Chapter 339: History Quietly Marching Forward
The life of the nobility was always accompanied by all-night feasts and social gatherings. Revelry and indulgence were their highest virtues. The ball at Grant Castle lasted until dawn, only then did the guests begin to disperse—some stayed overnight within the castle walls, while others boarded fur-lined, magically temperature-controlled carriages that departed at sunrise. At last, the raucous night gave way to silence.
The lady of the castle and the highest-ranking noble guest had vanished for a long stretch during the ball. This sparked endless speculation among the assembled aristocrats. But only the shallow-minded would gossip about a widow’s romantic escapades. Those with sharper senses, who always viewed the southern nobles of Cecil’s domain through the lens of intrigue, preferred to guess what secret deal the Duke of Cecil had struck with the Lady of Grant.
There was definitely a secret deal—no doubt about it. Noble gatherings never involved pure friendship, especially when a duke met with a viscount. No one believed such meetings were without underlying transactions. But the exact nature of the deal was far harder to uncover.
Most guests speculated anyway. They knew Grant lacked rich mineral resources but had abundant farmland, as well as plentiful furs and timber. So they figured the lady’s trade with the Duke of Cecil likely revolved around these goods. Considering Cecil’s domain produced cheap alchemical potions, perhaps Grant was exchanging its furs and timber for druidic elixirs that improved the land…
That was the general consensus after some reasoning.
In any case, whatever deal the Lady of Grant and the Duke of Cecil made wouldn’t upset the balance of the southern territories. The relationships among nobles were always like this—complex webs of interests, mutual suspicion yet mutual dependence. Just as tree roots intertwine beneath the Black Forest, so too did the landowning nobles wage war while secretly trading and arranging marriages. A trade agreement between Grant and Cecil was nothing unusual—who in the south didn’t buy potions from Cecil? And that didn’t stop them from also purchasing stolen magic web technology from Count Hosman…
Gawain stood on an open terrace by the side door of the ballroom. The cold night wind blew down from the north, splitting just inches before him and flowing around to either side. He looked down at the mountain path below the castle, watching carriage after carriage adorned with glowing magic crystals depart one after another in the early sunlight. Even in this harsh winter, nobles traveled lavishly between their domains, attending one feast after another. Meanwhile, the poor peasants risked freezing to death just stepping outside to gather firewood in the mountains.
After a moment, he turned his head slightly. “Amber.”
Her voice came from behind him. “Here.”
“You… uh, when did you get behind me?” Gawain was about to give instructions but froze, realizing that the half-elf who had been standing to his side had somehow slipped directly behind him.
“I’m blocking the wind for you,” the half-elf said matter-of-factly. “You’re using your protective aura to keep the cold out, but if I stand next to you, I just get blasted by the wind!”
Gawain cleared his throat. “…Cough. Go back and bring Kamail and Pittman here as fast as possible.”
Amber blinked. “Calling Kamail is to check Patty’s magical device, right? What about Pittman? Are you planning to have him treat Patty?”
“Exactly,” Gawain nodded. “Compared to pure life-force stimulation from the Holy Light, druids are better at restoring damaged flesh and replenishing vitality. His healing methods should help Patty.”
“Is that old guy really up to it?” Amber sounded doubtful. “The Lady of Grant has already sought out all kinds of extraordinary healers, probably even druids of various ranks. Maybe even mid- or high-level ones. That old druid is just low rank. If the experts can’t fix her, what chance does he have?”
“Just bring him,” Gawain smiled. “Maybe it’ll work.”
Amber scratched her head and gradually faded into the air, her voice lingering: “Fine, you’re the boss after all…”
Gawain turned back to the empty terrace and waited silently. Sure enough, before long, Amber reappeared, hopping out from the side. She stood before him, holding her hand high. “Give me money—travel expenses!”
Gawain smiled knowingly, slowly reaching into his pocket for some coins. Then, catching Amber off guard, he quickly pulled his hand back and tapped her on the head. “You still dare ask for money! That title document we got a few days ago? I checked this morning—the clasp was gold. By afternoon, it was just gilded! And you still want money?”
Amber vanished in a streak of black light, heading southwest…
After she was truly gone, Gawain took one last look at the rising sun. He inhaled deeply the fresh, cold northern air, feeling his mind sharpen. Then he turned and walked back into the castle.
Though he hadn’t rested much the night before, as an extraordinary professional, his spirit remained strong.
