Chapter 244

In the communications hall, Kamail stood for a long time, gazing at the 972 seats that had fallen into eternal silence.

Familiar names flashed through his mind—names tied to faces now fading in memory. He vaguely recalled the day the Watcher team first took up residence in this facility. The vows they made then still echoed in his ears.

They had willingly forsaken everything that made them human, pledging in humanity’s name to watch over this fortress, to guard the hope and seeds within, enduring the endless night until the fires were rekindled, until the light of civilization shone upon the world once more.

The Watchers had not broken their oath. Today, the last Watcher would fulfill the promises made a thousand years ago.

Kamail stood at the very front of the hall, before the wall where the final message had once been projected. The runic armor plates rubbed softly against the air as he bowed slightly, bidding farewell to his former comrades.

Gawain and Hetty waited quietly at the entrance, watching him.

“Ancestor, what are you thinking about?” Hetty asked softly, noticing the expression on Gawain’s face.

Gawain sighed gently. “About the things that don’t add up.”

Hetty frowned. “What things don’t add up?”

“The lockdown of this facility,” Gawain shook his head slowly. “This place was sealed a thousand years ago. The Watchers and the ‘Seeds’ entered stasis at the same time. But the actual magical tide—the Cataclysm—didn’t break out until seven hundred years ago. That’s a full three hundred years in advance… Doesn’t that seem unnecessary to you?”

“Maybe the scholars foresaw the horror of the Cataclysm,” Hetty offered, “and thought it would be too late to seal the fortress and enter stasis once the disaster struck. So they stored a batch of sleeping Seeds beforehand, so that if civilization was wiped out, they could awaken and rebuild the empire someday…”

Gawain neither confirmed nor denied. After a moment, he continued, “According to Kamail, aside from the Seeds who were meant to be the core of the rebuilding effort, the Watchers guarding the fortress were the key executors of the old ‘Rebellion’ project. They were the most elite mages, the most advanced scholars—each one invaluable. When the Rebellion Fortress completed its mission, only peripheral staff left. The true core, leadership, and those in the know all entered deep stasis within the fortress. And the ‘results’ sent back to the capital? They never reached the public eye…”

Hetty frowned, beginning to grasp Gawain’s implication.

Then Gawain pointed out a third suspicious detail: “Finally, the Kingdom of Gondor apparently never warned neighboring nations about the Cataclysm.”

“You mean the elves, dwarves, and orcs?” Hetty raised her eyebrows. “Maybe the empire never intended to warn them? The Gondorian royal family only cared about preserving human civilization during the disaster, not about…”

“No,” Gawain interrupted, shaking his head. “The Gondor of that era was very different from what you imagine. Since the latter half of the Age of Sparks, Gondor was the most powerful realm on this continent. But this human empire didn’t rely on violence or conquest to deal with other races—partly because of the limitations of the Deep Blue Well. Gondor flourished but couldn’t expand outward, so successive emperors chose to maintain strength while fostering friendly relations with neighboring realms.

“From Kamail’s active years until the Cataclysm broke out three centuries later, Gondor was in a honeymoon period with the elves and dwarves. Especially with the Silver Empire founded by the elves. The ‘Ten Forests Pact’ of that time brought humans and elves to their closest alliance. A third of the elven royal descendants studied in Gondor’s capital, and human trade caravans traveled throughout the Silver Empire. If relations hadn’t been so close, the elves wouldn’t have been so eager to help human refugees after the Cataclysm. Besides building the great walls, the elves also accepted human southern pioneer legions. The Highland Kingdom in the south today was practically established with elven aid.”

“So… if humans had known about the Cataclysm early on, they would have at least warned the elves,” Hetty said, fully understanding Gawain’s doubts. “But Kamail never mentioned anything about that. All he knew was the part about preserving human civilization.”

“Kamail was just a technician, so he might not have known the full plan. But from what I know, I’m certain the elves were kept in the dark,” Gawain nodded. “At least… their common folk knew nothing.”

“All information was sealed off,” Hetty breathed softly. “Most members of the Rebellion project were locked away in this fortress, their achievements never made public. The Gondorian royal family neither informed the people about the Cataclysm nor warned any other races on the continent. If at first it was to prevent panic, that might make sense. But they kept controlling the information even after the Cataclysm struck. That’s hard to understand… What were those in the know really afraid of? Just public panic?”

