Chapter 35: The Agreement

Everything unfolded just as Gawain had anticipated.

News from the south stirred unease among the king and nobles. Coupled with warnings from a resurrected ancestor, this unease might have escalated to near panic—if only briefly.

But those who had never experienced the magical cataclysm, nor could truly imagine it, wouldn’t overreact to mere words. Even with Gawain presenting swords and armor corroded by elemental forces as proof, it wasn’t enough to push them into a higher state of alert.

After all, the “unnatural phenomena” capable of corrupting weapons and armor with magic were rare but not unheard of. They didn’t constitute ironclad evidence that the cataclysm was about to return. In fact, even Gawain himself was only making bold guesses based on his memories; he wouldn’t dare claim the world’s end was imminent.

Francis II’s response was sound. He couldn’t plunge the entire kingdom into a war footing over these sudden reports. Even if he wanted to, the bloated, outdated feudal system wouldn’t allow it. And even if the cataclysm were truly coming, mobilizing the whole nation now would be unwise—the monsters and surges of magic in the south were merely signs, not even the vanguard of the cataclysm. The real event might not arrive for months, or even years—if it came at all. Until then, all was calm.

Demanding nationwide mobilization without any concrete evidence might have been possible during the Morn family’s heyday, but the Second Dynasty no longer wielded that kind of influence.

Francis II couldn’t even command the Duke of the Eastern March.

A resurrected founding duke might carry weight in prestige, but to think that prestige could disrupt the kingdom’s current order was wishful thinking. Gawain understood this well. His influence here was like a ceremonial scepter—bright and ornate, but powerless. The Cecil family’s foundations were gone: no lands, no vassals, no troops, no generals. He had even borrowed money just to get to the capital. To the pragmatic nobility, this was an awkward position.

So Gawain stopped Rebecca from speaking further and turned to the king. “We’ve delivered our message and issued our warning. What happens next is up to you.”

“We will take your warning seriously,” Duchess Victoria Wilde said coolly. “All investigations will begin immediately after this meeting, and you will be informed at the earliest opportunity.”

“Investigations, huh… well, that’s all we can do,” Gawain nodded, then shifted gears. “Now, let’s discuss some private matters concerning the Cecil family.”

The atmosphere instantly tensed.

“Relax. Don’t look like an ‘ancestor risen from the grave demanding the paper money burned over the years be honored,’” Gawain joked, waving his hand. Then he realized no one got his dark humor…

Awkward as hell.

“I know what happened a hundred years ago. Honestly, I’d like to kill that unworthy descendant myself,” Gawain grimaced and cut straight to the point. “I have no intention of reopening that case. I’m here only to reclaim some things that belong to me personally.”

Francis II and the other dukes exchanged glances, their expressions visibly relaxing. Gawain’s voluntary mention of the upheaval a century ago was a relief. That topic was a pressure cooker—anyone who brought it up risked their blood pressure spiking. Having this living ancestor show such understanding was a comfort.

But after the sigh of relief came renewed curiosity: what personal things could Gawain Cecil possibly want?

Everything belonged to the lord—that was noble law. The Cecil family’s lands, vassals, titles—all had been Gawain’s personal property. So what exactly was he after?

Everyone tensed in subtle ways, except Francis II, who calmly met Gawain’s gaze and gave a slight nod.

“Don’t worry. Most of my possessions passed to my heirs before I died. The unworthy descendants squandered them, and I won’t forcibly take them back,” Gawain smiled. “What I mean are the parts that can’t be inherited—like… my right of pioneering.”

The nobles and advisors exchanged looks. These well-educated gentlemen and ladies immediately thought of the ancient, sacred Pioneering Decree.

It was a glorious relic of the Second Pioneering, a testament to humanity’s desperate struggle for survival, a solemn vow of mortal defiance against nature. To this day, it remained part of the foundational laws of the four great kingdoms—a law that would never again come into effect, yet no one dared repeal it.

The original decree was even inscribed on a platinum tablet, enshrined in every human realm’s hall.

