Chapter 387: The True Shadow of War

Although Gawain considered himself a satellite spirit who had crossed over from another world, equipped with ample knowledge and resilience, every time something related to Tyr came up, he couldn’t help but think, “What the hell? How can such a bizarre species even exist in this world?” Right now, staring at the massive sea demon sprawled across the pool, locking eyes with the sea witch lady, he was torn between whether to first take a sanity check or heal himself.

Tyr had been continuously casting healing spells—to keep that captive alive.

As for Amber’s claim that some of Tyr’s tentacles had a mental encouragement effect, Gawain didn’t feel anything. He figured it was probably similar to his immunity to divine mental interference; many forces in this world that could disrupt human minds simply didn’t affect him.

“Now… let’s greet our guest,” Gawain said, his eye twitching as he finally tore his gaze away from the sea demon and looked at the captive, tightly bound by tentacles and barely clinging to life. “What’s your name? Your identity? Your purpose?”

Clement struggled to lift his head. The moment he saw Gawain, he realized what was happening. The terrifying creature binding him crushed any hope of survival, but that didn’t mean he would cooperate quietly. “No… comment…”

Amber had been waiting for this. She immediately stepped forward. “His name is Clement—but he’s disguised as a royal mage named Duke.”

“Duke…” Gawain wasn’t familiar with the exact personnel Francis II had sent to the border this time, but after a moment’s thought, he guessed this impostor had probably been lurking near the now-deceased king all along. His expression shifted subtly. “So your mission was to kill the king? You and your faction want to sabotage the peace talks?”

Clement closed his eyes, signaling he wouldn’t answer. At that moment, Solderin came up beside Gawain and whispered a few words.

“You’re disguised as a mage, but you’re actually a druid,” Gawain said calmly, looking at Clement. “I think I know who you are—the madmen of the All-Things-Perish cult, right?”

Clement finally responded once: “Call it what you want. You’ll never understand our great cause.”

“That’s exactly it,” Gawain nodded. “I never intended to understand your cause. I just want you all gone. Clement, huh? Your operation this time exceeded my expectations. I admit I underestimated you—I always thought you were just rats stirring trouble in dark corners. I never imagined you’d dare make waves on such a grand scale… Let me guess: if you can assassinate the king at the border, you must have agents inside the kingdom as well?”

Clement only sneered coldly, refusing to answer.

This put Gawain in a bind. He knew this unremarkable old man—though the appearance might be a disguise, since the All-Things-Perish cultists were skilled at altering their forms—was likely a high-ranking member. Such fanatics were not only powerful but mentally formidable; ordinary interrogation methods were useless, and even mind-affecting magic might not penetrate their mental defenses.

If only he were dealing with a Sleeper—then Gawain could hack into his mind. But this was a fallen druid, and the situation felt hopeless.

Just as Gawain hesitated, Tyr suddenly broke the silence from the pool: “Perhaps… I can make him cooperate a little.”

Gawain raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“But this method is one-time only,” Tyr spread out her hands, and some idle tentacles followed suit. “At least based on tests we did on those who call themselves ‘Stormborn,’ it can only be used once. After that, the person dies.”

“You monster!” Clement shouted, struggling fiercely. “What do you want to do?”

“You have no right to call others monsters,” Gawain shot Clement a glance, then thought for a moment before making a decision. “Tyr, it’s up to you.”

Though Gawain was trying to build a controllable faction within the Sleepers, he knew that for most fanatical cultists, saving or persuading them was pointless. Especially for someone like Clement, a devotee of the All-Things-Perish cult, the only suitable approach was to let Tyr try her “one-time method.”

With Gawain’s approval, Tyr’s lower sea demon body split off several thin new tentacles that crept toward Clement. The cultist finally realized the grave danger and struggled even harder—but all his efforts were futile against the tightly binding tentacles glowing with eerie runes. Within a few breaths, the new, slender tentacles had already reached his neck…

Just then, Amber suddenly shouted, “Wait!”

Tyr paused, confused. Gawain turned to Amber. “What is it?”

Amber hesitated, then stepped forward and looked up at Tyr. “I have some questions for him too… Can you keep him alive a little longer?”

“Sure,” Tyr nodded. “He’ll stay alive until you finish questioning.”

