Chapter 381: A Day That Changed History

Gawain was not the least bit surprised by the restless stirrings among the southern nobles and the Church. In fact, in many ways, it was he who had carefully orchestrated these developments step by step.

The alchemical potions business, which had nearly shattered the old market; the revolutionary magic network technology; the mining machinery—all these had brought unprecedented wealth to the southern nobility. Yet, any noble with half a brain could see that, in the process, they were gradually falling under Cecil’s economic influence and control. On the other hand, through Viscount Andrew of Tansan as his “agent,” nearly half of the southern ore trade was now in the hands of the Cecil-Leslie consortium. The nobles being squeezed out were precisely those with the greatest military power in the south—after all, controlling the ore meant controlling the resources to forge weapons, which in turn meant the ability to raise and maintain strong armies.

So it was inevitable that the southern nobles, especially the wealthiest and most powerful among them, would sooner or later come to see Cecil as their enemy.

“Gold and silver flow through Cecil’s lands, and the rulers of these lands have a ‘weak spot’ ripe for attack,” Gawain mused. In this era, no one could resist such temptation.

Meanwhile, since last winter, the influx of heretical believers from the Holy Spirit Plains into his territories had been steadily rattling the nerves of the Holy Light Church. Those missionaries had little impact in the south on their own, but if the southern nobles were now looking for a way to strike at Cecil, the Church would naturally seize the opportunity to establish a foothold in the region. It was only to be expected.

Gawain understood clearly that these changes were inevitable. If he wanted to build a new order in this world, conflict with the old traditional powers was unavoidable. When it came to fundamental shifts in the rules, there was no room for compromise—ultimately, everything would be decided by force. Once he realized this, Gawain knew exactly what he had to do: quietly prepare to speak with force, and wait for the traditional nobles and the Church to make the first move.

Hetty was a smart woman. Seeing Gawain’s attitude, she understood that the patriarch had been planning for exactly this scenario all along. But there was one thing she couldn’t quite grasp. “Ancestor, why wait for them to strike first? Legally speaking, you always have the right to act first without worrying about moral objections—after all, all the southern nobles currently hold lands that were once your fiefdom…”

“Simple,” Gawain replied casually. Seeing the puzzled look on Hetty’s face, he shook his head and added, “Because the land is vast and the population sparse. Let them gather their forces in one place, then we just unleash a round of saturation bombardment and focused fire from the ray guns. Problem solved. No need to chase them all over the south.”

Hetty was speechless.

Of course, Gawain’s words were partly in jest. Strategically, he could afford to underestimate his enemies, but tactically, they still had to be taken seriously—even if they were a bunch of old-fashioned, conservative nobles who didn’t understand the power of Cecil’s firearms, their forces still posed some threat. So Gawain pulled a blank sheet of paper from the stack beside him and quickly scribbled two lines before handing it to Hetty.

“This letter is for Lady Grant.”

Hetty glanced at the note. It contained only a brief message: “Time to settle accounts. Inventory check soon.”

After Hetty left, Gawain stood and moved to the large map depicting the entire southern region, lost in thought.

To be honest, although he had long prepared for armed conflict with the traditional powers of this world, if not for the shifting circumstances, he had no intention of plunging his developing territories into war so soon.

His original plan was to quietly develop his lands, steadily expanding southward and building industrial zones, until he held an overwhelmingly dominant force in hand. Only then would he step out and crush those old nobles all at once.

But plans always fall behind changes. Negotiations between Typhon and Ansu had already begun. Whether or not a peace treaty was successfully signed, the relatively stable situation in the south would inevitably change. If war broke out, that was obvious. But if peace was signed, then with the external threat temporarily resolved, the Ansu royal family would finally have the capacity to notice the rapidly rising Cecil domain in the south, which was increasingly challenging the traditional order.

Francis II was no fool. He tolerated the Cecil family’s return to prominence and their vigorous activity in the south only because internal and external troubles left him no choice. He didn’t want to add the stain of disrespecting ancestors to the already controversial “illegitimate royal” reputation, nor did he want to give the nobles who were lukewarm toward the crown any new excuses.

Besides the potential variables from Typhon and the Ansu royal family, there were the increasingly erratic and fanatical moves by the Holy Light Church, and the tangled threats from various southern factions…

All these factors combined made Gawain realize he had to resolve these external problems soon. At the very least, he needed to fully control the southern situation and turn this relatively isolated land into a stable rear base.

He had promised King Francis II and all the nobles of the royal capital that he would not “actively” assert legal claims over the current land distribution in the south. Although, as the “Ancestor,” he could have done so at any time without moral qualms, Gawain preferred to keep his actions more legitimate.

Ideally, he wanted the southern nobles to jump first.

They certainly had motives and reasons to do so—not just greed, nor because Cecil’s reforms had truly roused their “righteous indignation,” but simply because the very fact of the Cecil family’s resurgence in the south was enough to make ninety percent of the region’s rulers break out in goosebumps.

When Cecil was weak, they might not have felt threatened. But with every gain in Cecil’s strength, the hostility from the southern noble factions grew proportionally. After all, they had all prospered by dividing up Cecil’s ancestral lands. In a sense, the Cecil family held legal claims over the entire southern region.

Since their hostility was bound to erupt sooner or later, Gawain didn’t mind giving them a little nudge to unite sooner.

