Chapter 36: The Banquet

The Dark Mountains.

After following King Gawain’s指pointed location, everyone fell silent, stunned.

The first to break the silence was Duke Bertram Franklin of the Western Marches. His eyes widened. “Are you… sure about this?”

“Why not?” Gawain smiled. “Is this place already claimed by someone else?”

“That’s not it…” Francis II shook his head. “The entire Dark Mountains region and the lands further south are unclaimed, so it fits the criteria for colonization. But that spot is dangerously close to the Typhon Empire, and to the south it directly borders the wastelands of Gondor. It’s… well…”

The Dark Mountains form part of Ansu’s southern border. Its eastern stretch extends into Typhon territory, while the western side runs along Ansu’s border for hundreds of kilometers before curving southward, dipping into the corrupted lands of the Gondor Wastelands. In theory, even the strip of plains south of the mountains belongs to Ansu, but in reality, the kingdom’s control barely reaches the northern slopes—and even there, their hold is tenuous at best.

The main reason for this is the Gondor Wastelands.

To this day, that land remains shrouded in chaotic elemental forces and arcane energies. The ever-churning corruption has rendered the soil barren, and the air is thick with toxins deadly to humans.

Though the wastelands no longer expand, the poisonous dust storms that occasionally blow from its edges, along with the monsters that sometimes wander out, pose lethal threats.

Historically, after Ansu stabilized, the kingdom made several attempts to push southward—there were even plans to reclaim the ancestral lands of Gondor. But all efforts failed. Purifying the wasteland proved extraordinarily difficult and unpredictable; the costs far outweighed any gains. Early outposts barely survived long enough to yield results before being destroyed by toxic storms or monsters. Eventually, the royal family withdrew all colonization forces, halting at the northern edge of the Dark Mountains.

Later, as the northern regions prospered and diplomatic ties with the Violet Kingdom strengthened, the kingdom’s focus shifted northward. Then, a century ago, the “Mistmoon Civil War” shattered the Cecil family’s hold in the south overnight, plunging the region into further chaos and decline. Today, much of the Dark Mountains and surrounding lands are little better than wasteland.

The taint from the wastelands even seeps into the northern plains beyond the mountains.

But Gawain only smiled faintly. “I’ve faced worse than that before. When it comes to political intrigue and scheming, maybe you younger nobles have me beat. But when it comes to battling the harsh forces of nature, none of you can hold a candle to me.”

Whether true or not, he was certainly blowing his own horn.

Since Gawain himself was so confident, no one else bothered to worry on his behalf. For the king and other nobles, whether Gawain Cecil could truly establish himself in the south was irrelevant. Their main concern was simply when this hot potato would leave the capital. Now that Gawain had chosen a godforsaken place no one else wanted, what was there to say?

Hurry up and send the old ancestor out of the city!

If it weren’t for some remaining details to settle, Francis II would have already prepared the carriage for Gawain and his family.

After finalizing the crucial colonization rights, Gawain smoothly got Francis II to agree to a few other “minor” points.

First, Gawain Cecil’s ducal title would remain intact, but only as a personal honor. It could not be inherited by any heirs—unless, upon Gawain’s eventual death (yes, again), the Cecil family had by then established a vast territory in the south or achieved other notable merits. At that point, the title could be reassessed based on their lands and accomplishments.

This was a rather awkward compromise, born from the contradiction between Gawain’s ducal title and a scandal from a century ago. No one dared strip the founding duke’s title, but no way could a mere viscount family leapfrog directly to duke. So this half-measure was the only solution. Frankly, it violated every law Ansu had ever had—but what logic can you expect from a man who just rose from the grave?

The old ancestor doesn’t even bother with physics, let alone reason!

The phrase “temporarily non-inheritable” was clearly just a stalling tactic, a way to placate the existing noble order.

Besides that, the Ansu royal family fully recognized the Cecil family’s complete autonomy over their newly colonized lands—just as the founding monarchs had granted to all pioneering territories.

With a few other minor agreements, Gawain got exactly what he wanted.

A kingdom within a kingdom, free from interference.

In truth, these terms had been settled long ago. When Prince Edmund paid an early visit, Gawain had already made contact with the king. The meeting in the Oak Hall was merely a formality.

