Chapter 38: A Real Headache

Gawain Cecil had returned safely, bringing with him the king’s signed documents and news of royal support.

Viscount Andrew, who had been waiting in Tansan Town for nearly three months, felt he had made the right choice. The founding hero from seven centuries ago had not disappointed him. He wasn’t the brute he had initially feared, but a man of both cunning and strategy.

What surprised Andrew most was that this founding hero had chosen the Dark Mountains as the starting point to rebuild his family’s fortunes.

As a minor noble stationed on the southern frontier, Andrew was naturally familiar with the Dark Mountains. The original Cecil and Leslie territories lay just north of that imposing natural barrier, which could be seen on clear days by simply looking up. The mountains blocked the unhealthy air drifting in from the Gondor Wastelands, but their reputation for monsters and eerie legends made many shudder. Even the most reckless hunters rarely ventured into the Dark Mountains, despite southern lords opening hunting rights there.

The old Cecil lands were located a bit west of the northern edge of the Dark Mountains, with Tansan Town to the northeast. Gawain’s chosen “New Cecil” territory lay southeast of Tansan, roughly forming a triangle with the other two. Of the three, New Cecil was closest to the mountains, its southern border plunging deep into the rugged peaks.

A tributary of the Whitewater River, which flowed past Tansan, ran into New Cecil, making it a decent location logistically. Supplies from Tansan could reach the new lands easily, and if the territory developed, trade costs would drop significantly.

But that all depended on whether Gawain and his people could truly establish themselves in that barren land.

In Andrew’s castle, the lean and meticulous viscount looked worried. “With all due respect, Your Grace, I don’t think your first choice of settlement is… ideal. The land is vast, yes, but it’s too close to the Dark Mountains, lacking protection from civilized society. The beasts there pose a serious threat. And every year during the Fog Moon, unclean winds blow over the mountains from the Gondor Wastelands. Strong soldiers might withstand it, but the weak peasants and serfs won’t.”

“You’ve seen the map,” Gawain replied dismissively. “I know the options are all pretty much the same. Among the lands bordering the Dark Mountains, the one I chose is the best. The unclean winds can be countered with potions and magic. I’ll handle the defenses myself. If we can survive the first year, we’ll start mining ore from the mountains, and the territory will be secure.”

He couldn’t exactly say he’d picked that spot because the mountains hid the treasury of national fortune from seven centuries ago.

At least not until he opened the vault and secured everything inside. And even then, only a select few could know. It was impossible to keep it completely secret—once the resources were put to use for rebuilding, even fools would guess the truth.

The best he could do was keep knowledge of the treasure limited until every last bit was deployed.

Seeing Gawain’s firm resolve, Viscount Andrew had no choice but to accept. He only reminded him, “This is your decision, of course. I will support you as best I can. But please remember our original agreement.”

Gawain smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. The Cecil family never runs up debts. If you’re really worried, I can pawn a few of my antiques to you.”

Rebecca, sitting across the table reporting her observations from the capital to Aunt Hetty, suddenly looked up, eyes shining. “Great-grandfather thinks just like me! Does that mean I’ve inherited the family spirit?”

Hetty lightly tapped Rebecca’s forehead. “Stop daydreaming and keep talking. You spent the entire royal banquet just eating?”

“I was drinking too—I’m an adult now, I can have a little…”

Hetty looked utterly exasperated. “Good heavens…”

As for Viscount Andrew, he politely declined Gawain’s “offer,” waving his hands. “No need, no need. I trust the Cecil family’s honor and the founding hero’s word. When do you plan to set out?”

“The sooner, the better,” Gawain nodded. “Once we’ve gathered supplies, we’ll leave. The king’s promised support will take at least a month to arrive. I need to make sure my people can stand on their own feet in the new lands first.”

For the refugees who had escaped the disaster in the old Cecil territory, the three months of rest were over. Their lord had returned from the capital, signaling that they must prepare immediately for their new lives.

