Chapter 28: A New Visitor

Edmund Morn left with a smile on his face. It seemed the negotiation had gone quite well for him. However, the prince politely declined Gawain’s invitation to stay for dinner—he said he needed to return to Silverkeep as soon as possible; the old king was still waiting for good news.

Only after Edmund had gone did Rebecca speak up. “He seems like a really nice guy. I thought a crown prince would be difficult to get along with, all pomp and court etiquette and whatnot…”

“That’s because he was dealing with an elder from seven centuries ago, not some fallen border viscount,” Gawain shot her a glance. “Do you think the way he acted here is how he normally is? Quite the opposite. The fact that his manner almost perfectly matched my own way of speaking tells me he did his homework before coming.”

“Ah?” Rebecca blinked.

Gawain thought for a moment and explained, “The art of negotiation boils down to knowing who you’re talking to and adjusting accordingly. He started off with the proper respect and maturity expected of a prince visiting a high-ranking noble elder. Then, noticing my tone and attitude, he relaxed and became more humorous. That made me more willing to engage with him—that’s a real skill.”

Rebecca scratched her head. “…Huh?”

Gawain sighed. “You’d better stick to mastering the four ways to cast Fireball.”

Even Rebecca, stubborn as she was, could sense Gawain’s deep exasperation. She suddenly felt a little nervous. “Ancestor, am I… a bit too slow on this kind of thing?”

“Everyone has their strengths. Yours just aren’t here, so don’t force it,” Gawain ruffled her hair (being tall had its perks). “Honestly, I don’t much like these political games either. I prefer the old days when a bunch of us would risk life and limb, burying our heads in the wasteland to carve out a path.”

Rebecca nodded, half understanding, then asked curiously, “By the way, ancestor, is what you said earlier true?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you really give one kind of red wine over thirty different names, and write a sonnet for each?”

Gawain sighed again. “Of course it’s true.”

“That sounds amazing!”

“But the truth is, we were poor. Back then, our expedition hadn’t even reached the Holy Spirit Plains yet. Before we found the grain-producing lands, it was hard just to fill our stomachs. We gave one wine thirty names because it was the only wine we had—and the last barrel at that. We wrote sonnets for it because there was nothing else to do. So you see, all those complicated noble rituals and rules? They’re either born from boredom or hunger. At their core, they’re just incredibly dull.”

Rebecca’s eyes sparkled. She felt like she’d just gained a treasure trove of knowledge—things Aunt Hetty never taught her!

Suddenly, the window in the room slid open, and Amber jumped in through it. She flopped onto a chair, swinging her legs as she teased Gawain, “You old geezer, you’re pretty interesting! Just from what you said, I’m rating you higher than all the nobles!”

“Don’t call me old geezer—I’m in my prime!” Gawain shot her a glare. “And weren’t you supposed to be patrolling outside? Sneaking in to slack off?”

Amber wiggled in the chair, unable to sit still for a moment. “I did patrol! Found nothing, so I came in for a drink. You can’t expect me not to rest, right? But how did you know someone would sneak in? The prince came through the front door…”

“If the prince had to climb over the wall, Charles would probably have to jump out of his coffin,” Gawain’s lip twitched. “Not everyone who wants to get information from me comes through the front gate. I’m here today waiting for those kinds of people.”

“Alright, alright, you’re the boss,” Amber waved a hand, poured herself a cup of tea, gulped it down, then got up and headed for the window. Before jumping out, she turned back and swiped two pieces of Gawain’s muffins, “It’s cold outside. I need something to keep me going.”

Gawain regretted not having the Sword of the Pioneer in hand.

He then looked at his N+1th great-granddaughter. “You should go back and rest. You have to meet the king tomorrow, and you need to be at your best.”

Rebecca nodded, then asked, “What about you, ancestor?”

“I’m used to staying up late, and I plan to visit the study,” Gawain said. “It’s a bit like revisiting old haunts. I want to see how much has changed.”

Rebecca obediently said goodnight and left the room. Gawain stood for a moment before heading upstairs to the study.

Though Gawain Cecil was famed for his martial prowess, he wasn’t just a brute with a sword. In fact, he was half a scholar and an herbalist, and enjoyed reading in his spare time. So in the manor at 4 Crown Street, besides a room for weapons, armor, and trophies, there was a sizable study.

