Chapter 23: Journey to the Royal Capital

Those who escaped the nightmare in the Cecil domain were both fortunate and unfortunate.

The blazing houses, the land corrupted by elemental forces, the terrifying giants striding out from the chaotic mist, and the friends and family who perished beneath it all—these horrors haunted every survivor like a relentless nightmare. Even after reaching the safety of Tansan Town, even under the protection of knights and soldiers, the fear never truly left their hearts, not even for a moment.

Because even the armored soldiers themselves barely slept these past few days.

Many numbed their pain with alcohol, while the poor who couldn’t even afford to drown their sorrows suffered endlessly. On top of that, as refugees wandering into another lord’s territory in these times, a decent living environment was out of the question, making the situation even worse.

Maintaining order among the refugees was out of the question. Knight Philip now struggled just to keep his soldiers in line, making sure they reported regularly each day.

But thankfully, the lord had returned safely—and brought with her an unexpectedly powerful pillar of support.

Outside Tansan Town, Rebecca looked over the gathered villagers before her. They were ragged and worn, their faces drawn and exhausted. Though Viscount Andrew had managed basic shelter and food distribution, nobles in this era were notoriously stingy with their charity. That these people hadn’t frozen or starved to death was already a rare kindness from the viscount, far beyond what his peers would offer. Rebecca knew better than to expect more.

For those who had fled the Cecil domain, the lord’s arrival was a much-needed boost to their spirits.

Common folk in this era lacked high awareness or psychological resilience, and loyalty to their lord was hardly deep. Though Rebecca was a kind and benevolent lord—mainly because the young lady was naïve and hadn’t yet learned the cunning greed of her noble peers—she had only been in charge for less than a year. Due to poor communication, many villagers didn’t even know what their lord looked like.

Yet the mere presence of a lord was enough to inspire hope. For these frightened souls, just having someone stand up and promise protection was enough. They didn’t care who their lord was or what she looked like. Centuries of feudalism had dulled their critical thinking but made them easily satisfied. To Gawain, this was a cohesion born of ignorance—but it worked.

Only a small group had come to see them off; most stayed behind in Tansan Town to guard property or work for food. Rebecca glanced at them, wanting to say something but unsure what. She turned to Knight Philip. “These people will be in your care, Knight. Do your best to keep every one of them safe until we return.”

“By my oath, I swear it!” Philip straightened his chest. “I will protect every subject and every asset of House Cecil!”

“Don’t forget the tasks I assigned you,” Gawain said. “Viscount Andrew will provide necessary support. Send out all the able-bodied and sharp-minded people—don’t spare the coin. What they do is far more valuable than money.”

“Yes, sir!” The young knight answered loudly, though confusion lingered in his eyes. Living in such an isolated time and trained solely in combat, he struggled to keep up with Gawain’s ideas. “But are those tasks really that important?”

“Absolutely,” Gawain smiled. “At the small scale, it’s just gossip. At the large scale, it’s public opinion. Never underestimate these invisible forces. Once everyone starts talking about the same thing, even the king will grow uneasy.”

After final arrangements, Gawain and Rebecca boarded the carriage provided by Viscount Andrew. Accompanying them were Betty the maid, the loyal Knight Byron, the formidable thief Amber, and twelve family soldiers. These soldiers weren’t exactly handpicked—only a dozen or so warriors had broken through with Knight Philip, plus two more with Gawain’s group, totaling fewer than twenty. Gathering twelve fully equipped soldiers was all that remained of House Cecil’s honor.

The mature and steady Heddy stayed behind to maintain order. The “Aunt Heddy” was clearly worried about her niece’s impending journey to the royal capital. Standing beneath the carriage, she gripped Rebecca’s hand tightly, repeating her warnings: “Remember your status. Don’t disgrace House Cecil, but avoid conflicts with the capital’s nobles. Show respect to the king and follow protocol. Don’t throw fireballs at people—the capital isn’t like our countryside. If you don’t understand something, don’t answer hastily. Consult the ancestor or Knight Byron, because every word you say will be scrutinized. Most importantly, listen to the ancestor, especially when dealing with nobles. You’re not skilled in that, but the ancestor is a grand duke—he knows.”

