Chapter 287: An Unsettled Winter Day

Gawain’s words stirred a great turmoil within Kamail’s mind, so much so that his entire aura flickered in a steady 4/4 rhythm, and his color shifted toward a cool blue. It wasn’t that he failed to understand Gawain’s meaning—rather, the idea clashed profoundly with the traditional mindset behind magical artifact production.

Even during the height of the Gondor Empire, when their technical prowess was unmatched and some common magical items were mass-produced, many magical devices remained precious and rare. From the very beginning, people regarded these artifacts as heirlooms—family swords, rings, amulets—passed down through generations. It was normal for such items to last decades, even two or three centuries. Despite Gondor’s advanced technology, their mass-produced magical goods were limited in variety. Only items involving simple mana infusion or shaping could be produced on a large scale. More complex devices, requiring the involvement of skilled magisters, still relied on workshop or laboratory craftsmanship.

Because magisters could not be mass-produced.

Thus, although Gondor’s technology was advanced, its development pace was slow. Especially in the later years, after the potential of the deep blue mana wells had been nearly fully tapped, the empire’s strength and material wealth were less a product of technological progress and more a result of accumulated resources.

Kamail had never considered what would happen if all magical devices became cheap, mass-produced, and rapidly consumable industrial products.

Yet he could not refute Gawain’s argument. Though ancient, Kamail was not stubborn; his thinking was simply constrained by his experience. Once he opened his mind, he realized Gawain was right.

Magical artifacts became heirlooms not because they lasted long, but because they were so precious that people had to make them last. If a magical device could be mass-produced in factories, affordable and accessible to everyone, and replaced every few years or even decades, would anyone bother to treasure it and pass it down through generations?

Gawain himself had his reasons for emphasizing the “consumable” nature of industrial products. He was well aware that lifespan remained a crucial measure of quality. Mass production didn’t mean lifespan could be ignored—especially for battlefield equipment, which had to be rugged and durable.

Different items demanded different lifespans. The durability requirements for semi-permanent fortifications and a cannon barrel (or acceleration rail) were obviously not the same.

So Gawain conducted material tests and calculations, powering repulsion plates with mana fields exceeding design strength, testing the wear on red copper substrates under extreme conditions. He concluded that even under prolonged overload, the materials could meet the demands.

Previously, he had fallen into a misconception: he considered boosting short-term output of some magitech devices by overloading them. But whenever he mentioned this to Hetty, she would warn that it would severely shorten the device’s lifespan, making it not worth the trade-off. With many other matters to attend to, he hadn’t pursued this line of inquiry further—until one day, he asked Hetty how long a device could operate stably under frequent overload. She replied seriously:

“Ancestor, the magic array would dissolve and break down in less than forty years!”

That’s when Gawain realized that on the issue of “lifespan,” his worldview differed from the locals’. To them, a magical device that didn’t last until the great-grandchildren’s generation was practically wasted.

“Based on my tests, using a red copper substrate as a universal base plate for the repulsion generator, the acceleration rail can fire between three thousand and four thousand rounds continuously. Of course, this is a rough estimate; final confirmation requires finished product testing, and environmental factors will affect the number. But regardless, I believe this lifespan is fully adequate.”

“Three thousand firings… that should indeed be enough,” Kamail recalled the rune forging factory’s production methods for rune plates and had to admit the lifespan was more than sufficient. “So the acceleration rail issue is solved. But the array used on the projectiles… that seems to be an elven system?”

“Exactly. ‘Blessing of the Wind’—a basic spell with a hurricane suffix. Skilled elven rangers imbue each arrow they shoot with the power of wind, allowing the projectile to resist air currents and greatly increase speed and range. I believe this can be applied to cannonballs as well—though the size is larger, the projectile still flies.”

Kamail hesitated. “The elven magic system and the human magic system…”

“Humans basically cannot use elven magic,” Gawain explained. “The two races have subtle differences in brain structure, causing humans to perceive mana differently from elves. Their spellcasting methods are fundamentally distinct. Therefore, elven magic must be converted into human spell models to be wielded by human casters. If a spell model cannot be converted, humans simply cannot cast it. However…” Gawain nodded, then shifted tone, “this problem only arises during spellcasting. Magic arrays and runes don’t have this barrier—mathematics doesn’t discriminate!”

“You mean…”

“I obtained the ‘array expression’ for Blessing of the Wind from Solderin. It’s a magic array based on elven spells. Elves can inscribe it, humans can inscribe it, and regardless of who draws it, it works,” Gawain said calmly. “But the array is overly complex, energy-intensive, and requires expensive materials. So I want you to optimize it—reconstruct the runes using formulas from rune logic. The language of elements is universal. Though these runes are elven, their elemental meanings are no different from human runes.”

