Chapter 365: The Commoners’ Paper

In the western part of Cecil City, dense forests and lush vegetation stretched as far as the eye could see. This vast woodland provided the fledgling Cecil territory with a steady supply of building materials, industrial resources—even food. At the northern edge of this forest, near the Whitewater River, Frostwood Village was beginning to stir to life with the rising sun.

Though newly established, the village was orderly and vibrant. Rows of neatly arranged wooden houses were shrouded in curling smoke from morning fires. Scattered among them were newer homes built from cement and brick. Wide concrete roads connected the village’s main buildings, kept clean by regular sweeping and strict sanitation rules—no sign of the usual filth and refuse common on roads elsewhere in this era.

All of this was a testament to the “Cecil Order.”

Baddy, a lumberjack, stepped out into the morning light. The warmth lingering from his hearty breakfast at home helped him brace against the early spring chill in the forest. Having spent his life felling trees, he rubbed his nose, which tingled slightly in the cold wind, then headed toward the check-in point.

As he crossed the street, he glanced at the houses lining the road. The image of this place from last year flickered faintly in his mind.

He remembered when the 800 refugees first arrived in Cecil—this was nothing more than a pitifully crude logging camp. A few dozen lumberjacks and a small squad of soldiers had come here, axes and swords in hand, pitching tents and setting up fences. The original camp was smaller than the village square now at the center of town. But in less than a year, it had transformed into a proper village—one both large and beautiful. Tents had become wooden cabins, which expanded and multiplied into streets. Supplies from the city flowed in steadily, just as the timber cut here was shipped out. Cement appeared, shops opened, and the village even earned a name—Frostwood Village—bestowed personally by the lord.

If Baddy hadn’t lived through it all, he wouldn’t have believed such a transformation could happen right under his nose.

More lumberjacks appeared on the street. Baddy greeted his friends, and they laughed and chatted as they walked. Someone suddenly sighed, “This place has changed so much.”

“Of course,” a bearded lumberjack chuckled. “We even built a clock tower over winter.”

“Don’t know what’s new in the city lately,” Baddy muttered. “Things change faster there than here.”

“Last time I went in, they were building new houses on the west side,” the first lumberjack said. “They said two thousand more people in the buffer camp got what’s it called… oh, citizenship. But I haven’t been to the city recently…”

Though Frostwood Village had good roads and river transport to Cecil City, the lumberjacks rarely went in. Since the village became permanent and facilities were built, the workers settled down as villagers. With plenty of work and little reason to visit the city, most only went once or twice a month. News of city changes came from occasional visitors or the guards escorting supply caravans between town and city.

Their conversation drifted to speculation about the city and whether the lord had introduced anything new. But before long, they reached the check-in point.

Baddy wiped his nose and looked at the small shed. According to procedure, he was to check in, collect his tools, and then follow the foreman to the assigned forest area. But something was different today—many people had gathered in the clearing before the shed, including his foreman.

Curious, Baddy and a few others edged closer and saw that a supply caravan had arrived. Though Frostwood was now a village, many goods like cloth and alcohol still came from the city, with at least one caravan arriving weekly.

A caravan’s arrival was good news, but the crowd seemed unusually large. Since unloading and handing over villagers’ personal orders took a whole day, why were so many gathered so early? Had the caravan brought something new?

Baddy’s foreman pushed through the crowd, grinning, clutching several large sheets covered in text and pictures, still smelling of ink.

“Boss,” Baddy hurried over, “Did the caravan bring something good?”

“Oh, Baddy,” the foreman said, clearly in high spirits and a bit boastful, waving the papers, “Look—newspapers! Straight from the city!”

“Newspapers?” Baddy blinked. The caravan had indeed brought something new, and as always, anything from the city was something no one here had seen before. “You mean these sheets? What… what are they for?”

“Books even commoners can buy and read,” the foreman said proudly, though he’d only just gotten the paper a little earlier. “They’re full of news, even about recent city changes.”

“Where? What does it say?” Baddy leaned in eagerly.

“Here—new housing in the Oakwood Street district of the West City, new citizens moving in. And here—wheat and fur prices dropping because trade routes opened with the Grant territory. And over here—holy moly, the Holy Light Church on the Spirit Plains is going crazy… they’re burning other churches now?”

The foreman pointed to various sections, his face shifting from surprise to amusement as he read on. Baddy stared wide-eyed but suddenly felt a wave of frustration—

He couldn’t read it.

He recognized some words, but only a small fraction. At best, he could spell out his name, age, and address, and understand the work card’s tables. That was thanks to a few nights at the village night school last year, where a teacher from the city came five days a week. Baddy had attended a few classes but never really paid attention.

Looking at the ink-covered pages, he felt a pang of regret.

The foreman, meanwhile, was engrossed, laughing at jokes or funny stories printed inside. But for Baddy, it was all out of reach.

Even though the paper cost only a few copper coins.

He knew he couldn’t ask the foreman to read it aloud. Even though the foreman got along well with everyone, that was an unreasonable request.

A few familiar coworkers emerged from the crowd. Baddy glanced over and saw one holding a copy, tearing it apart to share with others.

They probably pooled money to buy one. Though a single paper was cheap, for these newly earning lumberjacks, spending money on a few sheets of paper was still a luxury. But curiosity won out, so they bought one together, splitting it to take turns reading.

Baddy watched them with a hint of envy, muttering to himself—these hard laborers, used to axes and saws, now walking upright like scholars, rolling up the paper and tucking it under their arms like a proper book. How… dignified.

He touched his pocket, clenched his teeth, and turned toward the caravan.

The foreman, finishing his reading, looked up and called after him, “Where are you going? Roll call’s about to start!”

“I’m buying a paper!”

“You can read it?”

Baddy didn’t look back. “I’ll study it slowly at home. If worse comes to worst, I’ll ask Mr. Bernard when he comes.”

“Mr. Bernard” was the teacher sent to Frostwood Village, a second-level clerk from the government office.

The foreman shrugged and glanced down at the paper again.

“Might as well keep it safe and save up a few more copies to paste together… then I’ll have a real book at home.”

…

On the Spirit Plains, before the Rockhold Fortress, Light Aviken looked up at the ancient stronghold standing at the southern edge of the plains.

The fortress’s black walls shimmered with a faint grid-like glow in the sunlight—that was copper embedded in the mortar between the bricks, glowing softly. The builders had melted copper mixed with mithril and bronze, a magical alloy that absorbed solar magic by day and slowly released it through the night, making the walls incredibly strong. This magnificent fortress was the product of the Fogmoon Rebellion a century ago.

It stood between the southern border and the Spirit Plains, controlling the only road from the south to the plains. Even the Dolgon River, running north-south, passed through a gate beside the fortress. It was a massive symbol of the kingdom’s total blockade of the southern lands. After the fortress was built, the southern region became a deliberately isolated wasteland. The Second Dynasty feared the ancient and powerful Cecil family might return to challenge the throne. So, while dividing and weakening the south, they erected this fortress as a new “southern border,” casting the surviving Cecils into the desolation beyond.

This impregnable fortress was built to guard against the kingdom’s founding family.

Yet for a whole century, the Cecils never crossed this checkpoint. They silently bore the cost of the Fogmoon Rebellion’s defeat, accepting the royal division and suppression. Only last year, when their ancestor was resurrected, did the family finally cross Rockhold Fortress and enter the Spirit Plains.

Light gazed up at the fortress’s black walls, memories of its history and his brief time in the southern frontier flooding his mind. Then he pulled his worn priest’s robe straight and stepped toward the gate.

(End of chapter)