No one present objected. After all, the Cecils were heading to a barren wasteland. No matter how much land they claimed, it wouldn’t threaten any existing noble family’s interests. Without conflicts of interest, nominal disputes were easy to resolve.

Francis II signed the new colonization charter on the spot, declaring that under ancient law, the Cecil family would have colonization rights over all lands centered on the Dark Mountains, extending to the borders of neighboring royal domains. He also pledged royal support for the endeavor—including a team of one hundred craftsmen and apprentice mages, plus the first year’s supply of food and cloth.

The craftsmen and apprentices would serve three years in the new territory. After that, they could choose to stay or leave. If they stayed, the Cecil family would “purchase” their service from the crown at thirty gold shields per person.

This support wasn’t lavish, but Gawain was more than satisfied. For the currently penniless Cecil family, it was a lifeline.

Gold and silver from the mountain treasury couldn’t be turned directly into food or skilled artisans. In these peaceful times, “colonization” was a distant memory. No one wanted to leave their comfortable homes to settle next to the Gondor Wastelands. Those hundred craftsmen and apprentices would be the family’s most precious asset.

This was also Francis II’s way of showing goodwill on behalf of the Ansu crown—to thank the founding duke for acknowledging the royal bloodline.

The deal done, everyone was pleased. And after a mutually satisfying agreement, a banquet was inevitable.

The Oak Hall was closed off again, and the castle’s second-floor banquet hall hosted a grand feast. Fine wines and delicacies filled the tables. The king and his most trusted nobles gathered to celebrate the return of a legendary hero. Many nobles whose names no one could recall suddenly appeared out of nowhere, filling the hall with lively chatter.

These newcomers lacked the privilege to enter the Oak Hall but had the right to hear the meeting’s outcome first. They had waited all day in the Silver Fortress’s various lounges, only emerging with smiles when a servant rang the bronze bell signaling the celebration.

For Rebecca, this was her first time at such an event. The fallen young lady lord had never set foot in such opulence. Due to the noble circle’s disdain for the Cecil family, she had attended few proper banquets. The grandest feast she remembered was her sixteenth birthday party, when her father held a lively celebration in the castle—but that was just a long table laden with food.

This banquet in the Silver Fortress was on a whole different level.

Long tables lined the entire hall, piled high with food and drink for all to help themselves. The center was a dance floor where ladies and gentlemen twirled. A lavishly dressed orchestra played on a stage to one side. Mages stationed at the four corners cast spells, conjuring dazzling lights and drifting snowflakes in midair—using precious mages to create such illusions just to liven the atmosphere was simply unimaginable to Rebecca.

His Majesty the King… is so rich.

At first, Rebecca tried to keep a composed, mature expression. But soon her youthful nature took over. She grabbed Gawain’s hand, peppering him with questions. Gawain smiled and spun fanciful tales, mixing his memories with the imagination of a time traveler.

Rebecca’s rustic behavior didn’t escape the sharp eyes of the senior nobles. Yet none showed open disdain—perhaps some inwardly did—but with Gawain Cecil standing firmly by her side, this ever-present “guardian” forced everyone to suppress their contempt and at least wear polite smiles.

Soon, a few young nobles approached to invite Rebecca to dance—likely seeing the Cecil family’s new founding ancestor as a potential connection. But Gawain blocked them all.

Come on, with Rebecca’s thick-headed, stubborn nature, she wouldn’t last a day in the southern court. Dealing with these sly city folk would be like selling out the whole family in an instant.

“Overprotection won’t help a child grow,” a gentle male voice said from nearby. “Viscountess Rebecca is an adult now. You should let her mingle more in high society.”

Gawain turned to see Duke Bertram Franklin standing behind him, accompanied by Duchess Victoria Wilde of the Northern Marches.

“I died young and have little experience raising children,” Gawain shrugged indifferently.

Bertram: “…”

Victoria: “…”

“Besides, even if I didn’t stop her, Rebecca wouldn’t have time for others,” Gawain added, nodding toward his great-great-great-granddaughter, who was currently sprawled over a nearby table, stuffing her face.

“Truly… headstrong,” Duke Bertram remarked dryly.

Gawain smiled and glanced at the impassive Victoria Wilde beside him. “More than educating the next generation, I have some questions for Miss Wilde here.”

(End of chapter)