Gawain looked at Amber curiously, then back at Tyr. “Good. Let’s begin.”

Clement twisted and struggled with all his might, clearly on the edge of despair, but even so, he shouted curses loudly, his voice surprisingly strong: “You will pay one day! You don’t even deserve to be the gods’ meal! You’re only fit to be the scraps they spit out after feasting! I will never submit! I will never submit!!”

As he cursed, several slimy, cold tentacles emitting a murky pale purple magical glow crept up his neck, inching toward his ears and pressing against his scalp. An unimaginable terror and mental pressure gripped Clement’s heart. Endless illusions flooded his mind—phantom waves crashing in his ears, layered with indistinct murmurs that drove him mad. Amid the maddening sounds, he recalled all the terrifying legends of the deep sea—the endless storm’s end, the chaotic dark abyss, the palace of the Stormlord, the wild feasts of sea demons and monsters…

The cultist’s eyes widened. In this last moment of self-awareness, he suddenly recoiled, feeling he had glimpsed a fate more tragic and horrifying than death itself—one that made him want to surrender. But it was too late.

The tentacles had already invaded his ear canals, scalp, even eyes. His brain lost all freedom to think.

Tyr looked down at the now-silent Clement and shook her head. “I don’t know what your gods like to eat, but yours must be quite tasty.”

Even Gawain felt a chill run down his spine watching what was happening. He looked at Clement’s eerie state and Tyr’s creepy tentacles, muttering, “Can’t you make this scene a little… gentler?”

Tyr thought for a moment. “I could turn the tentacles pink.”

“Better not…” Gawain quickly waved his hand, then turned to Clement. “Can I ask you questions now?”

“Anytime,” Tyr nodded slightly. “But be precise with your wording. That’ll get better answers.”

Gawain nodded and stepped in front of Clement. “Is it true that Francis II is dead?”

Clement’s skin twitched, and a low, hoarse voice came from his throat: “I killed him… with my own hands…”

Gawain pressed on. “Is Prince Edmond your accomplice? Is he controlled by the All-Things-Perish cult?”

“Edmond… Morn… wants the throne of Ansu. He is a collaborator of the All-Things-Perish…”

“A collaborator, not someone being controlled…” Gawain frowned. The confirmation that Prince Edmond had killed his father was shocking, but more than surprise, it left him puzzled. “What does Edmond want? Just the throne?”

This was the part he couldn’t understand. Francis II was old, and Edmond was the rightful heir. The gifted prince didn’t need to take such an extreme step. Why would he commit such a shocking act right after the border talks? Why ally with the cultists?

The question was complicated. After hesitating a few seconds, Clement slowly answered, “…Edmond… doesn’t just want to be king of the Second Dynasty… He wants… the glory of the First Dynasty, the peak of Ansu. What he wants is… true royal power.”

Clement muttered a few more words, then gave a strange smile. “A naive and foolish pawn…”

That was probably the cultist’s true opinion of Prince Edmond.

Hearing this, not only did Gawain look thoughtful, but Solderin beside him also seemed to connect many dots.

“True royal power…” The high-ranking ranger furrowed his brow and looked Gawain in the eye. “So that’s why he’s doing this after leaving the capital?!”

Gawain sighed and then thought of something else.

He immediately asked, “Is Selas Loren in the know?!”

“Selas Loren… loyal to… Edmond Morn…”

Just as expected!

Selas Loren’s loyalty wasn’t to the king, but to Edmond! But why?

Perhaps… the Duke of the East was actually loyal to “Morn,” the true Ansu royal authority, not the puppet monarchy backed by the Northern families?

Gawain reasoned through the logic a great noble of this era might have, and after much thought, he asked a new question: “Has the border peace treaty been signed?”

“It has…”

Upon hearing this crucial answer, Gawain took a breath. After a few moments of contemplation, he asked the final, decisive question: “Are there also cultists among Emperor Typhon’s inner circle?”

Clement’s face twitched violently, and he forced out a single word: “…Yes.”

“I see…” All the doubts were answered, all the mysteries unraveled. Gawain had always sensed the looming shadow of war over Ansu, but now he finally understood the truth behind it. “Edmond, and you cultists—you don’t want a war between Typhon and Ansu… what you want is the Second Ansu Civil War!!”

(End of chapter)