Chapter 214: The Far North and the Far South

In the northern reaches of the Kingdom of Ansu, frost and snow had already blanketed the land.

This mountainous region was the coldest part of the kingdom. The hardy northerners had rooted themselves among the towering peaks and biting winds, guarding the kingdom’s northern gates. For seven centuries, they had maintained a delicate balance with the troublesome neighbors further north.

Whether it was the Violet Kingdom to the northwest or the Holy Dragon Principality to the northeast, neither was easy to deal with.

But in this unsettling winter, new shadows emerged from the frost and snow—threats that, in the eyes of Duchess Victoria Wilde, were even more worrisome than those inscrutable northern neighbors. Because this threat came from within the kingdom itself.

Victoria Wilde, the “Duchess of Ice and Snow,” stood on the high terrace of Winterhold, overlooking the city below. The snow, which had begun falling before winter even officially started, had only ceased last night. The town was a sea of silver-white, with the characteristic pointed rooftops of the north designed to shed snow efficiently. These black spires pierced the winter’s white blanket like dark pines standing tall on the snowy plains beneath the castle, a dense forest of shadows against the snow.

In most parts of the kingdom, winter meant a halt to production and people huddling indoors, shivering through the cold. But here in the far north, things were different. The people had adapted to the cold, forced to endure the long winter that lasted half the year. Even on this day, just after the snow had stopped, the streets bustled with activity. People hurried to clear the snow before the next storm could damage buildings, to open roads, and to drag the frozen bodies of the homeless out of the gutters.

At the central square directly in front of the castle, the largest crowd had gathered.

The snow there had been cleared away. The people had come to witness the burning of the heretics.

Figures clad in black robes were tied one by one to tall wooden stakes. Heavy black steel chains and inscribed shackles bound both their bodies and their magic, but their faces—twisted and terrifying from their dark sorcery—still sent chills down the spine.

The crowd had swelled in layers around the square. Soldiers stood between the people and the heretics, their gleaming swords a clear warning to keep the excited townsfolk at bay. Meanwhile, piles of kindling were stacked, and animal fat was poured over the wood to ensure a fierce blaze.

“Burn them!” someone in the crowd finally shouted, unable to contain their anger.

The cry was met with a roar of agreement: “Burn them!” “They killed my child!” “Burn these cultists!”

A high-ranking cleric of the Holy Light Church stepped forward to the pyre. Taking the holy emblem from a nearby follower, he turned to face the fervent crowd.

“The God of the Holy Light has revealed the conspiracies of these heretics. Before more suffer, the Lord has guided us to destroy their nests!”

Raising the emblem high, the cleric summoned a brilliant light that ignited the oil-soaked kindling. His voice rang out: “Praise the Holy Light! Praise our Lord!”

The pyre was instantly engulfed in golden-white flames. The bound cultists writhed like melting wax, their agonized howls echoing across the square. The crowd responded with thunderous chants: “Praise the Holy Light! Praise the God of the Holy Light!”

The flames soared skyward, but the cultists’ screams did not cease. Even as their bodies burned away, their howls lingered, unnatural and haunting. The crowd’s jubilation turned to horror as the voices morphed into words they could understand. The residual spirits of a dozen cultists stirred in the air, shrieking a terrible curse:

“Laugh all you want! Cry all you want! Everyone will die! You will perish like cattle, like vermin! When they return, they will feast on your flesh and drain your blood!”

At that moment, the flames suddenly turned black. The fires from the dozen pyres merged into a massive, indescribable dark purple mass that swelled violently, as if to swallow everyone present. Even the cleric who had just been praising the Holy Light froze in shock.

But just as the terrifying apparition descended, a sharp white beam shot from the terrace of Winterhold down onto the square.

Struck by the “Whip of Winter,” the dark purple mass instantly froze solid, then shattered with a loud crack. A flurry of icy crystals drifted down like a sudden blizzard, covering much of the square once more.

The excited crowd and the chanting cleric fell utterly silent.

Above the quiet square, Duchess Victoria Wilde’s cold voice rang out: “Clean it up—and then praise Ansu and your founding sovereign.”

The powerful magic on the terrace faded. Victoria waved her hand, and the floating spellbook returned to her side. She then turned and left the terrace.

The door, inlaid with artificial crystals, closed automatically behind her, cutting off the sounds from the square. The duchess returned to the warmth of her sitting room, a rare trace of weariness crossing her face.

A black-haired maid approached, dismissing the other attendants with a wave before gently pressing her fingers to Victoria’s temple.

“You rarely show that expression—last time was when Duke Gawain Cecil returned.”

“This time it’s still about him. If not for the warning from that founding hero in the far south, we might not have realized the cultists had infiltrated this deeply until they caused even greater destruction,” Victoria sighed. “This is already the fourth cult nest destroyed since winter began. The first three were the End of All Things sect; this time it’s the Sleeper. If the Stormborn rise up from the sea next, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“They say the cultist forces in the south are actually few. They’ve only appeared twice, and each time the duke has detected and crushed them…”

Victoria waved her hand lightly, and the maid, Maggie, stopped her motion.