He decided to check on Patty, greet the young girl good morning, and tell her the rest of the story about Charlie and the Three Golden Crowns that he hadn’t finished the day before.
At the same time, deep within a secret underground palace somewhere in the Typhon Empire, a stone hall suddenly lit up with the glow of magic crystal lamps.
The bright, magic-powered light illuminated the darkness, revealing a circular platform in the center, rows of neat seats around it, and behind the seats, an artificial neural network. Figures clad in black or white robes stood silently before the seats, like nightmares emerging from the shadows.
They were the high-ranking nightmare bishops of the Sleeper’s Cult.
A shimmering, star-speckled purple-black shadow hovered above the central platform. Its voice echoed in the minds of every bishop: “All present. Let us begin.”
The bishops took their seats. One of them glanced around, then at the platform, and chuckled, breaking the silence. “After getting used to the grand halls of the Dream City, the meeting rooms of the real world feel ever more shabby.”
The shadow above the platform responded in their minds: “Dreams can’t do everything. That’s why the real world’s meeting places still have their purpose.”
“Your Eminence, we have made a key breakthrough in Project Zero,” a white-robed bishop with a female voice spoke. “In Sandbox 166, the ‘Sanctuary’ has maintained stable operation for an extended period, successfully running through its first millennium.”
“That’s the longest internal runtime of any sandbox so far,” a black-robed bishop across the table added. “Moreover, we achieved mental stability for the Sanctuary’s inhabitants. The hundred test subjects in Sandbox 166 did not experience any mental breakdowns during the thousand years. Even when the sandbox collapsed, they could still answer our questions clearly. Of course, to prevent contamination, we erased their memories after the sandbox’s dissolution.”
“Excellent,” the shadow above the platform praised, its starry surface rippling. “What is the current time iteration level?”
“The ‘thousand years’ in Sandbox 166 correspond to twenty-six days in the real world,” a black-robed female bishop bowed in reply. “We’ve hit a bottleneck in time iteration. Higher iteration levels require massive computational power, and the deeper the acceleration, the harder it is to maintain sandbox stability. Previously, Sandbox 132 reached the highest iteration level, running 378 years in a single day, but the information from inside was chaotic and insane. All test subjects became nightmare derivatives after disconnecting from the network…”
“We must balance time iteration and stability,” the shadow, the Sleeper’s Pontiff, spoke quietly. “Do not rush. Humanity still has hope before this world is consumed. Many talented individuals among our kind await discovery. We are not alone.”
Talented individuals—the bishops immediately thought of the suddenly emerging “Nightmare Mentor” level Sleeper who had shown extraordinary aptitude with the new psychic network.
“The emergence of the psychic network is greatly advancing our plans. Some previously unnoticed individuals may reveal unique talents through this new medium,” the Pontiff’s wise voice echoed in their minds. “The database concept has proven invaluable in managing sandbox systems. According to my simulations, network architecture optimization will further improve the psychic network’s efficiency. You must pay close attention to such talents and not let them go to waste.”
The bishops rose in unison, bowing respectfully. “Yes, Your Eminence. We will follow your will.”
In the northern Ansu region, amidst snow-covered mountains, the Northern Duchess Victoria Wilde stood in her study, gazing quietly at the massive map of the entire Ansu territory hanging on the wall.
The study’s windows were tightly shut, blocking the howling northern blizzard outside. Yet faint snowflakes still seemed to drift into the room around the duchess, as if she herself embodied the essence of winter.
At that moment, the study door opened. Maggie, a black-haired, black-eyed maid of ordinary appearance, entered holding a wax-sealed scroll stamped with the pale gold emblem of the Morn royal family.
“Vicky, a secret message from Saint Suniel City.”
The duchess turned to look at the maid—who was in truth a close friend and advisor. “Is the griffin’s neck tied with a white ribbon or a gold one?”
“Gold.”
“Then it must be the King’s will,” the duchess said calmly. With a gentle wave of her hand, the wax-sealed scroll opened automatically, and the secret message flew out, landing in her palm.
Victoria unfolded the letter and read every word carefully, then a faint smile appeared on her lips.
“The magical communication towers along the Ansu-Typhon border have been reactivated.”
(Note to readers: I’ll be attending a sci-fi convention in Shenzhen in a few days and will be away for several days. Updates may be affected, but I’ll try to keep a daily morning update going.)
(End of chapter)