Chapter 426: The Sun Has Set

The massive sun slowly sank toward the distant mountain range. Jagged peaks stretched out like an uneven spine rising from the earth, their ridges bathed in the soft, hazy glow of the setting sun. As the great orb dipped lower, the light along that ridge deepened into a rich, dreamlike hue.

It was a breathtaking sight—one that could only be fully appreciated from the highest tower of the Rockhold Fortress.

Yet, at this moment, Sir Mariland had little heart to admire the view.

Standing atop the fortress tower, he pulled his gaze away from the western mountains. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a massive beast approaching from afar—a creature with powerful wings, majestic white feathers, and a sleek blue-black harness.

“Please, let it be good news,” the fortress commander silently prayed.

After some time, when the sun had sunk another third below the horizon, a courier finally hurried up the tower stairs, handing Sir Mariland a sealed letter. “General! A reply from the capital!”

Sir Mariland took the letter immediately, tearing it open and scanning the elegantly worded lines. But as he read, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper.

The courier, who had served the general for years and knew every nuance of his expression, couldn’t help but ask, “General… what does it say?”

“The lords in the capital have finally agreed to send a cavalry squadron…” Sir Mariland said, frustration barely contained, “But only one squadron.”

“One squadron?” The courier’s eyes widened. “A hundred knights and their retinues? That’s all?”

“Eighty knights and their retinues, actually,” Sir Mariland tossed the letter aside, grinding his teeth. “Do you really think the cavalry sent from Saint Suniel would be at full strength?”

“What good will that do?!” The courier exclaimed in disbelief. “More knights died in the first round of the Firestorm on Shattered Rock Ridge than that…”

“I know that well enough,” Sir Mariland cut him off, shaking his head with a sigh. “But there’s nothing we can do. In truth, there were no reinforcements at all. This cavalry squadron was sent by Prince Morn of Wales in a personal capacity—just to save face.”

The courier instinctively asked, “Why—”

But Sir Mariland didn’t answer. The high-ranking knight, who had served the royal family with honor for years but now wore a constant frown, waved his hand sharply and turned away, leaving the tower behind.

Descending the spiral staircase and passing through the narrow “Sword Gallery,” Sir Mariland reached the southern battlements. Walking along the wall, he soon spotted a familiar figure.

Viscount Carol stood at the edge, staring blankly into the distance.

Once a dashing young noble known throughout the southern lands for his charm and vigor, Carol now looked decades older overnight. Though he wore a clean, neat silk coat and his complexion had returned to health, an indescribable weight clung to him, making him seem like a weathered statue battered by wind and rain.

He stood there in a light jacket despite the approaching summer, motionless, gazing southward. Even when Sir Mariland approached, he showed no sign of noticing.

Sir Mariland had to break the silence. “My friend, you’re looking south again.”

Carol flinched, then forced a bitter smile and shook his head. He raised a hand, pointing toward the rolling hills to the south. “There’s a path through the woods—three days’ ride to my beloved Summer Estate… another three days beyond that, my castle…”

Sir Mariland met his gaze seriously. “My friend, that’s a dangerous thought. The south is far from safe now.”

“I know, I know,” Carol sighed, eyes slowly retreating from the horizon. “The Cecil family is taking over the entire southern lands, estate by estate, driving out our knights and retainers from their castles… Many have already sworn allegiance to the new masters. The south is both home and nightmare to me. Lately, I keep dreaming of returning to my castle, only to be burned alive inside…”

Sir Mariland shook his head. “Maybe you should try to ease your burden like Viscount Konsko and Viscount Marolan.”

“Drown my sorrows in drink and potions? Or find some high-class courtesans in the city? I refuse to die in a wine barrel or in a woman’s arms,” Carol said bitterly. Then, as if recalling something, a spark lit his eyes. He grabbed Sir Mariland’s hand. “By the way! I just saw a griffon messenger fly into the Nest Tower—is there news from the capital?”

Sir Mariland looked at the southern nobleman, unsure whether to share the harsh truth. Finally, he said, “The capital has no spare reinforcements… only a cavalry squadron sent personally by Prince Morn of Wales.”

