Chapter 452: The Ancestor Has Truly Returned

In the Silver Keep of Saint Sunir City, the capital of Ansu Kingdom, the military hall was filled with tension.

Around a broad, heavy oak table trimmed with gold, several noble lords and knight commanders from the capital were seated. At the head of the table sat the two current regent dukes of Ansu and the nominal heir, Prince Wales. A high-level military council was underway.

The glow of magical crystal lamps illuminated the somewhat somber atmosphere. Metal shields hung on the northern wall, reflecting the light and casting faint shadows of the regents and the prince. In those blurred reflections, Prince Wales’s crimson coat stood out like a streak of blood.

This man, who had only recently reclaimed his position as heir in middle age, sat quietly, watching the nobles debate, discuss, and argue around the table. His gaze flickered occasionally but he spoke little, as if a mere observer to matters that, in theory, should be under his sole command.

An older knight with graying hair leaned heavily on the table. Though short in stature, his build was solid and his eyes burned with a sharpness that belied his years. He glanced around at the other knight commanders and nobles, then spoke in a deep, commanding voice: “The battle to retake Sorin Keep has failed, gentlemen. We must face this truth—though the Eastern rebels are few, it is we who are at a disadvantage.”

“One positive is that we’ve managed to pin the rebels in the hills surrounding Sorin Keep,” a noble responded. “We hold the Holy Spirit Plains behind us—more land, more troops. A war of attrition favors us.”

The old knight slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t be so optimistic, Count Barin. Attrition only works if we can truly sustain this situation. The Loren family has long faced the Typhon forces; their soldiers are tougher, more resilient. Our troops’ morale drops daily. Without victories, even with ample food and men, we’ll be the first to break…”

Duchess Victoria suddenly interrupted, her voice calm but firm: “Lord Cromwell, please restrain yourself.”

Prince Wales Morn glanced briefly at the regent duchess beside him, then turned his gaze back to Cromwell Whitehill across the table. He recognized the older knight commander—Whitehill was an uncommon surname in Ansu, but a classic dwarven name. Cromwell’s ancestor had indeed been a dwarf: seven centuries ago, during the Great Expansion, not only elves but some dwarves fought alongside humans. Some of these dwarves integrated into human society, even joining the Ansu nobility. Cromwell’s family descended from them.

Perhaps influenced by his dwarven blood, Cromwell’s blunt temperament stood out among the refined nobles. Wales knew Cromwell spoke the truth, but since Duchess Victoria had already spoken, he saw no need to add more.

“Apologies, Your Grace, but we must face facts,” Cromwell said, still forceful despite his apology. “The Eastern rebellion is not as easy to crush as we thought. We failed to drive them from the Holy Spirit Plains before the end of the Fire Moon. They’ve entrenched themselves in Sorin Keep. The Harvest Moon is upon us—they’ll feed on the crops we’ve sown for half a year. Duchess Wilde, Duke Franklin, Your Highness, I volunteer to lead the knights to aid Count Sorin in retaking the keep. We cannot allow the rebels to celebrate the harvest on the Holy Spirit Plains…”

“I never believed the Eastern rebels would be easy to defeat,” Victoria Wilde replied coolly, “but the capital’s knights cannot be moved, Count Cromwell. Our rear is not secure.”

Cromwell’s eyes widened. The other knight commanders and martial nobles exchanged glances and whispered among themselves.

At that moment, Duke Berdewin Franklin, seated to Prince Wales’s right, stood up. “I’ll speak. This news just reached Saint Sunir—Rockhold Fortress has fallen.”

The hall fell silent.

The Western Duke’s words were clear and unambiguous, but the shock was so great that none of the nobles immediately reacted. Finally, Count Barin beside Cromwell broke the silence: “Your Grace, you mean the Rockhold Fortress in the southern Holy Spirit Plains?”

“Is there a second Rockhold Fortress in Ansu?” Berdewin Franklin shot a glance at the slightly portly Count Barin.

One noble muttered in disbelief, “That’s so far from the East, separated by the southern mountains of the Holy Spirit Plains. How could the rebels have possibly…”

Perhaps the Eastern rebellion had clouded this noble’s thoughts, or perhaps he still clung to the notion that the southern lords were insignificant. He assumed the Eastern rebels had somehow invaded the South and launched a surprise attack on Rockhold Fortress, never considering that a sleeping giant lay in that vast, remote southern land.

