Chapter 376: Negotiations at the Border

Facing Count Hosman’s elegant and confident smile, Green realized that this renowned nobleman—famed for his far-sightedness and keen intuition—was far from losing his wits. The frequent noble gatherings held on the Count’s lands since last winter were not mere “business exchanges.” Through repeated deals involving alchemical potions and magical technology, a coalition had quietly formed, led by the Hosman family, united in their cautious watchfulness against the rising power of the Cecils.

This group shared common interests and a shared wariness. Ironically, the vast wealth that bound them together was created by the very land of Cecil—they were wary of the Cecils themselves.

The newly established Cecil territory was a land flowing with gold and silver—a consensus that had gradually taken shape in the final weeks of last winter. At first, the southern nobles hadn’t grasped the true value of the alchemists wandering the roads or the expanding magical networks and mining machinery. But once Count Hosman gathered them and shared intelligence, the noble lords realized just how massive these enterprises had become. Anyone with a shred of sense who did the math would be stunned by the staggering wealth involved—and would see how paltry their own gains were compared to the fortunes amassed by the Cecil family.

Such immense treasure was piling up in the Cecil vaults—not won by war, but surpassing even the spoils of war.

Yet, to recklessly oppose the Cecil name was unwise. No matter what the family had been in the past century, their restoration of honor was now an undeniable fact. Even the king himself had to treat the Cecils with due respect. But if a reasonable pretext could be found—one that could unite most southern nobles and stand up to the crown—then the problem might not be so complicated after all.

“It’s said that Duke Cecil has already gathered an army of several thousand,” Count Hosman said calmly. “That tells us one thing—though his actions may seem reckless, he’s still rational enough to know he must wield enough force to protect his wealth. Most of his troops are green, but the numbers are significant. And I hear the Cecil lands have already repelled two monster incursions from the Gondor Wastelands. I suspect that’s mostly due to the Duke’s own legendary prowess, but it does mean his army has seen blood. So we need to unite a force of our own to ensure stability.”

“You mentioned the Duke’s personal strength… an ancient legend. That must be difficult to deal with, right?”

“Indeed, very difficult,” Hosman finally smiled. “Which is why we need to find a way to tie him down—at least keep him distracted for a while.”

Green looked at his lord. Even as the intelligence chief of the territory, he couldn’t always read the Count’s full intentions. But he knew Hosman had likely arranged many other things behind the scenes. “You have a plan?”

“Duke Gawain Cecil hasn’t just disrupted Ansu’s noble order—he’s made many enemies,” Hosman said with a knowing smile. “Have you heard about the recent news that the Cecil lands are sheltering heretics?”

“Of course,” Green nodded. “I got the intelligence immediately. The Cecils openly declared they would accept those exiled by the Holy Light Church—those branded as cultists and heretics.”

Hosman nodded slightly. “The Holy Light Church has long coveted the southern lands…”

“You want to bring those missionaries into the mix?” Green frowned. “With all due respect, once those clerics get involved, it won’t be easy to get them to leave…”

“I’m not handing over vast wealth willingly,” Hosman shook his head. “But the power of the Holy Light Church can be leveraged. If they want to fight for their god, then let them fight—for their god.”

…

At the eastern border of Ansu, before the “Treaty Fortress” standing in the buffer zone, Duke Selas Loren sat astride his warhorse, long his companion through years of dealings with the Typhon Empire. He inhaled deeply, the crisp spring wind from Typhon filling his lungs and sharpening his spirit.

The towering fortress rose from a rocky plateau. Over the past winter, countless slaves, stonemasons, carpenters, and gifted artisans had built it at great cost and incredible speed. Nearly a hundred slaves died from exhaustion or accidents, including a Typhon architect crushed by falling stones from the dome. Yet the price was worth it—the massive, sturdy fortress had risen swiftly, ready to fulfill its historic role.

The Treaty Fortress blended Ansu’s elegance with Typhon’s solemnity: graceful courtly details combined with black towers reflecting the empire’s austere might. Before the fortress stretched a broad plain where guards and ministers from both nations could rest and observe ceremonies. A single road led to the gate, divided between Ansu and Typhon. Selas Loren was positioned on the Ansu side.

He calmed his restless horse—a mount familiar with years of dealings with Typhon soldiers, even able to sense their presence. The armor, banners, and insignia worn by the Typhon troops across the road made the horse slightly uneasy. Loren raised his gaze to the figure opposite him.

A striking female knight sat astride a chestnut warhorse. Her long gray hair flowed freely in the wind; she wore no helmet, her sharp eyes peering out from beneath the strands, now fixed on Loren. Though young in appearance, her bearing was commanding.

Selas Loren, a warrior himself, returned her polite but measured smile. He knew exactly who she was—the heir of the Typhon Wendel family, the youngest “Wolf General” in history, and the highest-ranking commander at Winterwolf Fortress. Since she took command, the Loren family knights—and Loren himself—had crossed paths with her more than once. They were, in a sense, old acquaintances.

After exchanging greetings, Loren glanced back at Belk Loren, his heir, who sat behind him. Belk was gifted beyond his years and the pride of Longwind Fortress, but compared to the “Wolf General” across the way, he still had much to learn.

No matter—experience and effort could make up for that. Belk carried the Loren bloodline and a fierce drive for honor. With that motivation, he would one day stand on his own and command Longwind Fortress.

As the sun climbed to its zenith, its magical power filled the dome of the Treaty Fortress, causing the embedded arcane materials to glow brilliantly. Slowly, the heavy purple-steel gates began to open.

The herald stepped out onto the drawbridge and began playing ceremonial music.

A quarter past noon, the faint patterns on the sun’s surface sharpened. Two parallel convoys appeared on the wide road leading to the fortress—one flying Ansu’s sword-and-shield emblem, the other Typhon’s shield-and-crown banner.

Soldiers lining the road tensed, the low scrape of armor plates filling the air. Selas Loren tightened his muscles, eyes fixed on the approaching carriages. He didn’t know which held the king or the emperor, but each carriage was guarded by at least two high-ranking knights and a senior mage. Two legendary warriors accompanied the entire convoy. With such tight security, nothing should go wrong.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel nervous. After all, this was the moment that would decide the fate of two nations.

The king was guarded by royal champions; as the eastern duke, Loren was responsible for the fortress’s security.

Nothing happened. Under the watchful eyes of Loren, Belk Loren, and the Typhon commander Andersa Wendel, the royal convoys passed through the gates.

Fifteen minutes later, the heavy gates closed slowly. Above, the dome’s skylights opened, and two beams of bright magical light shot into the sky.

Seeing those beams, Duke Loren exhaled softly.

They were signals from the legendary guardians inside—each a spellcaster linked to the life force of their sovereign. As long as the beams shone, it meant the hearts of the Ansu king and Typhon emperor still beat strong.

According to the agreed schedule, the two rulers would first hold a half-day private meeting, followed by a public, formal negotiation. Selas Loren would attend the latter, and under witness, the two nations would sign a formal peace treaty.

Loren quietly contemplated the upcoming talks, lifting his gaze to the twin beams piercing the sky—beams that stirred the hearts of all present.

A small bird flew across the clear sky, circling curiously between the two beams. It sang a clear, sweet song as it spiraled upward, disappearing beyond Loren’s sight.

A bird singing above the Treaty Fortress… perhaps a symbol of peace.

Though a warrior at heart, Duke Selas Loren felt a faint poetic stir within.

(End of chapter)