Carol’s eyes widened, stunned for half a minute before he blurted out, “That’s it?! Have all the nobles in the capital died off?!”

“That’s it,” Sir Mariland said quietly, locking eyes with the viscount to calm him. “My friend, mind your manners—you sound like a gambler who’s about to lose everything.”

“I’ve already lost everything!” Carol clutched his hair. “The entire south has fallen to the Cecil family. Do those in the capital even understand what that means? Have they forgotten why Rockhold Fortress was built? Are they not worried the Cecils will break through to the Holy Spirit Plains and settle old scores?!”

“The fortress’s mission is to guard the Holy Spirit Plains and hold back the Cecils,” Sir Mariland said solemnly. “I swear on my family’s honor, even without reinforcements, my knights and I will fulfill that duty. Stay calm. Don’t forget the fortress’s strength—thousands of elite knights and warriors, ample supplies, and water from the Dorgon River. From the start, this fortress was designed to withstand massive assaults.”

Carol’s expression softened slightly but remained troubled. “You haven’t faced the Firestorm. You don’t know how terrifying it is. Once those weapons reach the plains below the walls, beyond the range of our catapults, they can kill everyone inside the city… I’ve calculated their possible range and tracked the flight paths of those magical devices. The fortress’s catapults and walls alone can’t stop them.”

“Rockhold has special defenses,” Sir Mariland reassured him. “Rest easy. Even if those ‘Firestorms’ fall from the sky as you say, we have ways to counter them.”

“Let’s hope so…” Carol sighed. These days, he probably sighed more than at any other time in his life. As his initial agitation faded, he noticed a detail Sir Mariland hadn’t mentioned clearly. “General, is it true the capital can’t send a single real army? Even if the capital’s forces are tied up by unrest, what about the noble levies from the Holy Spirit Plains or the western regiments?”

Carol understood why the royal family prioritized the eastern crisis—facing the rebellion led by Prince Edmond and Duke Selas Loren, the entire east was in open revolt, a far graver threat than the southern turmoil. No matter how bad the south got, the capital likely dismissed it as mere noble squabbling over lands. If not for the Cecil family’s rise in this conflict, the royal court might not even care about this “minor problem.” Yet, with news that over forty southern noble houses had been swept away by the Cecils, surely the crown should have responded?

A rising power like the Cecils, capable of wiping out all southern noble coalitions in short order—if they broke through Rockhold’s blockade and reached the Holy Spirit Plains, marching down the King’s Road—who would bear the consequences?

Faced with Carol’s question, Sir Mariland could only sigh deeply. “The eastern stronghold of Solinfort has fallen. Prince Edmond’s army has already crossed into the kingdom’s heartland.”

Carol’s eyes went wide.

Sir Mariland said no more, turning to gaze thoughtfully at the mountain range stretching west of the walls.

The sun had set.

…

Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the magic crystal street lamps and other city lights of Cecil City would ignite automatically, controlled by light-sensitive runes. Bright magical light stretched from the banks of the Whitewater River to the foot of the Dark Mountains, from the Mining Avenue to Frostwood Village—like a constellation shining across the land, illuminating the entire city.

Whenever these lamps lit up, Gawain habitually came to the second-floor window of the lord’s manor to look out.

The neat, bright crystal lamps always reminded him of the streetlights from his previous life—and of the torches and braziers lit between tents and fences when he first arrived in this frontier land.

Where there is light, there is civilization. Even in a different world, even if the light’s source changed from electricity to crystal, that much remained true.

But even in the brightest light, shadows always moved.

Like Amber, who was now sneaking out from the corner’s darkness.

“Where are you going?”

Gawain had sensed Amber’s presence in the room long ago. Before the half-elf “shame of the elves” could touch the silver seal on his desk, he broke the silence.

Amber, looking a bit flustered, stepped out of the shadows and shot him a displeased glare—today’s sneaking plan had failed again, and it was clearly ruining her mood.

Though she never succeeded.

“I just don’t get how you can be so obsessed with such a boring thing,” Gawain said helplessly, eyeing the half-elf. “What’s going on?”

“Secret report. Rockhold Fortress.”

(End of chapter)