsters?

Just as Gawain had thought from the start: no one would believe that the Cecil family’s ancestor had literally climbed out of his coffin—no matter how well-traveled or learned the nobles and mages were, this was pure fantasy. If anything, it was the illiterate, superstitious common folk who might be more inclined to believe such a tale.

Andrew’s restraint in not immediately ordering his attendants to medicate the lady was already a sign of his good breeding.

“Madam, please allow me… um… to think this over,” Andrew said, trying to find a way to express his feelings without being rude, but in the end, he couldn’t help but speak plainly. “I understand you’ve endured unimaginable nightmares, but isn’t this… a bit too far-fetched?”

Hetty’s expression remained unchanged. “I expected you to react this way. In fact, even we find it hard to believe, but the Cecil family’s ancestor truly has awakened from his long slumber. We saw him sit up in his coffin, holding the Pioneer’s Sword. We have verified that he is genuinely resurrected—not some undead trick…”

Andrew’s face twisted between disbelief and amusement. “If you have a request, please just say it. This…”

Gawain waved a hand, signaling Hetty to sit. He placed the Pioneer’s Sword on the table and turned to Andrew. “Viscount, what purpose would there be in Hetty telling such a lie? A viscount’s lands have been devastated by monsters and elemental tides, and a dragon has appeared in our skies. Events of this magnitude would surely reach the king in the capital. In such dire circumstances, would we really send someone dressed in ancient garb, wielding a crude old sword, to spin a fairy tale just for fun?”

As he spoke, Gawain channeled his magic into the Pioneer’s Sword. Dark red patterns shimmered across the ancient blade, clearer than before, forming a crest near the hilt—an emblem of a blade crossed with an iron plow, the Cecil family’s heraldry since the founding of Ansu, symbolizing the pioneering spirit.

Knights wield magic too, just differently from mages.

Though the sword had lost much of its former power, its fundamental identifying marks remained. Andrew stared blankly at the blade. He had never seen the real Pioneer’s Sword, but a replica was enshrined in the royal cathedral in the capital, which he had been fortunate enough to see years ago. He would not mistake it.

If the sword on the table wasn’t a fake made by the Cecils, then it had to be the genuine article—the one sealed in the Cecil family tomb, so well-guarded that no one dared disturb it even as the family declined.

Would this fallen house really dig up their ancestor’s grave, pull out the sacred sword, and use it to spin a grand lie?

Andrew hesitated. If this was a farce, the cost was terrifyingly high. But if it wasn’t…

The idea of an ancestor suddenly springing from his coffin was something no one would dare believe!

“You can have elven craftsmen verify the sword’s authenticity. It was forged by their kin, and they know how to check the elven runes. You can also compare my face to the portraits of the founding dukes. Though I’ve slept for seven centuries, my appearance hasn’t changed much,” Gawain said with a slight smile, watching Andrew’s conflicted expression. “If you can, you might even find some elven mercenaries who took part in the Second Pioneering and have since retired to the mountains. Perhaps some still remember me.”

“No, no need,” Andrew waved his hand, rubbing his forehead. This was clearly beyond his expertise. “If you’re a legendary hero like you say… then maybe sleeping for seven centuries and coming back to life is possible.”

Though he said this, anyone could see Andrew still doubted Gawain’s identity. He was just looking for an excuse to pause the conversation.

He had come to a conclusion: what did it matter if the Cecil ancestor jumped out of his coffin? Why get hung up on whether it was true? If the Cecils said it was, then so be it.

After all, it was just some ancient who had been dead for seven hundred years.

Only then did Andrew suddenly realize a detail Gawain had mentioned earlier. “Wait, you said… a dragon appeared nearby?”

“Yes, a blue dragon. No one knows where it came from, but it flew off toward the northwest,” Gawain nodded, then proceeded to recount everything that had happened in the Cecil lands. “That’s the situation.”

“Mutants… monsters from the magical tides… and a dragon… my goodness…” Andrew’s brow furrowed deeply, the faint flush on his pale face fading. “What on earth is happening to this world?”

“How the world fares is for scholars and His Majesty the King to worry about. Our job is to get this news to Saint Suniel City as soon as possible,” Hetty interrupted. “This is serious.”

“I’ve already sent a messenger to report the attack on the Cecil lands,” Andrew said. “He rode a fast horse and should be halfway there by now.”

Andrew was clearly a capable man. Not only had he taken in refugees from neighboring lands, but he had also promptly dispatched a messenger to the king. For a frontier noble in these times, that was commendable. Yet Hetty had to press further.

“Viscount Andrew, that’s not enough. The situation is grave enough that Rebecca must meet His Majesty in person. And with the Grant Duke of Cecil awakened from his long sleep, he must also travel to the capital. We appreciate your help, but we need more.”

Andrew lowered his eyelids slightly, pondering, then stood and paced behind the long table.

“What do you need? Fast horses? Supplies? Escorts?”

“All of that,” Rebecca said, gathering courage. “And we need you to continue caring for the people of the Cecil lands until we return from the capital with new territories to resettle them…”

“That’s the crux of the matter,” Andrew raised a hand, cutting her off. “I was just about to bring this up. I’m doing my best to help my neighbors, and I want to be generous, but I’m only a mere viscount. How much can I really provide to feed all those refugees?”

Gawain sipped the now lukewarm tea before him, thinking, Finally, the viscount is getting to the “real” issue.

Rebecca grew impatient. “Sir Philip and his knights brought a cache of gold and silver when they broke through. That should be enough…”

“Of course, I know about that treasure,” Andrew interrupted again. “Rest assured, I’m not one to take advantage of others. But medicine and food cost money. As I mentioned, the brave knights arrived at Tansang town battered and bruised, and the soldiers and civilians they brought were all injured. To treat them, I used the best herbs in my lands and hired the finest priests. That’s expensive. The gold and silver barely cover the costs.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened.

“Still, I want to emphasize—I won’t exploit anyone,” Andrew continued. “I will keep sheltering the refugees and do all I can to help. But I need to know—after all this, does the Cecil family have the means to repay this debt?”

(End of chapter)