But others had already pieced it together. After a brief moment of shock, Cromwell was the first to read a hint in the grim expressions of the two regents. He asked in disbelief, “It’s… the Cecils?”

“Correct. Not the Eastern rebels, but the Cecil family,” Berdewin Franklin said calmly. “Fifteen days ago—on the 58th day of Fire Moon—Duke Gawain Cecil, our founding hero, destroyed Rockhold Fortress’s defenses, seized the fortress, and took all soldiers and civilians inside prisoner.”

Cromwell’s beard twitched as if he wanted to speak, but Duchess Victoria Wilde quickly followed Franklin’s report: “I know what you want to ask, but all communications have been cut off. The Cecil army breached the fortress in just a few days, then sealed it off. The garrison had no chance to send any useful intelligence.

“Only two griffon messengers risked their lives to escape on the day the fortress fell, bringing us this information. Duke Gawain Cecil somehow created a large number of extraordinarily powerful enchanted weapons and quickly assembled a remarkably formidable army…

“Sir Mariland Onar, the knight commander defending the fortress, is currently missing. Before the fall, he led the last knight regiment out to fight, but the fortress’s magical barrier was destroyed by Cecil’s forces.

“Count Pompey also sent a magical message confirming the fortress’s fall.”

When Duchess Victoria finished, Cromwell finally found his voice. The knight commander with dwarven blood furrowed his brow: “The Cecils… are they like the Eastern rebels?”

“So far, the Cecil army has made no move northward. After taking Rockhold Fortress, they closed the northern gate, apparently preparing to hold their ground,” Duke Berdewin Franklin said. “According to Count Pompey’s message, they didn’t even touch the granaries and estates just outside the northern walls, nor pillage any undefended border villages.”

Occupying a fortress without looting the surrounding villages and estates was highly unusual. The nobles whispered again, and Cromwell cleared his throat: “Cough, cough. Their current lack of northern advance doesn’t mean they won’t move north eventually.”

“That’s exactly our concern,” Berdewin said. “The Cecil family… their current head is Duke Gawain Cecil.”

The nobles fell silent once more, exchanging glances as memories surfaced of the urgent letters sent by Sir Mariland before the fortress fell—

More than forty southern families had united to suppress the Cecils, only to be swiftly crushed…

This shocking news had stirred unrest and prompted another military council, but no one had expected the Cecils’ actions to be so rapid, nor that Rockhold Fortress would fall so easily.

They had assumed it would take at least a year before the southern situation demanded serious attention.

Prince Wales, who had remained silent, sighed softly.

He recalled Veronica’s recent warning—she had told him that Gawain Cecil was unleashing a beast. Now, it seemed the capital’s nobles might have already lost their last chance to cage that beast.

“We once thought the southern conflict was merely a lordly civil war, and that the war was provoked by lords other than the Cecils. But now it seems everything in the South is under the control of our founding hero—he has planned this for a long time,” Duke Berdewin said. “With Rockhold Fortress fallen, no matter how the Cecil army managed to capture it so quickly, they hold it now and are prepared to defend it. Count Cromwell, do you think we have the strength to retake the fortress?”

Without hesitation, Cromwell shook his head. “Impossible—unless we pull back at least half the troops from the eastern Holy Spirit Plains. Even then, it’s not certain we could retake Rockhold. I know Sir Mariland Onar well; he’s a capable knight commander. His forces are no weaker than the capital’s knights, yet even he was no match for Duke Gawain Cecil. You can imagine the strength of the Cecil army.”

The old knight shook his head again. “What I’m most curious about is how this founding hero built such an army… in less than two years! He actually took Rockhold Fortress?”

“Every ancient family hides secrets, especially one with a resurrected ancestor,” Berdewin joked. “Maybe, seven centuries ago, Duke Gawain Cecil buried a Gondorian undead legion in the southern mountains?”

Cromwell grunted, “That’s no joke…”

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to consider our next move,” Berdewin said, his smile fading as he tapped the table lightly. “This situation is as dangerous as the Eastern rebellion—by the ancestors, this time the ancestor has truly come.”

(End of chapter)