Listening to Heddy’s instructions, Gawain’s heart grew heavy. He truly didn’t understand…

Not just him—the real Gawain Cecil didn’t understand either. When the founding hero died, Ansu was still ruled by a bunch of peasants. Court etiquette back then mostly involved drinking contests and shouting matches with the king. Surely, seven hundred years later, things had changed…

But to prevent the already nervous Nth-generation great-granddaughter from losing her mind, he squeezed Heddy’s shoulder and gave her a reassuring look. “Don’t worry. I understand everything.”

With Heddy’s relieved smile, the carriage carrying the clueless Rebecca and the seemingly all-knowing Gawain rolled onto the road toward the royal capital.

At the same time, Knight Philip dispatched his men as Gawain had instructed.

They were sharp villagers and quick-tongued locals hired in Tansan Town—some even petty thugs and scoundrels easily bought with a few coins. Dealing with these people made the young knight uncomfortable, and the tasks assigned to them felt strange: their only mission was to fan out in all directions, infiltrate every crowded place—taverns, black markets, the foul shanties of the slums—and start spreading rumors.

If possible, they were to find passing bards and spread the tales to them as well.

So, over the following days, this scene became common in the southern regions: dusty strangers with strange accents appearing among crowds, wearing mysterious yet confident expressions, telling nearly identical stories:

“Hey, have you heard? The Cecil family down south is in trouble! Their lands were destroyed by monsters and dragons! They say it even stirred the spirits underground. The legendary ancestor of House Cecil has risen from the grave… You heard me right! The famous Gawain Cecil himself has awakened! He’s here to destroy those monsters…”

“Hey! Why would I lie? Everyone down south is talking about it. Just ask around Tansan or Linmu Town. And look at my clothes—I’m one of those who escaped from the south. I swear, I saw the Cecil ancestor rise with my own eyes!”

Almost everyone told the same story, swearing they had witnessed these strange events firsthand. Even those who weren’t among Philip’s original emissaries repeated the tale with equal conviction.

If someone gathered all these rumors in one place, they’d be amazed to find that at least a thousand people stood solemnly in the ancestral tomb when the Cecil forefather rose—and ten thousand more watched from the graves outside…

Yet in this era, no one capable of verifying such things paid attention to these street-corner rumors. And those who believed and spread them rarely thought too deeply.

Meanwhile, aboard the carriage bound for Saint Suniel City, Gawain gazed out at the passing scenery, pondering how to face the king seated high in the Silver Fortress.

He wasn’t sure how effective Philip’s mission would be—in fact, he barely had thirty percent confidence in it. This was a contradictory and ignorant world. Magic made many things surprisingly convenient, even beyond the era’s level, but supernatural powers were held by only a few. People here hadn’t—or thought they didn’t need to—turn magic into widespread productive force. So in the powerless lower classes, everything was unbelievably backward.

Communication relied on shouting; travel relied on walking. Gossip spread quickly within a town because tavern talk was the common folk’s only entertainment after work. But news traveling from one town to another was ten times harder, hindered by barren wilderness and noble-imposed travel restrictions. Without a lord’s permission, peasants risked execution just to cross into a neighboring village to buy a chicken!

The travel pass jointly signed by House Cecil and House Leslie (Viscount Andrew’s family) solved the movement restrictions but not the other difficulties.

Still, some effort was better than none.

Gawain’s goal was simple: to spread the story of the “Cecil ancestor’s resurrection” as widely as possible. The wider, the better. It couldn’t remain a secret known only among nobles; it had to become hot gossip among commoners and even the poor. If possible, it should grow into a ghost story, a chilling legend—and in fact, the rumors were already heading that way.

These stories would be embellished again and again during transmission. The superstitious, ignorant medieval folk would add countless details based on their own understanding. Gawain didn’t care about the specifics—he only wanted the rumors to ferment.

Then everyone would know: the ancestor of House Cecil had risen, and the legendary founding grand duke had awakened just as monsters attacked the kingdom…

(End of chapter)