Chapter 390: The Gathering

In this era, nobles rarely discussed matters of war with anyone outside their own class. War was their game—a chessboard for kings and lords, a tool and stage for dividing power and wealth. They neither needed nor bothered to explain to commoners why their lands were dragged into the flames of conflict. But Gawain thought differently.

He believed it was essential for those under his command to understand why war was breaking out and what it meant for their territory. Only by doing so could he bind the interests of everyone in the Cecil domain together.

“Everyone, peace is over,” Gawain began. “From what I’ve gathered, it won’t be long before Prince Edmund and Ansu’s strongest Eastern Legion declare the capital has fallen to rebels. The two dukes in the capital, along with the coerced Wales Morn family, will surely call the nobles to arms under the same pretext. Ansu’s second civil war could erupt as early as the Fire Moon. Our greatest advantage is that we know this before anyone else.”

He didn’t reveal his sources, but his unquestioned authority and consistent track record made explanation unnecessary. The room fell into thoughtful silence as everyone began to consider Cecil’s future. Sir Byron was the first to break the quiet: “The flames of war will inevitably reach the southern lands.”

“Exactly,” Gawain nodded. “Three of the kingdom’s four borders will be engulfed in civil war. The South cannot remain untouched forever. Our task is to secure the South firmly before the war arrives—seizing the initiative.”

The death of Francis II was a major variable for Gawain, but one he had already accounted for in his grim predictions about the peace talks. Though details differed, he had anticipated the possibility of civil war in Ansu. Now that the king was truly dead, the kingdom’s stability would waver. Yet for Gawain, this chaos also concealed opportunity.

He could now pursue the reconquest and governance of the entire South with greater legitimacy and focus.

The capital’s noble factions were in disarray, the Morn royal family divided and distracted. The three border dukes wouldn’t have the resources to meddle in the South’s reshuffling. Even the southern nobles tied to the Holy Spirit Plains would be weakened by the turmoil, making them easier to handle. If he could seize this first-mover advantage and consolidate his base early in the Ansu civil war, everything would be far easier than previously planned.

Moreover, this internal conflict would provide cover for many of his subsequent moves to appear more justified…

With this in mind, Gawain first rallied the heads of each department for pre-war mobilization and assigned their tasks. After the meeting, Byron, Philip, Solderin, Hetty, and Amber stayed behind for a closed-door military briefing.

“The combat legions are fully mobilized,” Byron reported. “The armories are working overtime, stockpiling weapons and ammunition.”

Hetty added, “The territory’s war-preparation propaganda started several days ago. I’ve also instructed Gawain Orlando to prepare a special bulletin exposing the southern nobles’ conspiracy to attack Cecil and plunder its wealth. It should be ready for release across the domain by tomorrow.”

Gawain turned to Amber, who didn’t wait to be asked before sharing the latest intelligence: “Lady Grant sent a secret message. Armed militias and knights have been spotted near the Carol and Peppobor counties for several days. It seems Count Hosman has begun assembling his forces. They’ve also extended an invitation to Lady Grant—who, as per your orders, has accepted.”

“They only know I visited Grant once last winter, unaware that Grant is already part of Cecil’s sphere,” Gawain shook his head. “I’ve always encouraged Ropeni Grant to maintain close contact with Hosman. Looks like it’s paying off.”

Solderin looked at Gawain. “Which direction do you think they’ll attack from?”

Gawain stood and moved to the map of the South hanging on the wall.

“Cecil backs onto the Dark Mountains—a natural fortress. At least the southern nobles won’t dare challenge that. So they have only three possible invasion routes: east, west, or north.

“Hosman and his allied nobles mostly occupy the west and north. An eastern attack would force most of them to trek across open wilderness. Plus, Cecil’s eastern side is mountainous, with only a few narrow plains—not a good route.

“To the west, the dense western forest is a huge barrier. If they don’t want their troops wandering in circles for weeks, they’d have to take the east-west road between the forest and the Whitewater River, or float down the river. The former faces Cecil’s blockade; the latter passes through Leslie’s lands, skirting beneath the towering walls of Tansan town… but they might risk it. Though Viscount Andrew Leslie is close to Cecil, he’s not beyond courting for the southern nobles.