Thus, the 25th Production and Construction Office under Military Intelligence devised a plan, which the 25th Production and Construction Brigade (Passive) — experts in fabricating intelligence, spreading rumors, and falsifying military reports — carried out.

Sure enough, the southern nobles, already wary and hostile toward the Cecil family, couldn’t hold back and tried to make their move…

Those nobles who followed ancient customs might not have the courage for all-out war against the Ancestor, so they probably only wanted to “jump” a little—to stage a low-intensity skirmish as a show of force, then play the “noble game” to squeeze some benefits from the Cecil family. But…

Once they made their move, the scale of this “skirmish” would no longer be theirs to decide.

Gawain withdrew his gaze from the map and focused his mind. In his head, the satellite surveillance view appeared…

At Treaty Fort, in the grand hall where history was made, a document was being read aloud before all witnesses by ceremonial officers from two nations.

The voices of the two officers echoed almost perfectly in sync throughout the hall. Enhanced by magic, their tones were not only loud and clear but carried an awe-inspiring solemnity and weight—

“…We jointly agree that restoring peaceful relations is the first step in confronting shared threats, and that halting the current border standoff is the first step toward peace… From the date of signing, all military confrontations and mutual military infiltrations shall cease… On the basis of renewed diplomacy, border trade and personnel movement shall resume, and martial law restrictions will be gradually lifted… Joint monitoring of the Grant Wall shall be maintained…

“…All the above clauses are witnessed by the gods and the spirits of our ancestors, and ratified by the great and wise rulers of both nations…

“…Ansu/Typhon, Year 736, Treaty Fort on the shared border…

“Long live peace.”

As the solemn final words fell, the hall erupted in warm, sustained applause.

Regardless of lingering hostilities, yesterday’s mutual suspicion, or future divisions, at this moment every participant who had endured the long negotiations sincerely applauded, rejoicing in this hard-won peace agreement.

The peace treaty, bearing the seals of both rulers, was then magically inscribed onto two plates of adamantine for joint safekeeping. The original document was sealed in a mithril vault deep beneath the fort in a heavily guarded chamber.

But these ceremonial formalities no longer held the attention of Duke Selas Loren. He simply watched with deep emotion as King Francis II and Emperor Rosetta Augustus shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and gifted each other their ceremonial swords. Amidst the warm and eager atmosphere, this historic negotiation came to an end.

What followed was a somewhat lighter banquet that lasted late into the night.

Though the talks had concluded, Duke Loren remained vigilant. He knew many eyes were on this peace process, including those who opposed it. So as long as the king remained at Treaty Fort, on this border, he could not afford to relax.

He suspected Typhon’s side was equally cautious—throughout the banquet, Loren noticed that Emperor Rosetta Augustus’s guards stayed close, even increasing in number.

But in the end, all passed peacefully.

With all guards on high alert, the two rulers spent their last night at Treaty Fort without incident. On the 52nd day of the Revival Month, Year 736 of Ansu, King Francis II and Emperor Rosetta Augustus departed the fort.

Longwind Fortress greeted its king with a grand welcome ceremony. For this martial border city, Francis II’s return from Treaty Fort was akin to a general coming home from a victorious campaign.

Yet the weary old king did not linger before the public. After briefly meeting with some prominent figures in the fortress, Francis II retired to his chambers.

Prince Edmund was not with him. Instead, the legendary mage from Saint Suniel City, assigned as the king’s personal protector, accompanied him.

Throughout the days of negotiation, this legendary mage had maintained a life link with Francis II. To be frank, at this moment, the mage was more trustworthy to the king than any of his own children.

Stretching his stiff, creaking joints, the old king settled onto the wide, soft couch. His slightly clouded eyes turned to the mage standing nearby—a thin, black-haired man with a calm demeanor, clad in a purple starry robe.

“Thank you for your hard work these past days, Master Duke,” Francis II said quietly.

The elder in the starry robe nodded slightly, his voice low and hoarse. “It is my duty.”

“End the life link,” Francis II said. “This surge of vitality feels good, but it’s lasting too long—it’s starting to interfere with my sleep.”

“As you wish.” The old mage waved his hand, and a faint shimmer of magic flickered over both him and Francis II. The life link’s effect vanished instantly, and as his body grew heavy once more, the old king let out a soft sigh.

He had once been a powerful spellcaster, his talent rivaling that of the legendary mage beside him. But as a king, he was destined never to take that final step on the path of magic—his body was inevitably succumbing to decline.

“Your Majesty, I’ll go outside and set up protective runes for you,” the old mage said, bowing slightly beside Francis II after ending the life link.

“Very well. Thank you for your efforts.”

The old mage left the room, and just as Francis II was about to close his eyes for a brief rest, the sound of the door opening caught his attention.

“Master Duke, is there something—” The old king opened his eyes, curious, and looked toward the doorway. But before he could finish, the figure standing there was not the legendary master in the starry robe he expected. Instead, it was a stranger dressed in servant’s attire.

During his absence from Saint Suniel, no unknown face should have appeared before him alone.

Without a hint of alarm, Francis II’s right hand lightly brushed the ring on his left. He met the servant’s gaze steadily. “Who are you?”

“Your Majesty,” the servant stepped forward and bowed politely. “Thank you for your efforts toward peace. The End of All Things sends its regards.”

No sooner had the words fallen than the servant’s head suddenly shattered into pieces. The gory fragments twisted into a monstrous, bloodied maw that lunged straight at Francis II!

(End of chapter)