“That’s right—the language of elements is universal…” Kamail’s voice grew eager. “The language of mathematics… should be universal as well…”

Gawain nodded. “If rune logic can optimize this array, then we prove something: mathematics, like the language of elements, is a language of truth. At least within the realms we can access, it serves that role. The application of rune logic will expand greatly. From now on, not only human spell systems but even elven ones can be incorporated into the world constructed by the Jenny formula set and the Ravenkaise constant!”

Kamail was silent for two seconds, then bowed solemnly to Gawain. “I will personally bring this to fruition!”

“I look forward to your results,” Gawain smiled. “But don’t neglect your weapons design line—energy weapons are essential too.”

Kamail left. Gawain rose from his desk and walked to the window, quietly gazing toward the northern shore.

The territory still lacked many buildings; his sight stretched beyond the administrative district, residential areas, and the northern docks. Thanks to his legendary knight’s keen vision, he could see far.

It was a clear day after snowfall. The scenery across the northern bank of the Whitewater River was faintly visible.

The newly formed 25th Production Construction Brigade and a “prisoner-of-war unit” of sixteen Typhon captives had been dispatched to the northern shore to build a new residential area. Scaffolding of varying heights rose like withered branches against the snowy backdrop, gradually taking root in the land. The month of Mistfall was nearing its end. After this sixty-day-long month, the colder, harsher “Biting Cold Month” would begin. Across the noble estates, countless impoverished souls would face their greatest annual trial of survival. Meanwhile, the Cecil territory would complete its final projects for the year, preparing for population growth and spring planting.

After the Biting Cold Month came the Month of Renewal. With spring planting underway, farming would become busy everywhere. Cheap serfs would no longer be so easy to find, but the number of refugees would never dwindle—people always lost their land and homes for various reasons, forced out or fleeing. Like migrating ants, they moved from one territory to another; some died on the road, others in foreign lands. Even in good years, people left their homes.

After all, this was the desolate southern region. A hundred years had passed since the decline of the Cecil family. Countless pioneering outposts and granaries had vanished amid noble power struggles. Land left fallow was easy to abandon but hard to reclaim. With constant friction among southern nobles, people had no peace to cultivate new land or build homes. Refugees had become a “normal phenomenon” in the south, and nobles had long grown accustomed to it.

In such circumstances, any stable land that could fill stomachs naturally attracted large influxes of people. Gawain’s concerns boiled down to two questions: first, could he “absorb” so many people? Second…

Would the “friendly neighbors” watch silently as the Cecil territory grew ever larger?

Meanwhile, the capital had also been blanketed by heavy snow—the largest snowfall since winter began.

Veronica stood atop the highest tower of the Holy Light Cathedral, letting the biting wind whip snowflakes from the roof against her face, yet she felt nothing.

This was the cathedral’s highest point. At the peak of the spire was a special prayer chamber, its roof embedded with a priceless Holy Light crystal. The crystal pierced through the roof, extending outside and pointing directly at the sky. Believers held that placing an energy crystal so high was the closest way to commune with the divine.

Thus, this prayer chamber was the cathedral’s most sacred place. Ordinary worshippers were forbidden entry; even Veronica had only been allowed inside after passing the “Trial of the Gods.”

Yet she neither prayed nor looked up at the crystal that would fill any faithful with joy. Instead, she opened the window and gazed down at the people below.

The snow had yet to be cleared. The entire city lay swathed in white. The square before the cathedral and several streets were covered in pure snow, its pristine color masking all filth, decay, and rot—sewage, refuse, even frozen corpses—temporarily hidden as if they never existed.

The worshippers walked through this white expanse: citizens in colorful winter clothes, wealthy merchants, knights, nobles. They formed distinct streams entering the cathedral district through different gates, seeking divine guidance and some measure of comfort to justify continuing their current lives.

The snow was trampled and melted by sunlight, revealing the black streets beneath, muddied and filthy—just like the worshippers themselves.

Veronica suddenly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, her expression was calm and unreadable, devoid of any flicker of emotion.

“Life is born full of flaws, yet it yearns for the light,” Veronica murmured softly, as if trying to convince herself. The holy light that had been flowing through her gradually dimmed with her words. Finally, she lifted her head and gazed down at the street below, whispering a prayer, “May you guide the sacred light…”

(End of chapter)