“North is probably the best route. They’d likely strike the Kant region first—Cecil’s ‘new land.’ By usual logic, they’d assume Kant is lightly defended, with knights and gentry less loyal to Cecil. Taking Kant would give them a foothold to push south toward Cecil City.”

When Gawain finished, Solderin stroked his chin. “So they might attack from both west and north simultaneously?”

“That depends on how many troops Hosman can muster and whether his authority can support splitting his forces,” Gawain said, lowering his gaze from the map. “Now, we just need to give Hosman one final push…”

“One final push?” Hetty asked curiously.

“Notify Padrick to cut alchemical potion supplies across the South by fifty percent,” Gawain told Hetty, then turned to Amber. “Have the 25th Production and Construction Office draft a plan. Send out a message from the 25th Battalion claiming that disgruntled Cecil knights who lost their lands and scorned capital mages have rioted, sabotaging the alchemy factories. Cecil’s internal chaos has nearly halted the potion industry. Remember those defective heavy explosive grenades we didn’t destroy during trials? Perfect for blowing craters at the North Shore reservoir. Have the 25th Battalion start laying foundations at the docks and detonate them in front of the enemy. Then tell them it’s the mages causing trouble.”

Amber’s eyes lit up. “I love this plan!”

Not just Amber—Solderin was impressed by Gawain’s cunning. Only Philip whispered to Byron, “Do you think the lord’s plan is a bit… unknightly?”

Byron opened his mouth, ready to spin a lie to soothe the straightforward young man, but even his slick tongue faltered. The plan was too ruthless. He could only click his tongue and say, “The lord’s thinking of the bigger picture. Sometimes knightly ideals must be sacrificed.”

Philip thought for a moment and nodded. “Yeah.”

Byron looked surprised. “Huh? You’ve changed? Not worrying about knightly honor this time?”

Philip waved a hand. “I’ve realized something—I can’t argue with you. So instead of debating knightly honor, I want to know when you’re going to deliver that persuader orbital cannon you promised me last time.”

Byron: “…”

In the final days of the Revival Moon, spring of Ansu year 736, countless tides—some overt, some hidden—surged through this ancient land.

But due to slow news and the South’s isolation, almost no one there yet understood what storm they were about to face in the coming years.

In the East, Grant lands: Ropeni Grant watched the carriage bearing the Hosman family crest disappear down the mountain road after sending off the western envoy. A cold, emotionless smile crept across her lips.

“Gathered seventy thousand ragtag troops, have they…” the lady murmured. “How reckless…”

Her longtime middle-aged steward approached quietly. “My lady, the knights and soldiers have assembled.”

“Good,” Ropeni nodded. “Send the knights ahead to Carol lands… I will ‘assist’ our good neighbors properly.”

The steward bowed and left. Ropeni turned to the castle terrace, gazing out over the rolling southern mountains.

“Seventy thousand… Duke Gawain, I hope you can truly fulfill your promise. This will be the last gamble of my life.”

In Cecil lands, Whitewater River: With the roar of massive repulsion engines and hinge mechanisms, the colossal mechanical bridge spanning the river’s banks slowly lowered and locked into place. A long-awaited procession of vehicles and pedestrians stepped onto the bridge. A messenger carriage bound for Kant led the way, its cargo of newspapers loosening with the jolts. Several sheets, still smelling of fresh ink, drifted onto the bridge.

The headline blazed:

“Extra! War Threatens Our Prosperity and Peace”

Below it, a subheading read:

“Mr. Gawain’s Commentary—Count Hosman and His Lackeys Don’t Want the People of Cecil to Live Well”

A pair of rough-cloth-shod feet stopped before the paper. The owner’s large, strong hand picked it up.

Light Aviken studied the bulletin carefully. Unlike Gawain Orlando’s usual elegant and earnest style, this article was plain, blunt, and sharp as a sword—fiery and aggressive. Undoubtedly, even if Gawain wrote it himself, the content was not the work of the capital’s “editor-in-chief and president” alone.

“A battlefield, huh…”

The fallen-light priest muttered softly, clenching his fists.

(End of chapter)