Chapter 411: The Day History Moves Forward
The attackers vanished into the night at last. After the two strongest knights of the Church and several leading mages, knights, and priests had fallen, only a handful of enemies remained. Panic-stricken, they fled into the deep darkness, leaving behind a dozen corpses and a scene of utter devastation—yet they gained nothing.
One of Cecil’s soldiers was seriously wounded. During close combat with a knight, his force field shield shattered, and a gaping wound nearly exposing bone opened below his chest. But after several bottles of alchemical potions were poured down his throat, his condition stabilized.
Aside from that, Cecil’s side suffered no other casualties.
The soldiers finished the battle and began inspecting the battlefield, gathering their gear, and assessing the enemy’s situation. Yet not a single one dared approach the empty clearing beside the well.
Light stood quietly in that clearing, still surrounded by a clear, radiant holy light. It cloaked him like armor and a flowing cloak forged from pure light, illuminating the area and the horizon beyond. Within this sacred glow, Emily’s eyes were closed.
Those bright eyes would never open again.
“Do you believe in the Holy Light, or the God of the Holy Light?”
The question the lord had asked Light before their departure echoed in his mind—a question that had haunted him for days, robbing him of sleep. He had never understood why he had to choose between the Holy Light and the God of the Holy Light. But now, he understood.
In a surge of anger and profound disappointment with the God of the Holy Light, a blinding flash erupted in his mind—a thunderous shattering of some spiritual seal. In that moment of clarity, he abandoned the deity he had believed in for decades and embraced the true Holy Light.
But someone had paid a price that should never have been demanded.
A faint chill brushed his face as thin strands of rain began to fall from the sky, soaking the land steeped in misfortune and sorrow. The summer rain, delayed by an entire night, finally arrived before dawn. Kneeling beside Emily in the cool rain, Light placed his hand on the young girl’s forehead.
“…May the Holy Light guide your path… free you from cold and darkness… may your soul find peace… no longer hunger or suffer…”
The year 736 of Ansu, the 22nd day of the Fire Moon, early summer.
The first White Knight in human history was born in the wilds of the southern territories.
Though at this moment, no one yet knew what to call this brand-new order.
In the lord’s manor of Cecil’s domain, Gawain met with Knights Byron and Philip, who had just returned from the front lines.
They had ridden hard from the Hosman prisoner camp, bringing with them over a thousand special prisoners captured from the noble coalition forces.
“Per your orders, we brought back the nobles, their knights, mage attendants, and even the Holy Light priests and Church knights mixed in with the coalition,” Byron reported. “But since we had to hurry, we only took part of them—over a thousand remain at Hosman, and two hundred are still at the Tanzan camp.”
“That’s enough,” Gawain said casually. “The main thing is to get those nobles and their retinues here. The others can wait. There’s still plenty to do before we fully consolidate the southern territories.”
“Lord, what do you plan to do with those nobles and their followers?” Philip asked curiously. “They’ve been clamoring to meet with you ever since they were fed, wanting to explain the… misunderstandings behind this war.”
“…They want to meet me to talk about that?” Gawain waved his hand dismissively. “Well, at least their minds aren’t completely frozen yet, but they’re not exactly sharp either. They can save their breath. They still don’t understand what this war really means.”
Byron leaned close to Philip and whispered, “See? I told you, just keep them locked up. Let them shout all they want. If it gets too noisy, throw them in with the big pumps at the waterworks and see who makes the most racket…”
Philip ignored Byron and continued, “We captured as many Church knights and Holy Light priests from the noble coalition as possible, but many escaped once they reached the plains. Some are trapped in Cecil-controlled areas and are being rounded up slowly, but a significant number fled northwest to the Grant Cathedral of Saint Luan… which is outside our control.”
Byron muttered under his breath, “Take it down, and it’ll be under control.”
“Ahem,” Gawain coughed twice. Though he wanted to agree with Byron, he held back. He knew well that the Grant Cathedral of Saint Luan and the city of Luan held special significance—not just within the Holy Light Church, but throughout the southern territories.