But everyone kept it as a symbol! A badge of honor for descendants! Proof of legitimate heritage!

Why was it suddenly being invoked again?!

Yet beneath their shock, each face betrayed a subtle, genuine relief—something Gawain noticed.

He relaxed too and began discussing the permanent pioneering rights with those present.

Gawain believed this wouldn’t be difficult.

Compared to a resurrected ancestor demanding the redemption of burned paper money and the return of vast ancestral lands from seven centuries ago, a mere permanent pioneering right was trivial. Though it sounded impressive, it wouldn’t affect anyone’s immediate interests. And when their own interests weren’t at stake, nobles—including the king—were surprisingly reasonable.

This was exactly the outcome Gawain had engineered.

He’d been loud and conspicuous all along, spreading rumors and even brandishing the seven-century-old banner upon entering the capital, projecting an aggressive image. This was to shape everyone’s thinking—making them believe this living ancestor was here to reopen the family’s case and reclaim all ancestral lands. So everyone prepared to defend their current holdings fiercely.

But Gawain’s true goal was just the permanent pioneering right.

The contrast was like going out to buy a watch priced at 860,000 coins, only to get it for 25 after a discount—feeling like you’d scored a massive bargain.

He even half-wondered if the watch was fake.

But even if the 25-coin watch was counterfeit, the ancestor was real. If all he wanted was the pioneering right… well, what else was there to say?

Fine, fine, here you go. Take your pioneering right and go settle some wilderness—just don’t come back.

Had Gawain started with the pioneering right without any buildup, things might not have gone so smoothly. The nobles’ greed would have made them try to shortchange him. But after all the preparation, discussing the pioneering right was easy.

The king and dukes quickly agreed that the pioneering right deserved recognition—whether they liked it or not. After all, the decree wasn’t just signed by Ansu; the four great human kingdoms and neighboring nations had all acknowledged it and promised it would remain in effect forever. Among the “witnesses” was the Silver Empire of the far southern continent, home to the elves…

Those mystical, long-lived elves.

Known for their stubbornness, extreme rigor, and honesty, the elves had been chosen as witnesses precisely for these reasons. To lend the decree solemnity and credibility, the four monarchs had even commissioned a copy in the Elvish tongue, entrusted to the Silver Empire for safekeeping.

Everyone knew the first generation of pioneering knights couldn’t live forever, but humanity insisted on a “permanent” decree, witnessed by a long-lived race. That was just human eccentricity…

Back then, the elven representative muttered “Humans are strange” while taking the copy home. The elven queen happily stamped it—and seven centuries later, that young queen was still on the throne.

She remembered that stamp clearly. Try denying it now.

Gawain added that if Ansu refused to recognize the pioneering right, he’d take his family halfway across the continent to seek refuge with the Silver Empire. There were still undeveloped lands near the elven forests, and many elves were acquaintances. The Cecil family would get along well with them…

If the founding ancestor was pushed out of his own home and had to drag his family to live among foreigners in the trees, what face would anyone have left?

So everyone agreed the pioneering right must be preserved, but where exactly to pioneer was up for discussion.

“There’s no uninhabited land left within the kingdom’s borders. Every inch belongs to someone,” said Aiden Alfred, the king’s chief minister and Francis II’s right hand. “Outside the kingdom, the borderlands with other nations have little wilderness, and what remains is lifeless—like the buffer zone of the Gondor Wasteland. Your Grace, where do you intend to pioneer?”

Gawain waved his hand. “Bring me the map.”

The map was presented. Gawain glanced at it and frowned slightly.

Despite the world’s convenient magic—eagle eye spells, forest sensing, surveying magic—the map was crude, with significant scale issues.

Compared to the “satellite view” in his mind, it was little more than a doodle.

Perhaps magic’s convenience had stunted other developments?

As he pondered, Gawain cross-referenced the rough map with an accurate one in his mind, then pointed to a region on the crude map.

“I’ll start here.”

It was a mountain range bordering the Gondor Wasteland and the Typhon frontier.

The Dark Mountains.

(End of chapter)