“I don’t know,” Gawain shook his head after a long silence. “But I do know they feared more than just the Cataclysm itself…”

Gawain didn’t share all his doubts with Hetty. Beyond the illogical information lockdown, he sensed another inconsistency: the ancient Gondorian royal family’s assessment of the Cataclysm’s scale seemed flawed.

From their final message to the Rebellion Fortress, they clearly believed the survivors inside would be humanity’s last remnants—perhaps the last survivors of all mortal civilizations. But in truth, seven hundred years ago, the Cataclysm didn’t wipe out all human civilization. Many refugees escaped the wastelands, even from Gondor itself.

In Tyr’s words, that was just a “minor magical tide.”

The Gondorian royals had clearly misjudged, mistaking that event for a world-ending Cataclysm…

But was this misjudgment really just a nervous mistake? Or was the Cataclysm seven centuries ago actually powerful enough to destroy the world?

Everything remained a mystery.

Having finished his final farewell, Kamail approached Gawain and bowed slightly. “I’ve taken up quite a bit of time.”

“No matter. We were just discussing some matters,” Gawain said, ending his conversation with Hetty and nodding to Kamail. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it that every body here is respectfully laid to rest. The world will remember each sacrifice.”

“Please accept my thanks on their behalf,” Kamail replied. “Next, I will open all the remaining sample vaults in the fortress. Hopefully, these ancient relics can be of use in this age.”

At the same time, on the border between Ansu and Typhon, a young knight commander stood atop a high command tower. From the room at the tower’s peak, she gazed through the window at the hazy mountain range shrouded in snow.

Winter had arrived. A heavy snowfall had lasted two days and still continued. Even the Dark Mountains were cloaked in silver. As the mountain wind swept through, snow swirled into a misty veil, blurring the boundary between earth and sky.

Andersa Wendel knew that mountain range led to that ancient, decayed, sluggish kingdom—a land held by a group of mediocre conservatives who basked in ancestral glory while blocking humanity’s resurgence.

This era belonged to sharper, stronger, braver reformers. Typhon was such a force—a great empire embodying human glory and the spirit of ancient Gondor. Ansu, by contrast, was almost the opposite of that shining ideal.

That kingdom was not only corrupt and decadent—it had even swallowed her father.

Andersa withdrew her gaze. Whenever heavy snow fell on the border, she couldn’t help but think of her father, long dead. She was young then, and memories of him had mostly faded, but one thing remained clear: he disappeared after a snowstorm just like this—vanished in the wild lands west of the fortress, never heard from again, no body ever found.

No one was held accountable. One of Typhon’s oldest, most noble families lost its finest heir, and no one took responsibility.

Andersa exhaled softly, hiding all her emotions behind her pale gray eyes. She lowered her head to look at the letter recently opened on the table. The seal of Duke Ferdinand was stamped on it, and the contents were brief—just half a page.

As always, her grandfather’s letters contained no warmth, only the tone of a superior instructing a subordinate. Andersa had to read between the terse lines many times to detect the faintest hint of concern.

This letter again reminded her to pay attention to winter border defenses, but it also mentioned some changes in the capital’s situation. The old duke still treated his granddaughter as someone to be taught—even though Andersa had become the youngest Wolf General in Typhon’s history, the habits formed over half a century were hard to break.

Her eyes scanned the letter, finally resting on the last few lines—mentioning the recently spreading rumor of a “resurrected hero” and instructions concerning Andersa herself. The young Wolf General frowned, then sighed softly.

“To the messenger at the door: summon Mr. Solderin,” she said.

Moments later, a golden-haired elf entered the room.

A typical pure-blooded Silver Elf, tall and slender, dressed in winter ranger gear. His skin was pale, his features nearly flawless. Long pale gold hair flowed behind his head. If not for the slight masculinity in his Adam’s apple and sharp eyes, this golden-haired male elf might have been mistaken for an elegant, beautiful lady. From appearance alone, he gave off no hint of martial might.

But Andersa knew the true strength behind this elf—power that even she, inheriting the Wolf General title, admired. This elf, a freelance warrior hired by the Typhon Empire, was the fortress’s finest hunter and scout, and the best candidate she could think of for a covert mission.

“Mr. Solderin,” Andersa nodded slightly. “I have a task for you.”

“At your service, Commander,” Solderin bowed his head slightly, a faint smile on his lips. “Since winter began, I haven’t found a worthy prey in a long time.”

(End of chapter)