Even though most of them had no idea what that new life would look like.

Knights Philip and Byron were dispatched to Tansan Town to purchase essential supplies and materials for building the new territory—food, tools, tents, medicine, and countless other necessities they hadn’t even considered.

The pile of things to prepare was overwhelming. Even Hetty, who had long assisted in managing the estate, and Byron, a veteran servant of the Cecil family, didn’t know where to start. No one really knew what was needed to build a territory from scratch. Only Gawain could offer some guidance—after all, seven centuries ago, the ancestors of Ansu had started their homes from nothing. His memories of that pioneering era were invaluable.

Of course, seven hundred years made some of his knowledge outdated, but the basic principles remained the same.

No matter how tools evolved, pioneers in the wilderness faced the same challenges: food, shelter, clothing, medical care, and protection.

As for funds, Viscount Andrew had returned the Cecil family’s gold and silver, and with the money Philip had saved, they had just enough to cover the initial supplies.

The refugees from the Cecil lands wandered the town, buying goods and hiring carts, naturally drawing attention. The locals had already heard about the founding hero’s resurrection and the return of the Cecil lady from the capital. Now they knew these “outsiders,” who had stayed in town for three months, were finally leaving.

Most common folk in Tansan didn’t care much about the outsiders’ comings and goings. But the fact that they were buying so much was a boon for the town’s merchant guilds, who quickly stopped complaining about their lord. Previously, the lord had requisitioned many shacks for the refugees, who were too poor to pay even a few copper coins, much to the merchants’ displeasure.

While the two family knights busied themselves with gathering supplies, Gawain tasked Hetty and Rebecca with compiling a detailed roster of all the Cecil survivors—over eight hundred souls.

“List every person’s name, age, gender, health, and skills, grouped by family. Also, make a separate list for carpenters, stonemasons, and blacksmiths. And if possible, assign each person a number for easy reference.”

This was the task Gawain gave to his great-great-great… great-granddaughters, thinking it would be simple. But Hetty and Rebecca were utterly baffled.

They had never heard of basic data registration or how to make such “forms.”

“You haven’t even done a basic population census?” Seeing their blank faces, Gawain felt more confused than they did. “Then how do you keep track of the population in your lands?”

Rebecca answered innocently, “Aunt Hetty manages the lands around the castle, and the knights each manage their own fiefs. They roughly know how many men, women, elderly, and children there are. As for who’s a blacksmith or carpenter, the locals mostly know each other and just ask around.”

Gawain: “…What? Just ask around? The legendary ‘rule by eye contact,’ ‘govern by expression,’ and ‘command the world with a shout’?”

Noticing Gawain’s changing expression, Hetty grew nervous. “Ancestor… did you and the late lord really use those kinds of forms to count the population when you founded the country?”

Gawain rummaged through his memories, then looked pale.

Damn… it was even messier back then.

The Gondor Empire collapsed overnight, and the prosperous, developed central regions were utterly destroyed. The survivors were mostly from the remote borderlands. The ancient empire was a classic example of an unbalanced society—its development was almost pathological in Gawain’s eyes. Because magic technology depended on mana foci, which were limited, all advanced tech was concentrated around the continent’s strongest mana focus, “Deep Blue,” in the center. The borderlands, where mana foci were sparse…

Were unbelievably backward.

So when the magical storm erupted around Deep Blue, all the empire’s advanced tech and skilled people were sacrificed. The survivors were repeatedly culled by ongoing radiation. By the time the pioneers led everyone to safety, human civilization had effectively collapsed.

To put it bluntly: the four great kingdoms were built by a bunch of schoolchildren leading a crowd of illiterates.

But in this world of extraordinary powers, the strength of top individuals could somewhat offset the overall decline, allowing the four kingdoms to hold together under the fierce pioneers’ efforts.

But, but, but!

Seven hundred years have passed! How have these unworthy descendants made no progress?

(End of chapter)