It was the headquarters of the southern diocese of the Church, theoretically a “neutral ground.”
Luan city was officially under direct royal control, with no local lord—only a royal-appointed chief administrator, who was mostly a figurehead. The real power lay with the Grant Cathedral of Saint Luan, its southern bishop, and the clergy.
Of course, the southern bishop was now gone, and most of the high-ranking knights and clergy of the cathedral had perished in the war. The cathedral’s strength was no longer a threat to Cecil. But Gawain’s concern wasn’t the cathedral’s defenses.
He had to consider whether they could launch a direct assault, and under what pretext.
This would directly affect the order of the southern territories and his influence over the many Holy Light believers there.
There was also a more practical question: after taking the cathedral, what next? Simply occupy Luan city? Arrest all the clergy? Destroy the cathedral itself? If the former, the Church’s influence would linger. If the latter, social order could be severely disrupted, and devout believers might question the legitimacy of their new lord.
After all, occupying a city and cathedral could be seen as a normal act of war—after all, southern bishop Lemont had led twelve fully armed Church knights and a high-ranking cleric in an “attack” on Cecil city, which could be considered a declaration of war. But if they went further and dismantled the Church’s faith system in the south, hundreds of thousands of believers would doubt Gawain Cecil’s rule.
He couldn’t simply erase the Holy Light from their minds. Given his current influence and the religious realities of this world, he couldn’t push for radical church reforms either.
A compromise might be to force all clergy to accept Cecil’s laws after taking the cathedral, sever their ties with the Holy Light Church headquarters on the Spirit Plains, and gradually replace and purify the clergy. But the outcome was uncertain, and risks remained.
Now that he was taking over the south, he had to start thinking like its ruler.
Philip and Byron sensed Gawain’s deep thought and remained silent, waiting. Then they heard him tap his fingers lightly on the table and mutter to himself, “Must there be a Holy Light Church…?”
Philip blinked, not catching the last words.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Gawain shook his head. “We’ll deal with the Grant Cathedral of Saint Luan. For now, let the clergy and Church knights inside keep trembling a while longer. And those nobles locked in the camps… let them stew. It’ll help them understand the situation and cooperate with Cecil’s laws later. But before we solve the cathedral issue and reshape the south’s order, there’s something else we must do first…”
Byron and Philip spoke in unison, “Something else?”
“We must make the south our south,” Gawain said, standing and moving to the massive map on the wall. His gaze fixed on the northern gateway of the southern territories—the Rock Fortress. “We can’t hand the keys to our own front door over to outsiders.”
Philip and Byron followed his gaze and saw the fortress of great significance.
Philip’s expression grew serious, while Byron whistled softly, “Whoa—that’s quite a target.”
“Indeed,” Gawain nodded. “The Rock Fortress is in a league of its own compared to the weak stone keeps scattered around the south. Its walls are enchanted, effectively shielded by a constant magical barrier. And the garrison is elite troops—the fortress is theoretically owned by Count Pompey, but the soldiers are trained and controlled directly by the crown. The power of the Rock Fortress surpasses the combined might of the seventy thousand ragtag troops gathered by Count Hosman.”
Byron chuckled, “Well, it’s meant to seal off the entire south.”
“So we’ll probably need a lot of artillery to take it,” Gawain smiled. “But no matter what, we must take it… and keep that gate in our hands.”
After that, what happened on the Spirit Plains was less his concern. He could focus on consolidating the south—dealing with the trembling clergy in Saint Luan’s Cathedral, or the noble prisoners still locked away.
“When do you plan to launch the attack?” Byron dropped his usual playful tone, looking serious. “Our morale is at its peak right now…”
“No rush,” Gawain waved him off, eyes still on the map. “I’m waiting for news…”
“News?”
“A reason to attack the Rock Fortress, the right timing, new intelligence,” Gawain said. “And that… might come soon.”
(End of chapter)