“We’ve grown too complacent. The whole kingdom has grown too complacent,” Victoria said, standing and gazing at the portraits of the founding heroes on the wall. The portrait of Gawain Cecil had been removed, but she stared at the empty space beside the founder Charles. “From the king down to the local nobles, vigilance is sorely lacking. But seven centuries ago, Duke Cecil came through the kingdom’s darkest days. He was more alert than any of us. It’s laughable that the incompetent fools in the capital dismissed his warnings about the cultists as paranoia, as ancient superstitions in a modern world… Hmph. Now they’re the ones panicking.”

The black-haired maid stood silently behind her, offering no comment. The duchess seemed used to it. After a pause, she asked, “Any progress on your investigation?”

The maid lowered her head. “Yes. The Holy Light clerics have been more active recently, and new missionary groups have appeared across the land. But all their activities seem legitimate—they’re fighting cultists, searching for and destroying their nests. The missionaries teach people how to identify cultists and protect themselves from dark curses. The power of the Holy Light is uniquely effective against such sorcery. Beyond that, they haven’t engaged in any suspicious activities, no conflicts with other sects, no struggles for influence, and no friction with local lords.”

Victoria frowned. “Is that so…”

Curious, the maid asked, “Vicky, do you suspect something about those Holy Light clerics?”

“No… I’m just paying attention to their recent movements. They’ve suddenly become more active,” Victoria shook her head. “But it’s probably just my imagination. After all, with cultists running rampant, the only ones capable of confronting them directly are the War God’s Church and the Holy Light Church. And the Holy Light’s magic is the most effective against dark sorcery,” she said calmly. “We have no reason to interfere with their lawful activities—just keep watching. If they have any ulterior motives, they’ll slip up eventually.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

…

Since winter began, news had become harder and slower to spread as traveling merchants dwindled.

In this era, where advanced technology was scarce and primitive social structures still prevailed, communication was awkward and inefficient. Though magical means like Sending Spells and Mithril Rings existed, the few who mastered these methods had no effective way to share information broadly. For most commoners and even nobles, news still traveled mainly by traveling caravans and official couriers.

For the remote New Cecil territory, which attracted little trade, slow communication was an even bigger problem.

Within the territory, Gawain had established a simple messenger network. Since the population was concentrated mainly in the town, the western logging village, and the eastern mining village—which was nearly a small town now—internal communication was manageable. But maintaining contact with the outside world was beyond their current manpower and resources. They had to rely on the few merchants who came from Tansang Town selling grain, cloth, or slaves, and on agents sent to the neighboring Kant and Leslie territories to gather intelligence.

So by the time Gawain learned that cultist activity had been detected throughout the kingdom, it was already a month after he had sent his own warning to the capital.

This was thanks to the information network of Viscount Andrew Leslie—without the swift gryphon messengers, it would have taken a traveling merchant more than a month just to make a round trip from the capital to the southern territories.

Frowning deeply at the intelligence before him, Gawain was unaware that Amber, who was idly carving a piece of wood with a dagger nearby, had no idea what the letter delivered early that morning from Tansang Town contained. Looking up at his expression, she casually asked, “What’s wrong? Grain prices going up?”

“No, cultists,” Gawain replied.

Amber jumped up from her chair. “Fighting cultists again?! Hey, I’ve got a stomachache—do I have time for that?”

“It’s not here,” Gawain glanced at Amber. “The cultists have appeared all over the kingdom—everywhere except the southern borderlands.”

Amber relaxed at that, lowering herself back onto the bench to continue carving her piece of wood. “Oh, as long as it doesn’t affect us, that’s fine.”

Gawain looked at this elf—so carefree, so shameless—and couldn’t share her ease. The situation was exactly as he had feared: cultists had infiltrated every corner of the kingdom. Their presence wasn’t limited to the border lords’ territories; even near the capital, on the Holy Spirit Plains, there were signs of their dark activities.

Many cultist nests had been discovered and eradicated, but countless others were only partially uncovered before all traces vanished. Sometimes, by the time they found evidence, it was already too late—the cultists had completed their vile sacrifices, leaving behind nothing but bloody scenes for the local nobles to stumble upon.

Beyond these disturbing reports, another issue weighed heavily on Gawain—one that made him feel both urgency and unease.

All the intelligence was severely outdated. The latest news from the capital was a month old, and there was still no reliable information coming from the northern territories.

He needed to build his own network of information—one that he controlled, and that was more efficient and reliable than any existing channels.

So far, he hadn’t been able to decipher the spell model for message transmission, and his attempts at electromagnetic communication had failed. Technologically, creating the “modern communication network” he envisioned was still out of reach. But even without cheap, instant messaging, he could at least lay the groundwork.

The potions from the alchemy factory sparked an idea.

(End of chapter)