Sitting at the desk reconstructed by future generations, Gawain tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the surface. His gaze drifted between the antique bookshelves and the paintings on the walls, finally settling back on the desk.

Memories not his own surged again in his mind, lending a strange familiarity to the objects before him. He marveled at the painstaking efforts of those who came after—furniture restored, even the magical quill and parchment placed exactly where Gawain Cecil had used them in life. This obsessive attention to detail gave him an eerie sense of foreboding.

It was as if someone had known he would return and prepared this place just for him.

But though the memories were vivid, they weren’t truly his, and he felt no emotional connection. He quickly withdrew his gaze, stood, and crouched down to feel along the floor beneath the desk.

A hidden compartment opened. His fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. Finding a small pull ring, he lifted out a delicate little box.

It gleamed with a cool silver light, still pristine after seven centuries.

Seeing the box, Gawain breathed a sigh of relief.

Though much of the manor’s contents were no longer original, some things could last over seven hundred years—like this small mithril safe.

The box was engraved with intricate magical patterns, and in addition, a sword-and-shield crest forged from fine gold and star iron. Beside it were delicate characters and the joint seal of Charles I and Gawain Cecil.

These marks, along with secret orders passed down through the Morn family (the Ansuz royal line), ensured that even if the house was rebuilt, anyone finding this box would reseal it in its original place.

But this was only because Gawain’s “resurrection” wasn’t too late. Ancient orders and the authority of his ancestors faded with time, especially now in the Second Dynasty, when the First Dynasty’s influence was at its lowest. Had he come later, after another full renovation, no one could guarantee the box’s whereabouts.

Gawain carefully placed the box on the desk. If the most important goal of this trip to the capital was the “permanent pioneering rights,” then this mithril safe was the second most important.

He hadn’t brought Rebecca to find it—not because he distrusted his theoretical descendant, but because he wasn’t sure if the box was still here. It would be embarrassing to bring the girl with a “Look what your ancestor left you!” expression, only to find nothing.

Following the memory, Gawain infused magic into the box’s surface patterns, then smeared a drop of his blood on the crest at the center of the lid. The small magical device immediately emitted a crisp mechanical whirring, and the lid popped open slightly.

Inside were few items: a handful of crystals, now powerless and only decorative, and a palm-sized platinum disc. Gawain set the crystals aside and examined the disc.

Its surface was also etched with complex magical runes, but beyond that, faintly shimmering characters floated above the face—seals used to communicate with elemental forces.

“Good. Now I have the key…”

Gawain muttered under his breath, tucking the crystals and disc into his cloak. Just as he stood, a sudden breeze brushed past his ear.

He immediately grabbed a short sword from the desk and tensed, ready for battle.

“Such sharp reflexes and alertness—this must be you indeed,” a young woman’s voice came from outside the window. Gawain noticed the study window had opened without his realizing it, and a veiled woman in a purple gown appeared, floating in midair as she approached the window. “Relax. People like you and me—if we fought, half the city would be caught in the crossfire…”

Before she could finish, a swift shadow leapt down from the rooftop, accompanied by Amber’s shouts: “Thief! I finally caught you—ah!”

Amber, a master of shadow affinity and stealth, with maxed-out Shadow Step, was a formidable talent—but with only about one and a half geese worth of combat power, she was casually knocked aside by the mysterious woman.

The woman seemed startled herself, still recovering from the surprise. “What was that just now?”

Gawain gripped his short sword tightly, still wary. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s my bodyguard.”

“Oh, sorry,” the woman quickly apologized, surprisingly polite. She glanced toward where Amber had fallen, then explained, “I acted on instinct when you suddenly appeared. But don’t worry, she’s fine—just a little dizzy.”

Gawain relaxed slightly but kept his guard up. “Who exactly are you?”

“Apologies for the abrupt entrance,” the woman bowed politely from the windowsill. “Greetings from the Mithril Treasury. Allow me to introduce myself—I’m Melita Pernia, your VIP liaison. I manage all your deposits in the Holy Silver Treasury.”

Gawain frowned. “My Little Pony?”

(End of chapter)